‘Hurray! At last, here’s a hospital willing to admit you, Richard.’
Whew! What a relief. It’s nine hours since he collapsed with a pulmonary embolism in our cabin, as our cruise ship nudged its way into a berth in Salvador, Brazil.
‘Medically disembarked’ by the ship’s Doctor, we’ve spent three hours in a local ambulance driving from hospital to hospital in the city, finding that none will admit him. We can’t believe these hospitals are turning away a patient with a life-threatening condition. (But that’s another story involving UK medical insurance companies not paying bills.)
The ambulance crew is fantastic. Two English-speaking medics, a nurse, a technician, and a drop-dead gorgeous driver. Richard is wired up to machinery to monitor his condition.
As we head thankfully towards the Santa Isabella hospital, the medics search for a hotel for me. We know that Richard will be in the hospital for some time. I’m so impressed with all they do for us. The medics insist on taking my mobile number, so they can keep in touch. What caring people.
In the hospital, Richard is wheeled away for his Doppler scan to detect the site of his embolism. We pray it’s not close to his heart. That’s fatal. The medics stay for a bit and link me with the hospital's 24-hour social work service. That proves a lifeline through his hospital stay. The social workers notify the British Consul in Rio de Janeiro for us. We may need their help; we were so far from home, with no common language, and as yet no local currency.
The next day in Santa Isabella’s Intensive Care Unit, the Consultant explains about Richard’s condition and treatment in perfect English. As he leaves, a new voice speaks from outside the cubicle:
‘May I come in, please? I’m Marika and I’ve come to help you. I speak English, obviously, and Portuguese, so I can translate for you.’
We’re amazed by this tall, dark, slim girl, probably in her mid-twenties, with excellent English. For the next week, she is our translator, support, comforter, and true friend.
She lends me her phone to contact my mobile phone company when they cut me off for exceeding my roaming charges, even though they know I’m dealing with an emergency thousands of miles away.
When I fight back tears of frustration with our medical insurance company's call centre’s inability to respond properly, she holds my hand. So young and yet so wise and caring. After a full day of supporting us, negotiating with the hospital authorities, the social workers, and her employers, she looks worn out.
‘I listen in Portuguese, think in Finnish (her native tongue) and translate for you into English.’ No wonder it’s hard work.
At home in the evenings, she tells her Brazilian boyfriend, his parents, and her family back in Finland about our plight. It’s all different from her normal day job as a logistics officer in the Salvador Port Agent’s Office. The routine work is booking ships in and out of the port and dealing with their docking requirements. Medically disembarked elderly British people are a rarity.
Marika tells me that the charges for the company’s services double at weekends, so she suggests that she and her boyfriend, Lucas, will take care of our discharge from the hospital privately. It is to be on Sunday morning. So thoughtful. That’s usually his windsurfing day and the weekly family dinner, but with the family’s agreement, they will see them on Saturday instead. Again, so kind and way above the call of duty.
On Sunday morning, Lucas takes charge. He talks to the Cardiologist who has been caring for Richard, using Google Translate, if Marika weren’t there to help. Lucas oversees the prescriptions that have to be made up at a pharmacy in the city. We could never have managed that by ourselves.
They won’t take any payment for all this help, but they will accept dinner that evening.
Over dinner in a waterside restaurant, with the candlelight reflecting on the water. Lucas leans over the table:
‘You know, I have a plot in Scotland. I bought it on the internet, with an honorary title. Lord Lucas of…’ He can’t remember the details.
‘If you find them, please let us know and we’ll visit it for you.’
Two months later, we’re settled back at home and Richard is fully recovered. Lucas sends us an email with his plot details.
‘This is amazing. The plot is in the next-door village to the one where my parents lived for many years.’
I know the landlord and his assistant, Anne, who administers the money-making plots. Within a few weeks, I’m there with the landlord, taking a photo of a small piece of Scottish soil, as directed by his GPS.
Now Lucas and Marika are living in their homeland, in Finland, with their baby daughter, Lilian. All that remains is for them to visit us and their plot soon so we can continue the friendship and repay their kindness.