Don't you dare to get ill

My father fell yesterday, probably broke his arm. The painful procession begins again through all the possible hospitals and medical centers of an increasingly destroyed city. We have experienced this before.

A few years ago, when Venezuela was not so deteriorated and my father had a tiny medical insurance, he fell and fractured his collarbone. At that time the Venezuelan exodus had not yet occurred and most of my relatives were still living in the country.

On that occasion, I spent many weeks doing translations and designs on my war computer —a small laptop I use to work anywhere— sitting in the filthy corridors and staircases of Venezuelan public hospitals.

Anyway, it was always evident that life would not allow me to stop working. To stop, in this country, is now an act quite close to death or suicide. It was essential to continue working, anywhere, anyhow, obtaining resources to stay alive: sleeping is secondary, whining is the luxury of the rich.

On this occasion everything is more risky: There are few relatives left in the country, we no longer have insurance and public hospitals are so deteriorated that all medical supplies must be purchased by the same patients, elsewhere —wherever they can be obtained... if they can be found.

I was hoping to activate an intense cultural production in my projects this week, but the only thing I can do, for now, is to take advantage of my smartphone to publish some things, again sitting in these filthy corridors and staircases of Venezuelan hospitals.

With all these burdens that ordinary Venezuelans have to bear, I say to myself again and again: Don't you dare to get ill. I am still young and my muscles can sustain the lives of my loved ones. But if I got ill, who would hold me?

Don't you dare to get sick... Illness is a luxury that only those who live as humans can afford.