Cira Garcia

Frustrated, pissed-off, and in pain I stormed through those black-rimmed glass doors, past all those familiar strangers in white coats up to the second floor where I found myself looking at a beautiful face I never wanted to see again. The nice receptionist at the Cira Garcia Medical Clinic. She looked up to me with a face that sort of said, “Oh, you again?” but was also sort of not surprised. This was about my sixth visit to the doctor. I won’t go into details of my medical adventures but I will say that among other issues, like infected leg wounds and parasites, I had another problem that would not be solved by careless doctors and Cuban medicine. Thus I learned some of the faults of socialized medical care in Cuba.
When I went to the doctor the first time, he told me my problem, gave me some meds, and sent me on my way. The next time I had a different doctor, a female who laughed at the fact I had a Cuban boyfriend and asked me whether the Cubans and blacks work cleaning the metro in the United States which she found funny. And I found ignorant and infuriating. She said I had the same problem as before, gave me some meds and sent me on my way. This time I did not want to hear the problem that I already knew I had and which I knew I still had because the stupid medicine didn’t work and they didn’t care enough to think twice about my problem reappearing. Well this time the problem had gotten worse and I knew it but they chose to ignore that fact, treated me like I didn’t understand Spanish enough to know what they were telling me, even though I understood every word and told them that, but they still proceeded to have the translator come in who then proceeded to give me medical advice that I, since I understand Spanish, knew was not anything that the actual doctor was telling me. At this point I gave up, frustrated and still uncured, took their antibiotics that were the cure-all in Cuba, and headed back home.