A Life on the Edge: My Journey Through Pain, Faith, and a Life-Saving Operation in Mexico
“Mom, my stomach hurts really bad!” As a child, I remember hating to say those words to my mother because it almost always meant a trip to the doctor. More often than not, it resulted in being admitted to North Vancouver’s Lions Gate Hospital for examination.
The process was always the same. The doctors pumped me full of Valium, took X-rays, put me on a diet of Cream of Wheat and Jell-O, and, of course, the regular pièce de résistance—the enema.
It would be humiliating and discomforting for anyone, never mind an eight-year-old boy. Worse still was overhearing the hushed conversations between my mother and the doctors, talking as if I wasn’t there or couldn’t understand what they were saying. Words like “psychosomatic” would later send me to the dictionary, but the ones I did understand—like “faking it”—stung the most.
The days in the hospital dragged on, and boredom was made tolerable only by the Valium they used to keep me in bed and out of trouble and out of the way of the busy nurses. It was their way of making sure I didn’t go running through the ward. I liked the Valium and the cozy half-sleep that it brought, but at eight years of age, it gave me my first taste of what addiction was about.
Thus began an odyssey that would lead me to a life full of bleeding ulcers, emergency operations, and the removal of part of my stomach at Sechelt’s St. Mary Hospital. The constant, recurring bleeding would ultimately culminate in a final, life-and-death operation in a small Catholic hospital in the Mexican town of Tepic.
It was at the end of the RV season at La Peñita RV Park, located in the small Mexican coastal village of the same name, when I realized something was drastically wrong again. My usual pale Scottish and Irish complexion had become almost translucent. I was pale, weak, and extremely tired.
The symptoms were impossible to ignore, and Dorothy insisted that I see a doctor immediately. The local clinic, run by Dr. Martin, confirmed my fears: my recurring stomach issues had escalated into a critical condition. Blood tests revealed severe internal bleeding, and a blood transfusion was urgently needed. Dr. Martin immediately shut down his clinic and helped me into his car.
“Do you have Mexican health insurance?” he asked.
“No,” I replied.
With a few quick calls, he was rushing me 100 kilometers to a small Catholic hospital in Tepic. Dr. Martin assured me that the Tepic hospital wouldn’t charge the exorbitant fees associated with the “gringo” hospitals of Puerto Vallarta. Not that it really mattered—I had no choice. With over half of my blood gone and continued internal bleeding, my options were non-existent.
The journey that followed was one of survival and resilience, but it was also a testament to the incredible care and kindness I received from Dr. Martin. Up the windy Highway 200 past pineapple fields, jungles, and then cane fields, we headed to Tepic’s Sanatorio De La Loma, a small hospital in the capital of Nayarit.
I called Dorothy to give her an update, deeply worried about leaving her alone with our daughter Dylan at a time when we were supposed to be packing up and moving on from the trailer park—a place we called home during the winter months.
At the hospital, I was greeted by a nun in full habit. Mother Superior Anna introduced herself, and to my immense relief, she spoke broken English. Her calm demeanor and efficient manner immediately put me at ease, despite the gravity of my condition.
I was ushered into a private room with a bed and cot. Soon other doctors arrived. Blood tests, pokes, prodding, intravenous blood, and various cocktails of medications were administered in hopes of stopping the internal hemorrhage. Mother Anna asked when I would be joined by my wife, as it was customary in Mexican hospitals to have friends or relatives accompany the patient and act in a role similar to what we in Canada would call practical nurses.
Through the next few days, Dorothy and Dylan took turns staying in my room, sleeping on the couch beside my bed, and comforting me. And like clockwork every morning, Mother Anna would ask (she had discovered that as a child I was a Catholic) if I would like the sacraments. I declined politely.
The days turned into a week, and one could see the concern on the doctors’ faces as my blood transfusions were not producing the desired rates of improvement. In fact, my blood count was still decreasing, slowed by the transfusions, but my body was not reacting the way the doctors had hoped. They explained that they were going to operate but did not want to proceed until I was stabilized with an increase in the amount of blood in my system.
On the eighth day, the main surgeon came in, and with Dorothy holding my hand, the doctor explained that as long as the bleeding continued, they had to make the difficult decision to open me up to find the source and cause of the issue. They looked worried, making it clear that the operation had significant risks due to my low blood pressure.
They were blunt: the chances of complications and death were high. The probability of requiring a permanent colostomy bag was even higher. But they needed to do something before it was too late. Dorothy asked if there was a possibility of flying me home for the operation in Canada. The doctor shook his head and said transportation would only increase the risk. The operation was scheduled for the next day.
I awoke the next morning with Mother Anna standing over me. In my groggy state, it appeared she was praying over me. When she saw my eyes open, she asked once again if I would like the sacraments.
I will be honest, by this time I was afraid—afraid of the possibility of leaving behind my wife and children who I loved so dearly, afraid of not having time to say goodbye to my kids. I was tired and just wanted it over.
Mother Anna bent over me. “Señor Bell, you were born a Catholic. The doctors have told you about the risks. You should have the sacraments.”
I told her it had been a long, long time since I had the sacraments and a confession. I thought, what harm would there be in “covering my bases,” so to speak.
Mother Anna said there was a priest waiting outside the door if I would like confession. As a young Catholic lad, confession was traumatic for me, but now, with the grown-up sins I had! Well, I thought to myself, “It’s a Mexican priest, he won’t be able to understand a word I say.”
I capitulated. “Yes, show the priest in for confession and the sacraments, but please, no last rites yet,” I said.
The priest entered the room. He sat down beside my bed, held my hand, and much to my surprise said in perfect English, “I understand you want the sacraments.”
I searched back into my foggy memory and started, “Bless me father for I have sinned, it has been over 40 years since my last confession.” I still remember the shock on the priest’s face. “We are going to make this fast!”
“How many women have you slept with out of wedlock?” And so the brief interrogation began. And the surgery was to begin.
The next portion of this saga I pass on to my wife Dorothy.
Waiting Room Blues
It was hard just waiting there. Waiting, staring at the clock and swing doors that led to the surgery. The clock was moving slowly and had been for well over five hours.
Finally, the doors opened up with a crashing sound as the mobile stretcher exited the surgery. The three doctors emerged…laughing, high-fiving each other, and ripping off their surgical masks.
“We got it,” said one doctor. “He will be well.”
Another doctor handed me a mason jar with something that resembled the size of a thumb. “That was it. We found it.”
I bent over the stretcher and whispered to Bill, “How are you feeling, honey?”
“When do I go in?” he said.
“You’re out. It’s done.”
He paused for a moment. “Do I have a bag?”
“No. You are okay. All is fine.”
Bill immediately nodded off and was out for the next four hours.
Bill woke up with little pain but no energy. The doctors came in to visit often, sometimes bringing their families or picture albums. They were so very human and kind.
Dr. Matamoros explained that they removed a Meckel’s diverticulum, a small pouch at the site of the small intestine. In Bill’s case, it had been causing the bleeding and ulcers for his entire life.
The doctors physically examined his intestines until they found the problem. They didn’t have any idea what was wrong initially but knew they had to investigate the entire intestine.
For the next few days, I stayed at the hospital providing duties that in Canada would be handled by a practical nurse: feeding Bill, ensuring he was hydrated, bathing him, and generally looking after him.
I spoke to Sister Anna and asked for the hospital bill. It was a detailed list of expenses, and the bottom line was an amazing $9,500 Canadian dollars (in pesos, of course). Included were all doctor and surgeon costs, supplies, and room.
This experience was a profound reminder of the fragility of life and the resilience of the human spirit. The kindness and dedication of the doctors, nurses, and even the steadfast Mother Anna carried me through one of the darkest periods of my life. It reinforced the importance of compassion and the strength that comes from leaning on loved ones during times of crisis.
Though my recovery was slow, it gave me a new lease on life. Today, I carry a scar as a testament to that chapter, but more importantly, I carry a deep gratitude—for Dorothy’s unwavering support, the skill and humanity of the medical team in Tepic, and the miracle of a second chance at life. Each day now feels like a gift, a reminder to cherish the moments and the people who make them worthwhile.