of Juan Seguin and her great-grandmother once cooked dinner for Sam Houston.
“Do you think we’re Mexican or do you think we’re Texan?” I asked.
“Our family’s been here since before Texas was Texas,” she said. “You have some great-great-great uncles who fought with Santa Anna and some who fought with Sam Houston. We’re Texicans. Speaking of our heritage, you need to tell your parents to teach you Spanish.”
“They don’t want to. They say I don’t need it since we live in Texas.”
“Just because you don’t need something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t learn it,” she said. “Where I grew up, we didn’t need toilets, but I still learned how to use one.”
“You didn’t have a toilet?”
“On a farm in El Paso in the late 1920s? No, Lyndon, I went potty with the cows. Have you tried that?”
“Grandma, stop.”
For a few days, I felt a little better. I could get out of bed for short bits at a time. I still wasn’t able to eat much without feeling queasy, but it was better than eating next to nothing. Feeling better didn’t last very long though. Dad took me to Dr. Feldman once again. By then, I was sick of seeing him.
“I don’t know what to tell you, kid,” he said. “It’s time for a second opinion. I’ll give you a list of doctors. If that doesn’t work, try a home remedy. I’m all out of ideas.”
“I’ve already tried some of those.”
“If you find something that works, come to my office and let me know,” Dr. Feldman said. “You need a miracle serum.”
None of the doctors Dr. Feldman recommended were close by. The nearest one was in Austin, but when Mom called the office, she found out that doctor didn’t accept our insurance. The next doctor was in San Antonio. She didn’t have an appointment for me until September.