Bad Medicine

There we were, safely housed in our new bling mansion – relishing the ‘Posh and Beckness’ of it all. Although, I have previously stated that neutrals do not play a part in the Goan consciousness – our new home was designed in tandem with a Belgian couple and as such, they have taken the European love of all things beige/grey/slate to a whole new level, even the furnishings blend in with the walls ! Having said that, they have, unavoidably, revealed a subconscious connection with early Elton John – big glitzy pictures adorn every wall and gilt edged mirrors reflect whatever you are doing, wherever you are doing it.
So, so far so good. The kids were enjoying the freedom of a secure, rubble free environment and we had relaxed due to the fact that our children were not going to encounter toxic materials on their travels – just friendly security guards. I was slightly surprised by the level of service, our complex comes equipped with a manager – the gentle, unassuming Luciano – as well as a collection of cleaners, gardeners and general workers. On our arrival to the complex, we were greeted by the warm smile of the housekeeper – what I should have realised that that smile contained the remnants of previous guests who didn’t toe the line! We were presented with a book of rules and regulations – fairly standard practice for rentals – but our housekeeper followed/follows that book like a bible. Each sentence, each word has been scrutinised with the fervour of a true zealot so when we came to do the inventory of the house, needless to say, we had to go through everything, right down to the last teaspoon. As most of the owners only use the villas surrounding us as holiday homes, she has had the biggest collection of doll’s houses to play with that you can imagine, it only becomes difficult when annoying people like us ruin her carefully structured perfection.
When the container arrived, it was a time of great celebration. Not only was everything intact, but having our own stuff around us made the place feel more like home. Unfortunately our housekeeper did not feel the same way – she regarded our furniture, pictures and trinkets with contempt – suddenly I felt like Rebecca living under the watchful eye of an Indian Mrs Danvers who viewed everything we had, every move we made with subtle, but palpable, disdain.
Over zealous housekeepers aside, we were excited and eager to start living here. I know that sounds strange, but up until now, Goa had been a place of holidays or over the past few days, a place of chaos. We decided to celebrate by cooking our first meal in the shiny, new kitchen. I collected an assortment of Thai spices from the market and Giles picked up some fresh prawns from the local fish seller. Everything was brilliant, the house was filled with beautiful aromas, the food was excellent and we congratulated ourselves on (another!) new start. We should have remembered the old adage ‘Pride comes before a fall’ because the following morning, I was feeling really unwell. I put it down to unfamiliar food or water but as the day progressed, I got worse and had to go to bed. I foolishly thought that a good night’s sleep would put me right.
How wrong I was. By the following afternoon, I was crunched in agony on the sofa and Giles saw no other option than to take me to the local hospital. Before I continue, I should explain that this is a local Church funded hospital, set amidst lush trees and fields – the bottom floor is the hospital, the second floor is a convent where the nuns, who double up as nurses on the evening shift, live. So I was wheeled into the emergency room – a small room filled with rows of plastic chairs and a huge, sparkly shrine containing a life sized baby Jesus – in order to wait for the doctor. Seeing my pain, the nurse on duty wasted no time, she ushered me through a curtain that would have been acceptable in the 1950’s, to see the doctor. His small, wrinkled brown face look concerned as he saw my condition, he gently examined me, poking and prodding to establish the problem before announcing – ‘She has to be admitted.’ Even in my less than lucid state, I saw the children’s faces fill with fear and Giles’ confusion. ‘What do you mean ?’ asked Giles, ‘Why does she have to stay here ? How serious is this ? Can’t we give her something and take her home where she can be comfortable ?’ The doctor refused to entertain any idea of me being allowed home and began to ask his own questions about how long I had been feeling like this and what I had eaten. Giles volunteered that we had eaten a prawn curry, to which the doctor nodded sagely ‘And you removed the intestinal tract before eating ?’ he questioned. Giles paled – in the UK, the majority of prawns are ready prepared however, in Goa, you buy them in a market where they are slung into a plastic bag in more or less the same shape as they left the river/sea. Unfortunately, what Giles didn’t realise was that he had selected river prawns which feed off all the assorted gunk that gets thrown in the water (use your imagination and make it worse!) so you have to remove the tract before eating. At this point, I slumped back on the examining table – Giles had poisoned me again and this time it was serious. (Giles has had a habit of serving me fish which has left me, no one else, quite ill – should I be worried ?!) The doctor continued by saying that I would have to stay in hospital for at least 48 hours and I would have to be given a selection of intravenous drugs to counteract the poison flowing through my system. I sighed, an assortment of intravenous drugs was definitely the best offer I had had all day and I meekly followed the nurse next door where she filled two of the biggest syringes I have ever seen with medication. As the huge needles came towards me, I prayed to the Lord, who was literally above me on a beautiful cross nailed to the wall, that it wouldn’t hurt, but it did.
Moments later, I was laid in an air conditioned room, cursing my fate but also incredibly glad that this was happening to me, not one of the children. It only takes one rogue prawn and all bets are off, thank God it was my plate that it ended up on. I was scared, away from home, away from my family (‘Doctor’ Bird (my Mum!) is on call 24 hours a day and there is very little that she doesn’t know about the medical world !) and I was worried about the children – as a mother, they almost expect you to be invincible, not laid low by evil shellfish, I didn’t want them to be upset, but that was an unfulfilled wish.
As Giles led a tearful Sophie and Oscar away to get some food, Holly stayed with me. Her caring, positive presence, the whispering habits of the nuns and the watercolour of Jesus hung above the bed combined to soothe me and within minutes I was asleep. The healing process was under way and time was marked by the quiet arrival of the staff who checked my condition constantly.
Under the excellent care of the nurses, who administered more drugs and drips than I could count, I was home in 48 hours. Paler, thinner and not so pleased with Giles’ prawn preparation – but well. The children were all delighted, especially Holly, who had stayed with me throughout ‘the prawn ordeal’ and as we drove back through the leafy lanes of Goa, I wondered what other challenges would be sent our way. I hoped, whatever they were, that they would give me a couple of days and then I would be ready to tackle them again. I also would like to mention, it was some time before I let Giles near the kitchen and my relationship with prawns of any persuasion is, regrettably, over.