Between Dilated Pupils and Decayed Teeth
HAVANA TIMES – In a hallway of the Los Palacios polyclinic in Pinar del Río, a doctor, wearing her white coat and several layers of makeup on her face to hide the exhaustion from a sleepless night, threw a question into the air:
“Who’s going to tell the patients that?”
Her voice got lost in the echo of footsteps, bounced off the faded walls, mingled with the murmurs and the hum of the heat that, so early in the morning, already had us trapped. I don’t know if she expected an answer, maybe she just wanted to unload the weight of helplessness on her shoulders.
Doctors no longer know what to do. Many have left the profession—the one that cost them so many hours of study and sacrifice—to work in a small kiosk or a private microenterprise. In another time, this might have sounded like a joke; today, sadly, it’s a silent reality.
It was the second time that week I had gone to the dental clinic with my daughter. At almost fifteen, she had discovered that she had a sick tooth. The first time, there was no electricity or fuel to run the generator, and this day was no different. Under these conditions, the dental chair was nothing more than a useless piece of furniture, a relic from a time when you could show up at a health center and actually be seen.
The trip from my parents’ house to the town of Los Palacios is twelve kilometers. It seems like a short distance if you have a car waiting in the driveway or if you live in a country with functional public transportation. This is not the case here.
The money we spent on transportation felt like a pointless investment when the outcome was always the same: “We can’t treat her.” They said it in a tired voice, and it was meant as an apology, but I was running out of strength to pretend I had hope.
Anyway, the lack of electricity or fuel wasn’t the only reason the clinic visit was an illusion. The medical instruments weren’t sterilized! The few that remained were reserved for emergencies. A cavity like my daughter’s didn’t qualify. So I looked at her, and she lowered her eyes. Maybe she didn’t want me to see the disappointment on her face. I hope she learns soon that in this country, it’s better not to get your hopes up.
“Come on, maybe next time.”
As we walked away from the dental chair, which looked like a stranded ship, I heard the doctor’s voice again, this time closer to anger:
“I can’t take this anymore; I have patients with dilated pupils. What am I supposed to tell them?”
The image was as absurd as it was painful. People waiting with blurry vision, hoping for an appointment that would never come. At that moment, the healthcare system was an infinite waiting room—no diagnosis, no treatment, no end.
How many doctors are selling sodas or managing inventory at a private store while their white coats, now yellowed with time, hang forever in a closet? What irony for a country that once boasted to the world about its medical care and now sees its clinics empty of solutions but full of patients!
We walked out into the street, where the sun beat down hard. It seemed like it wanted to erase the shadows inside, but even the light couldn’t undo the knot in my stomach. That day we returned home with the same sick tooth and the certainty that the next day or next week everything would be the same. The doctor would still be wondering how to tell the patients with dilated pupils to go home without getting their eyes checked, and I would still be searching for a way for my daughter to smile without pain.