the thirteenth story

Today's Story: When I was seventeen, and in Costa Rica, I cut my thumb very badly on a bit of broken bamboo. I realized fairly quickly that I would need stitches. I didn't know what to do- I didn't speak a word of Spanish, and I was there as part of a college class- I didn't even know exactly where I was, much less how to find a docter. One of the other students, who DID speak Spanish, found one of the farm's owners, and persuaded him to drive us into town to go to the clinic. It was about an hour in, and then, when we got there, there was an incredible line. There were people camped out, clearly ready to spend days there in order to get antibiotics for very sick children, or to have badly broken bones set, or who knows what else. Suddenly, it didn't really seem like keeping the end of my thumb was so important. The man who had driven us there was quite a rich man, and walked us to the front of the line. I said nothing, embarrassed to tell him he'd driven me there for nothing, and unable to ask him to wait in line. I have never stopped feeling horrible about cutting that line for 12 measly stitches.