It has been over a month since my last entry. I’m rather ashamed to have only one entry for the entire month of July! So much has happened in that time, including hospitalization for me, Mumbai being bombed, and my husband and I finally coming home, if only for a few weeks in his case.
I never completed my stories of visiting Korea. Hopefully I will do that at some point, but let me summarize by saying I had a wonderful time with a wonderful family, although I am still singing this ‘ah, ah, ah’ line from a song that they sang constantly. Well, I only heard it two or three times the entire week I was there, but that line is particularly catchy. I’m afraid it is setting a longevity record for songs stuck in my head.
I guess I should also do a bit of hospital foreshadowing by mentioning that in Korea I went to a lovely doctor’s home (seriously, I don’t think doctors are that pretty and young looking in America) and she stuck an IV in my arm and even managed to keep me from fainting. Of course, once the IV was out and we were headed home, I immediately puked in their landscaped apartment building driveway. But at least I wasn’t dehydrated since my blood was still full of saline. I don’t know exactly what had happened to me; I only know I was sick, couldn’t eat, and had the general issues a traveler gets when headed to Asia. It only lasted for a day or two.
When I returned from Korea my husband had his back and shoulder pains that I’ve already chronicled in the last entry. When he was well (well, not well, but knew he couldn’t take any more time off to blissfully sleep under the influence of strong painkillers and muscle-relaxants) he headed back to Delhi and I was back to being alone in Mumbai.
That very night I started tossing and turning with a slight fever and head cold. My armpits, a few days before, had grown large lumps in each side, and by that night they hurt so much I couldn’t keep my arms flat. I stayed home and continued the tossing and turning, lying in front of the TV for another day until my maid, on the third day, ordered me to the hospital. By that point, not only was I feverish, dehydrated, lumpy, weak, and had a sore throat, I also was nearly delusional from a lack of sleep.
My mom has told me, many times, that when I’m sick, everyone suffers. I truly don’t MEAN to be that way. But for some reason, the sicker I become, the less likely I am to sleep. At least in this particular case. You’ll have to ask her why I was so difficult in the past. So if I’m not sleeping, like a good sick person, I’m whining and complaining. This case was particularly difficult because I was alone; my husband was in Delhi. Also my cell phone wasn’t working and kept dying. I guess the phone was having sympathy pains for me.
My driver came and dropped me off at the hospital. After being shuffled around for about two hours I was so weak and tired and lonely (NO one would go to the hospital alone in India- for one thing, women apparently get raped there, and for another, you need to bring at least four family members anywhere you go in this country) that I was about ready to scream or cry. I couldn’t stand; the hospital makes you stand, stand, stand in this line and in that line to pay for appointments or tests in advance. I would squat in the line and only stand when I reached the front of the line. I would be so dizzy when I stood I had to close my eyes and listen instead of look at the employees.
I hated everyone there. Wasn’t it obvious they should just shove me in a bed immediately and take care of me? I couldn’t even stand, darn it! Well, there was one guy I didn’t hate. He was seated next to me and let me go in front of him for the doctor. I think my inability to sit up straight was slightly worrisome to him. That and the tears that kept annoyingly creeping out of the corners of my eyes.
The doctor ordered some tests and I begged him to admit me to the hospital. What an idiot that he didn’t do it straight away. He sort of said, “If you want to be” and let me decide. He didn’t event take my temperature! (If he had, he would have discovered that I was FIVE degrees above my normal body temperature). I totally understand how people just die in a hospital waiting room now.
I had to go stand/squat in another few lines, and I held back my tears the best I could in the line to pay for my admittance. I only had a debit card with a daily limit on it and I didn’t even have enough money to pay the admittance fee. At that point I was panicking, my phone still wasn’t working, and I couldn’t reach my husband to help me think.
Only the fanciest, most expensive room in the entire hospital was available, and it wouldn’t be available for a few hours…. Eventually I reached my husband and discovered he was on his way to the airport. He spoke with the woman in charge of rooms and she agreed that he could pay when he arrived. Thank goodness. I managed to relax a bit.
In the meantime I dragged myself to another corner of the hospital for blood work and peed in a cup. I hadn’t eaten as far as I can remember, nor had much water.
Interesting fact about me: when I am sick I HATE drinking water (or anything), despite the fact that I normally consume about two gallons of water each day. It is as though my body wants me to be sick and weak. Drink water? I’ll throw up or get a bellyache. So at any hint of a sickness I have to force myself to remember to drink water to keep from being dehydrated. Or my husband forces me. I guess that is why everyone suffers when I’m sick. Someone has to stand over me and force me to even drink water.
Anyhow, the consequence of this is NOT that I couldn’t pee in the cup. I am always good at that! Sometimes I have to go to the bathroom twice in one movie. No, the consequence was that I was even weaker than usual and I am quite the fainter even when I’m strong. So I insisted on laying flat for the blood draw and had to stay down for at least a solid half hour before I finally decided I could get up without fainting. I don’t know WHY I faint when my blood is removed from my body with a creepy tiny needle. I just know that I do. Anyhow, I was okay and made my way back to the admittance lady in hopes that my room was ready.
Now, I know it is odd, but back in the day I’d be so proud of a huge bruise during softball season. Or if I got scraped up and was missing a big chunk of skin from my leg. I’m not sure why; it most likely means I missed a ball if I had a huge bruise, or had a terrible slide at second base if the skin was missing from my thigh. But it was cool. It showed I was tough, right? So what happened next (at the hospital) is similar. Really, I shouldn’t be proud of it at all. It is rather pathetic, in fact. But it makes a good story and thus I really enjoy this part of the tale.
I imagine most of you have seen an episode or two of the TV show House. It takes place in a hospital, and the opening sequence always shows a person collapsing in a dramatic and often confusing fashion. Well, my next few minutes were very nearly House-worthy.
My room was finally available, and a pantsuited woman arrived to show me up to my room. Of course, she asked, as I was asked constantly throughout the day, why I was alone. I kept assuring her and everyone else my husband was on his way. She next offered me a wheelchair, which I declined. I felt lousy, but I’ve managed to make it this far on my own. All I had to do was get to an elevator. I stood from the stool I’d claimed and followed her to my room. After a few steps my head became dizzy; disoriented; was she now heading in another direction? As a frequent fainter, I recognized the impending signs and quickly plopped myself onto the ground. Better I put myself there than pass out and wind up there anyway, right?
There I was, practically in PJs, the single white woman in a puddle on the Indian hospital floor. I ignored the people converging around me and focused on breathing and keeping my head down. Raising your head is just inviting your body to pass out. I sort of looked around for the woman I was supposed to be following, but I couldn’t find her. I decided I had better get up and get into my hospital bed.
The next thing I know, I’m taking a deep, gasping breath. I can’t breathe! Complete and utter panic takes over. I gasp for air but nothing comes. And then someone is holding my arm and my purse and I’m staring at everyone, confused, and seeing nothing. I’m sort of half-kneeling on the floor; did I go all the way down? I have no idea, to be honest. But I definitely just fainted for the umpteenth time in my life.
This one was way better than the last time I fainted, actually. Last time I couldn’t wake up, but knew I had to wake up. I thought I would just die trying to wake up. Here I was awake again before I even knew I had fainted. This fainting spell didn’t even top the most embarrassing list (that still has to be my 5th grade Sex Ed class; I fainted when they showed us how much blood you lose while on your period. It was just a spoonful…. And the spoon was, of course, actually a prop and empty). So all in all, it was an easy fainting spell.
Tears were streaming down my face, and some woman, just a hospital guest, not a nurse, was holding my hand and taking care of me and being sweet. Thank goodness she was there for me. Everyone fluttered about, confused that I was alone. I was put in a wheelchair, I think. Or maybe a flat rolling bed thing. I was transferred to the casualty ward, where I should have gone three hours ago when I first arrived at the hospital. The woman stayed with me, offering to call my husband. The nurses bristled at her and said they could take care of me just fine, and tried to verbally shove her away.
They took my blood pressure; still no one took my temperature. I kept clutching the woman’s hand, but still remember trying to assure everyone I wouldn’t be alone soon. Just four or five more hours. Weren’t they supposed to be reassuring me, not the other way around? Eventually the nice woman left, and I wished I had some way to contact her and thank her.
I guess my blood pressure was okay. Shortly (at least I think it was shortly, but to be honest this part of the story is quite fuzzy) they put me in a wheelchair and took me up to the 11th floor. I felt so weak, but I was determined to not faint while in the chair. I couldn’t stop the tears from squeaking out of my scrunched up eyes, so keeping my head down was two-fold; it protected against fainting and kept the tears hidden from the orderlies.
Nurses aren’t actually called nurses. As far as I can tell, everyone female is called ‘Sister’. I’m not sure if all women are, since I was taken care of by many different women in different jobs, but whenever a woman was called, she was called ‘Sister’. I was treated by our American equivalents of doctors and nurses and then people like nurses but who couldn’t put the IV in me and then also people who seemed to only have cleaning responsibilities. But I THINK they were all called Sister. Anyhow, the doctors (male and female) wore a white coat that is apparently the global universal sign for doctor. The highest level of nurse wore pink (I only saw women in this role, although I did see a man in pink when my husband and I had gone to the emergency room a week earlier), the lower level of nurse wore yellow (I only saw women in this role), and the cleaning people (who were male and female) wore brown. The people from dining had on something red. And hair net-like caps.
The pantsuited woman who was showing me up to my room stopped in front of a pair of double doors. A key was produced and I sucked in my breath. My rooms were fantastic! I had two rooms, actually. The first room had a couch and chairs and flat screen TV. A bowl of fruit sat out for my many (haha) visitors. The coffee table had newspapers scattered about. Everything was well decorated. A second set of double doors opened and I saw my portion of the suite. It was also large. So large, in fact, the twin-sized hospital bed just looked ridiculous. You’d truly expect a double or queen sized bed in this room. It had a blue-green couch under the window, with a view of Bandra, the sea, and plenty of goats skipping about in mud.
Okay, more of why India really makes me confused at times. Before I was even hooked up for an IV, or had anything done, pantsuit lady asked me to read and sign a bunch of paperwork. Really? I just fainted in your lobby and you want me to look at this stuff? That is your top priority? Nice bedside manner.
Eventually people decided to actually treat me and my temperature was taken for the first time. Now, I’m definitely used to that nice little machine thing that my doctor at home puts in my ear. It takes your temperature immediately, the nurse disposes of the little plastic cap, and you are done. How nice and quick and easy. But no, nothing is nice and quick and easy in India unless it involves a big bribe. The Sister instead produced a regular thermometer. I eyed it wearily, hoping she wasn’t sticking in my backside. But she didn’t even put it in my mouth. She went super old school and stuck it in my lump-filled armpit. That darn think took well over a minute to read. They took my temperature every few hours and every few hours the Sister and I would just stay still and stare at my armpit, willing it to speed up. The temperature would be read out in degrees Celsius. Usually I’m up for the challenge of doing math, but I wasn’t really in the mood and eventually one Sister took pity on me and changed the setting to Fahrenheit.
My dentist in America takes my blood pressure. It looks like a thick bracelet you wear on your wrist. Quick, fast, no arm cuff and stethoscope. Nope, definitely not present here. Some of the sisters were smart, and put the thermometer in my armpit and then walked to the other arm to take my blood pressure, old-school method, while waiting for the thermometer to beep. Other sisters did them one after the other, which seemed like an immense waste of time to me.
The bed was definitely circa 1990, but at least it rose up and down.
A few hours after being placed in my room they finally decided to hook me up to an IV and give me some fluids. A few hours after that, my husband arrived and I nearly cried again, so happy to no longer be alone. Poor guy only managed one full day of work before I called him back to Mumbai.
I stayed at the hospital for the next five days, and he slept on that blue-green couch under the window. I am fairly certain I drove him nuts.
The IV was just plain painful; it was located right at the wrist so I couldn’t really bend my arm. They had to switch it to the opposite arm every 24 hours or so because it would clog up and my wrists would swell to such proportions I was afraid they would burst and I had great big bruises on my hands. I had track marks up and down my forearms like a drug addict. They withdrew blood from my elbows frequently; I had great bruises, the same color as that darn musty couch, in the crook of both arms. I still couldn’t sleep. I was utterly miserable.
The days have since blended together, but I know that it took days before I could fully sleep. I was having the oddest vision; everything was too crisp and too clear. Maybe like Bella’s vision after she became a vampire in Breaking Dawn. But I didn’t enjoy it; it scared me.
I tested negative for malaria, negative for mono, negative for dengue fever. No one knew what I had. I went off the IV and got sick again. I told my husband I was like Pocahontas; I fell in love, got dragged off to a strange country, wanted to go home, got sick, and was going to die far, far away from my family and loved ones. Fortunately that last bit didn’t come true.
I was basically pumped full of strong antibiotics, despite not knowing what was wrong with me. Some hours were good, there was a mini-library and we rented a lot of movies. Of course, my husband stole the remote control and picked our TV viewings for the week, but that was just to be expected.
Most of the hospital food was awful; it was vegetarian only, and we were ordering the ‘continental’ food, rather than Indian food, but they frequently messed up and brought us Indian food instead. I was sick, refused to eat it, and we’d ask for the continental instead. I know idli doesn’t taste like anything, but I didn’t care. I am sick and I want my darn toast and butter, even if it is toasted all wrong in India. And I’m not dealing with those spices for the other meals. Besides, even when I was semi-healthy (at least not in the hospital) I had given up eating Indian food and was surviving on bananas, cereal, and chocolate protein powder. I had already discovered my body was rejecting the Indian food (something I had previously liked) much like I was rejecting the Indian culture.
Three times a day tea was delivered, twice a day soup was delivered, and then on top of that, three meals. Eventually we learned we could also order food from the dining hall. My husband and I ate a lot of cheese sandwiches after that point.
The nurses were all very nice when in the room, but slow as anything answering that darn bell. They didn’t hook me up to a moveable IV, and instead turned it off each time I had to go to the bathroom. So each time it was off, they’d be slow at coming back to put it on, and my blood would clot (I guess it is good to know I am a fast clotter) and they’d have to flush the darn line. And it HURTS to have the line flushed. It reminded me of when I had my laser eye surgery and they washed my eyes with cold water. It hurts like mad and there was nothing I could do. Plus I had to urinate in this oddly shaped plastic container and let them know each time I did it. What a lousy job, to be the Sister that had to dump that out every couple of hours. Remember, I go to the bathroom a lot!
My other complaint was the treatment by the male doctors. There was one female doctor, who was nice and sweet and smoothed my forehead with her hand and told the nurses they were being stupid and to give me a moveable IV. She also talked directly to me, like I was a human being worthy of knowing what was wrong with my body. But the male doctors? They’d call my husband out to the other room, talk to him, and leave when it came time to actually discuss my test results! They didn’t tell me the specifics of what was occurring! The younger resident would talk to me, but talked to me like I was an idiot rather than someone who could clearly understand some basic science. It was so degrading to not even be told what was wrong with me. I mean, sure, I trust my husband to tell me, but he isn’t exactly known for being verbose. Lord knows what he skipped telling me that he thought was unimportant. I, of course, want to know every single detail!
It just so happens that I was admitted to the hospital a week before I was scheduled to go home for a mid-year vacation. As my days in the hospital increased, the twitchier I became. No way was I missing my flight for a mere undiagnosed disease that was slightly improving. At least, I no longer had a fever. And those armpit lumps were basically gone. I could successfully walk down the hall for a few minutes. I was ready to go!
We checked out after five days and my driver came to pick us up. He was strangely quiet, and I realized, about halfway home, that he was crying, apparently out of relief that I was okay and out of the hospital. With movie-perfect timing, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ came on the radio and I laughed and told him to obey the song.
We drove home, and I spent the next day haphazardly packing so I’d be ready to head back to the US of A.
The hospital souvenirs were a big bag of receipts, some x-rays of my lungs and sinuses, test reports, a stack of drugs, cream for my armpits, and this terrible awful gurgle stuff that I haven’t used but once.
