How to Care for Your Farm Journalist: A Quick Guide

By Mike Danna
Louisiana Farm Bureau Federation Public Relations Director

A Third World traveler’s worst nightmare is getting sick in a place with few options for getting better.

It happened to me Saturday and for a moment I began to worry that things were going to take a real turn for the worst.  I contracted a bladder infection.

While I’ve been to 11 countries on four continents, I’ve never once gotten sick.  Not so much as a sniffle.  Without going into details, by mid-morning Saturday things weren’t looking good at all.  About the time our visit to Grupo Rey was wrapping up, I knew I was in trouble.

After conferring with Jim Monroe, and seeing the look on his face, I knew such an infection was about to bring my Central American travels to a grave crossroads.  I needed a doctor and I needed drugs.  Nope, not looking good at all.

But then a guy from Cornell University stepped in.

Dr. Phil Elzer, the AgCenter’s associate vice chancellor who’s traveling with us, is also Dr. Phil Elzer, DVM.  And when you’re sick in Central America, a doctor is a doctor, even a vet with a Cornell pedigree.

Dr. Elzer the veterinarian knew just what I needed: pyriduim, Oxitetraciclina HCI, 250 mgs, and sulfametizol 125 mgs.  Simple enough.

The problem was that only a doctor can prescribe the remedy and my family physician was back home at the Baton Rouge Clinic.  Our guide Connie suggested we go to a Panamanian pharmacy.

“Maybe we can sweet talk them into giving us something without a prescription,” she said.  “Fat chance,” I thought, but with the pain escalating I was willing to try anything.

At around 11 a.m. we pulled the bus into a mall just outside Panama City where the Farmacias Arrocha pharmacy is located.  Dr. Elzer, Connie and I walked up to the counter and held our collective breaths.

The pharmacist, who was about 21, walked up, smiled and asked if he could help us.  Connie, in her most sympathetic Spanish, began telling the child about my condition.  Phil chimed in with the drug descriptions.  The kid just looked at us.  And although my Spanish is lousy, I distinctly heard pill boy utter the words “doctor and prescription.”

I knew I was toast.

“Act like you’re dying,” I thought to myself.  My face drooped and I groaned ever so slightly.  Silence from the kid with the pharmacy degree.

Connie went at him again, deepening her woe and worry.  I think she told him I wouldn’t make it through the night without something.  Again, Phil repeated the remedy.

Slowly the pharmacist reached under the counter and produced a box of red horse pills.  Ol’ Doc Elzer quickly grabbed it and began studying the contents.

“This should do it,” he intimated, although something told me he felt I needed something stronger.

Again there was an exchange of Spanish, more drug jargon and lots more drooping of my face.  For added effect I leaned on the counter to support myself, groaning even louder this time, which by now wasn’t much of a stretch.  I was really hurting.

“Let me check in the back,” the boy-pharmacist said in quite good English.

“Check in the back?” I thought.  If this pharmacy was anything like the stores in America you know there’s never any “in the back.”

But when Doogie Howser the pharmacist returned he had not one but two prescription remedies.  He handed them to the vet; more silent reading of the packages by the doctor, more audible groaning from his patient.

“This is it,” the Cornell DVM replied.  “We’ll take it.  We’ll take them all.”

And with that the kid handed me the three prescriptions and directed me to the cash register.   I’d called Renee right after the first symptoms hit and she suggested lots of cranberry juice.  The cow doctor agreed.

“I’ll get the juice, you just hurry and pay for the stuff before he changes his mind,” Doc said, heading for the juice aisle.

I produced a credit card for the pharmacy clerk and within 60 seconds I was headed for the door, three prescription drugs in hand, sans a Panamanian doctor visit.  I couldn’t help but smile as I thought of Panama’s managed health care program.

Doc Elzer met me at the door, two bottles of Snapple Cran-Raspberry in hand.

“How much were the prescriptions?” he asked just as Connie rendezvoused in stride along side us.

“Fourteen dollars,” I said.  “Each?” he asked.  “Nope, for all three,” I said just as we cleared the automatic door and briskly walked toward the bus.

Elzer began laughing.  “The Snapple was $5,” he said.  “Given the cost of each dose, the juice costs more than the medication.”

I started feeling better after the first dose.  Three hours later the pain was virtually gone.  And with that I realized that caring for your farm journalist is a lot like caring for your farm animal.  All you need is a good doctor, no matter which initials follow his name on the diploma.

Thanks Phil.

Until next time…