I got my flu shot, washed my hands regularly, ate my fruit and vegetables, got more vitamin C from the sunshine than I ever got in Illinois, and even took an occasional multi-vitamin.

But still I got sick.

Catching whatever it was that was probably trending in preschools and brought home by a three-year-old that tends to cuddle before picking up my soda and taking drinks from my glass.  

Not sick enough to go to the doctor, but sick enough to think about it. And well enough to realize that, when the time comes that I really need to go, visiting a doctor in a foreign country will bring on a whole host of concerns.

Not only will I not know any of the Spanish words that could get me in for an appointment, but my English descriptions of what ails me are bound to get lost in translation.

“I’m feeling sick as a dog,” for instance. This is just as likely to get me a referral to the vet as it is to get me a prescription for antibiotics.  

“My head feels like I have an Amtrak racing between my ears.” And off I’ll be sent to the train depot.

“I spend a good part of the day worshipping the porcelain god because I can’t seem to keep my cookies down.” There might be some confusion here as to whether I need a bakery or a priest. And even though a good bakery often cures what ails me, it won’t be what I need then.

It’s times like this that I realize the limits of my Spanish as well as my own tendency to speak English in untranslatable sentences.

All of which is really small potatoes next to the fact that I was under the weather, looking like death warmed over, and Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup doesn’t seem to exist on Mexican grocery shelves.