Our home in Havana, Cuba—an elegant old home with a marble spiral staircase.
Four floors to walk up and down—and down, down, down when you slip at the top of the final flight and tumble head over heels all the way down. I hit hard and was lucky the only broken bone was a slight fracture of my left clavicle. Determined not to miss anything, I didn’t see a doctor until four days later in a tiny town in Cuba named Trinidad, and that was a story in itself. I presented myself at the clinic at 4:00 p.m. By 5:00 pm, I was on my way to the hospital in an ambulance, but I think we delivered a pizza on the way. I had to wait on two cowboys on horses and a herd of seven brown goats to cross the street into the hospital. The technician made the x-ray, then handed it dripping wet to the nurse who accompanied us in the ambulance. Then she, another nurse, and I studied it. They saw something amiss, so they referred it to the radiologist. Then we had to ride ambulance back to the clinic for a sling contraption to immobolize my arm and shoulder. Since it was getting dark and no taxi was in sight, taxis being anything from yellow cabs to bicycle buggies, the ambulance driver drove me back to my casa. Caring treatment, very kind. All was done in less than three hours and for $150. I am much improved now.
The hospital corridor is shown below. The bicycle was in the cubicle where the nurses and I read the x-ray.