Everyone fears being stranded in a foreign country and needing an operation to save their life. I lived it.
Mind you, I lost a dear friend and companion in 2006 when she developed pneumonia in Vietnam and passed on due to negligence of her condition. So the concept of putting my life in the hands of a developing Latin American country's doctors and praying I understand them and they me... Scared the shit out of me.
I was headed to work on a Monday and wasn't feeling wonderful. I had slept all Sunday and most of that day, as well. Then came the dizziness. Followed by the nausea. Then the anxiety. Then exhaustion. Agitation. Pain. Loss of sight. More pain. Oh, dear Lord, the pain. Wait, why can't I walk?
On a recommendation, I went to a local private hospital to see a friend of a friend. I figured I had a parasite and just needed some antibiotics and solid night of sleep. The surgeon told me I was probably ovulating.
Ovulating.
Seriously? I only have one ovary, señor, so.... I'm pretty sure I know what that feels like. After some painful poking and prodding, a little fondling, and a lot of waiting, the doctors threw me in a wheel chair and told me that I was a few hours short of a major explosion in my abdomen. So... I'm not ovulating?
The clean halls and neatly dressed staff rivaled that of the United States and the kind smiles of all the nurses calmed my anxiety. They scooted me into a private hospital room with a private bathroom equipped with shower and all the cable TV I could handle. I pulled of my rain boots, folded my clothes neatly, and placed everything in the storage closet near the sink. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped as though I didn't recognize myself. Who was this pale, ghostly face staring back at me? Who was this woman standing bare and exposed, new tattoo gracing her left abdomen, and her fear hanging around her neck like the latest fashion?
The surgery wasn't the scary part. It was knowing that I took a Spanish class in high school- over 10 years ago- and I remembered colors and vegetables. All my Spanish up to this point had been learned through conversation and surgical terms aren't exactly part of bar talk. It was knowing I was going in alone. Yes, I had a few friends around, but all have lives and things to do. I was on my own. It was not knowing anything about the reputation of the hospital, the doctor, or what I was going to be wheeled into.
I pulled on the lilac hospital gown, wrapped it tight to cover my backside, and sat down in the bed. Breathe. Everything will be fine. Wait, I know. So why the anxiety? In reality, this room had quickly become my sanctuary. I was in the process of looking for new housing and was feeling very unsettled, and this was a place that had a warm bed, a soft pillow, and people to make me feel safe. Three nurses entered with their greetings: Hola, mi vida. My life. They smiled warmly, touched my hands like my own mother would, and started getting me ready. I decided to just lie there and let them take me on this journey.
I managed to chat with the nurses while they took me from my sanctuary through the hospital and into my operating room. After changing beds four times, I was strapped into the operating table and the anxiety crept up on me. Hearing "la gringa" so many times WILL grate on your nerves after 5 months... I promise. I had become a novelty of sorts and I need to assert myself as a human being once more.
Before I could think, I started spouting off questions: Who are you? Are those sterile? Will I be asleep? Could you please avoid my new tattoo?
How did I know all these words? Collective consciousness, I owe you a beer.
I made a few jokes in Spanish (yes, I'm proud of myself for being funny in two languages) and tried to get in a few brownie points before the drugged me up, as though, like a superstition, I needed it juuuuust in case. A happy surgeon is a focused surgeon, right?
So sleeeeeeeeeeepy.
I see a nurse. See? Oh, dear God. I muttered, in very sloppy Spanish, "I can feel things! Don't cut me!" Christ on crutches. I was about to experience a nightmare beyond words: being operated on while awake.
Or... It was already over and I was headed back to my sanctuary. Awesome. I'm sure everyone had a good laugh at the freaked out gringa. In recovery I was a mess. The anesthetic wore off quickly and I was tense, in pain, and anxious.
Fast forward. Hello, sanctuary. As I was wheeled into the room, I passed three very familiar, very handsome faces. My heart filled. My roommate, Ian, whom had been instrumental in getting me to the hospital and checked in had returned. Drew, Ian's friend turned my friend, who had been a gentleman in suffering through this ordeal (and my surprisingly revealing medical examination) on his last night in Quito. A very good friend, and the one who recommended the hospital, Juan David, had driven straight from work and waited with my boys. I am loved.
Some gibberish talking by yours truly and some random Ecuadorian TV filled my night and soon the boys were gone and I was alone with my thoughts, my drugs, and my sanctuary.
The hardest part was feeling lonely. Being restricted to a bed, unable to work or connect with the outside world, was incredibly hard. I slept. I watched Futurama in Spanish. I thought. Boy, did I think. I somehow slipped into a massively reflective and introspective state if mind that I have yet to find way out of.
I thought about my time here in Quito, both what I have done and what I have learned about myself and others. I thought about home, the people I miss the most, and the ones I surprisingly don't miss much at all. I thought about my students and how much I really enjoyed teaching. I thought about my next step in my career. I thought about a special guy. I thought about which super powers would be best to have while in a hospital. I thought about ice cream. (I was on drugs, don't judge me.)
Wednesday morning rolled around and the surgeon checked me out, changed my bandages, and told me to be a good gringa while I was here in Ecuador. The doctor took his leave and the nurse helped me sit up.
For those of you who have not had a laparoscopic operation, let me assure you it blows. Your incisions burn when you move. Your organs shift when you move and, believe me, you can feel EVERYTHING. You have air trapped inside your abdomen and all you can do is bubble and fart. Yes, I'm aware I'm a sexy bitch.
Just the process of sitting up raises the question that I may not, in fact, be ten foot tall and bulletproof. I can't roll over, I can't sit up... I'm a bad dog.
I hobbled to the bathroom, just 3 short feet from my bed, so naturally it took me 5 minutes. Bladder, pancreas, spleen, stomach... As they dropped and squish around, I noticed them all as they sound off in attendance. Success. I peed all by myself. Now to shower. With a massive needle shoved into my left hand, my right hand took over and started domination of what needed to be done: remove gown, drop gown (shit), find tolerable water temperature, clean body, wash hair, dry off, new gown on bed (score), and buzz for help getting back in bed before passing out. Internal happy dance.
Little did I know that'd be the last bit of brightness for 36 grueling hours.
The nurse to the least of my liking padded in while I was watching 'House Hunters International: Buenos Aires' and handed me a simple piece of calculator paper with a series of numbers and one with a star. No words- English or Spanish- just numbers. $5000.
Mierda.
I explained in a drug-free, pain-clouded state that I needed a description of why my bill was five grand and I needed wifi to start moving money around because I sure as hell didn't have a handful of cash lying around, contrary to popular belief. Gringos are not made of sugar, spice, and limitless credit cards. Hours passed. Hours. No one came to administer medicine, less than 48 hours after my surgery, and the food stopped coming as well. The staff would poke their head in my once sanctuary, just to make sure I was still there. I explained I could pay some now and some later, but since wifi wasn't an option, nor were free international calls, I needed to scoot on outta this porcelain palace of pain.
Apparently, the hospital staff and the guard at the front door carrying a shotgun disagreed with me. I plopped down (worst idea ever) in a wheel chair, grabbed my rain boots, and wandered 4 floors downstairs to try and talk to the payment center. Come on Collective Consciousness...
With my friend, Rachel, sitting by my side in the lobby of a heavily guarded, private, Ecuadorian hospital I started to wonder how in the living hell I was going to pull this off. Then I started wondering, how the hell did this turn into a living hell? Where did my sanctuary go? I could feel it fading into darkness a few floors above me.
They sent me a gentleman who worked in the financial department who spoke a tidbit of English and was obviously in over his head and not thrilled that his superiors were dropping him in with this gringa who was obviously in pain and less than thrilled at the goings-ons of the situation. He tried, but he really helped about as much as the janitor when it came to my situation. Unless we were in an episode of 'Scrubs' in which I would be both thrilled and terrified because it really, really hurt to laugh.
So, to recap: I had emergency surgery 36 hours ago, I'm a broke English teacher with a student visa, they won't reduce the fees on a $5,000 bill, they don't have wifi so I can get ahold of my folks for help (or even to let them know I'm alive), they won't let me go until its paid, and I'm pretty sure that guard with the shotgun has yet to have to use it and is looking like he has an itchy trigger finger. Right.
After a few more hours of talking to people and waiting around, occasional tears escaping my eyes, both from pain and frustration, the sun finally disappeared from the alluring glass doors that held my freedom. The darkness had settled outside my prison and inside my chest. I was being held captive. My chains were electronic lines of information and lightly-inked numbers I couldn't reproduce in reality. Such intangible things that mattered more than that tangible person and the tangible pain displayed before the eyes of heartless number crunchers. Finally, I just cried. I let them see me cry. I let each tear try to buy my freedom. I let each tear try and tug at heart strings that may or may not exist. I did it with dignity... Well, as much dignity I could, looking homeless an walking like a drunk toddler.
They finally sent me back upstairs to the same room, Room 303, where I once maintained my sanity. They had again cleaned it and changed the sheets, but that wasn't why it felt different. It was no longer my sanctuary. I climbed into bed in my sweats and flipped on the TV, just to ignore it. I managed to steal some wifi for a few moments and sent electronic smoke signals back home. Rachel went and bought some awful fast food next door to the hospital with the last bit of our money and we forced down terrible burgers and remarkably delicious chocolate cake. She left me an hour later for the comfort of her bed and I laid there staring at the dark ceiling and the dancing shadows from the repeat of Friends, which was surprisingly comforting. I found no sanctuary here.
After having the needle ripped from my hand- following hours of pleading- the the evil bitch of a nurse laughing, I lost it. I informed her that it was extremely difficult for me to come to a foreign country, learn the language, have emergency surgery, and handle it all on my own. I am trying. How dare you. Tears of anger stung my eyes and the nurse looked as though she had struck a puppy with her car. She backed out of the room and was never to be audible again. A sweet, fresh faced doctor, Dr. Medina, came in and spoke with me, apologizing for all the mishaps and explaining the bill to me. After some hustling on my mother's part and a team effort of moving money around and asking for some help from the credit company, I was close to tasting freedom.
4:00 pm Thursday afternoon, with a drained bank account, $1.60 in coins to my name, and a maxed out American Express card, I walked through those elusive glass doors and breathed the fresh air of freedom. Tears, different than those that escaped my eyes before, streamed down my flushed cheeks and I breathed out every ounce of stress I had been holding in. I wobbled to a taxi, slumped in, and left the prison that had been my only world for the last 4 days.
A word from someone who has lived it: get travel insurance.
And, yes, my new tattoo is fine.
Mind you, I lost a dear friend and companion in 2006 when she developed pneumonia in Vietnam and passed on due to negligence of her condition. So the concept of putting my life in the hands of a developing Latin American country's doctors and praying I understand them and they me... Scared the shit out of me.
I was headed to work on a Monday and wasn't feeling wonderful. I had slept all Sunday and most of that day, as well. Then came the dizziness. Followed by the nausea. Then the anxiety. Then exhaustion. Agitation. Pain. Loss of sight. More pain. Oh, dear Lord, the pain. Wait, why can't I walk?
On a recommendation, I went to a local private hospital to see a friend of a friend. I figured I had a parasite and just needed some antibiotics and solid night of sleep. The surgeon told me I was probably ovulating.
Ovulating.
Seriously? I only have one ovary, señor, so.... I'm pretty sure I know what that feels like. After some painful poking and prodding, a little fondling, and a lot of waiting, the doctors threw me in a wheel chair and told me that I was a few hours short of a major explosion in my abdomen. So... I'm not ovulating?
The clean halls and neatly dressed staff rivaled that of the United States and the kind smiles of all the nurses calmed my anxiety. They scooted me into a private hospital room with a private bathroom equipped with shower and all the cable TV I could handle. I pulled of my rain boots, folded my clothes neatly, and placed everything in the storage closet near the sink. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped as though I didn't recognize myself. Who was this pale, ghostly face staring back at me? Who was this woman standing bare and exposed, new tattoo gracing her left abdomen, and her fear hanging around her neck like the latest fashion?
The surgery wasn't the scary part. It was knowing that I took a Spanish class in high school- over 10 years ago- and I remembered colors and vegetables. All my Spanish up to this point had been learned through conversation and surgical terms aren't exactly part of bar talk. It was knowing I was going in alone. Yes, I had a few friends around, but all have lives and things to do. I was on my own. It was not knowing anything about the reputation of the hospital, the doctor, or what I was going to be wheeled into.
I pulled on the lilac hospital gown, wrapped it tight to cover my backside, and sat down in the bed. Breathe. Everything will be fine. Wait, I know. So why the anxiety? In reality, this room had quickly become my sanctuary. I was in the process of looking for new housing and was feeling very unsettled, and this was a place that had a warm bed, a soft pillow, and people to make me feel safe. Three nurses entered with their greetings: Hola, mi vida. My life. They smiled warmly, touched my hands like my own mother would, and started getting me ready. I decided to just lie there and let them take me on this journey.
I managed to chat with the nurses while they took me from my sanctuary through the hospital and into my operating room. After changing beds four times, I was strapped into the operating table and the anxiety crept up on me. Hearing "la gringa" so many times WILL grate on your nerves after 5 months... I promise. I had become a novelty of sorts and I need to assert myself as a human being once more.
Before I could think, I started spouting off questions: Who are you? Are those sterile? Will I be asleep? Could you please avoid my new tattoo?
How did I know all these words? Collective consciousness, I owe you a beer.
I made a few jokes in Spanish (yes, I'm proud of myself for being funny in two languages) and tried to get in a few brownie points before the drugged me up, as though, like a superstition, I needed it juuuuust in case. A happy surgeon is a focused surgeon, right?
So sleeeeeeeeeeepy.
I see a nurse. See? Oh, dear God. I muttered, in very sloppy Spanish, "I can feel things! Don't cut me!" Christ on crutches. I was about to experience a nightmare beyond words: being operated on while awake.
Or... It was already over and I was headed back to my sanctuary. Awesome. I'm sure everyone had a good laugh at the freaked out gringa. In recovery I was a mess. The anesthetic wore off quickly and I was tense, in pain, and anxious.
Fast forward. Hello, sanctuary. As I was wheeled into the room, I passed three very familiar, very handsome faces. My heart filled. My roommate, Ian, whom had been instrumental in getting me to the hospital and checked in had returned. Drew, Ian's friend turned my friend, who had been a gentleman in suffering through this ordeal (and my surprisingly revealing medical examination) on his last night in Quito. A very good friend, and the one who recommended the hospital, Juan David, had driven straight from work and waited with my boys. I am loved.
Some gibberish talking by yours truly and some random Ecuadorian TV filled my night and soon the boys were gone and I was alone with my thoughts, my drugs, and my sanctuary.
The hardest part was feeling lonely. Being restricted to a bed, unable to work or connect with the outside world, was incredibly hard. I slept. I watched Futurama in Spanish. I thought. Boy, did I think. I somehow slipped into a massively reflective and introspective state if mind that I have yet to find way out of.
I thought about my time here in Quito, both what I have done and what I have learned about myself and others. I thought about home, the people I miss the most, and the ones I surprisingly don't miss much at all. I thought about my students and how much I really enjoyed teaching. I thought about my next step in my career. I thought about a special guy. I thought about which super powers would be best to have while in a hospital. I thought about ice cream. (I was on drugs, don't judge me.) Wednesday morning rolled around and the surgeon checked me out, changed my bandages, and told me to be a good gringa while I was here in Ecuador. The doctor took his leave and the nurse helped me sit up.
For those of you who have not had a laparoscopic operation, let me assure you it blows. Your incisions burn when you move. Your organs shift when you move and, believe me, you can feel EVERYTHING. You have air trapped inside your abdomen and all you can do is bubble and fart. Yes, I'm aware I'm a sexy bitch.
Just the process of sitting up raises the question that I may not, in fact, be ten foot tall and bulletproof. I can't roll over, I can't sit up... I'm a bad dog.
I hobbled to the bathroom, just 3 short feet from my bed, so naturally it took me 5 minutes. Bladder, pancreas, spleen, stomach... As they dropped and squish around, I noticed them all as they sound off in attendance. Success. I peed all by myself. Now to shower. With a massive needle shoved into my left hand, my right hand took over and started domination of what needed to be done: remove gown, drop gown (shit), find tolerable water temperature, clean body, wash hair, dry off, new gown on bed (score), and buzz for help getting back in bed before passing out. Internal happy dance.
Little did I know that'd be the last bit of brightness for 36 grueling hours.
The nurse to the least of my liking padded in while I was watching 'House Hunters International: Buenos Aires' and handed me a simple piece of calculator paper with a series of numbers and one with a star. No words- English or Spanish- just numbers. $5000.
Mierda.
I explained in a drug-free, pain-clouded state that I needed a description of why my bill was five grand and I needed wifi to start moving money around because I sure as hell didn't have a handful of cash lying around, contrary to popular belief. Gringos are not made of sugar, spice, and limitless credit cards. Hours passed. Hours. No one came to administer medicine, less than 48 hours after my surgery, and the food stopped coming as well. The staff would poke their head in my once sanctuary, just to make sure I was still there. I explained I could pay some now and some later, but since wifi wasn't an option, nor were free international calls, I needed to scoot on outta this porcelain palace of pain.
Apparently, the hospital staff and the guard at the front door carrying a shotgun disagreed with me. I plopped down (worst idea ever) in a wheel chair, grabbed my rain boots, and wandered 4 floors downstairs to try and talk to the payment center. Come on Collective Consciousness...
With my friend, Rachel, sitting by my side in the lobby of a heavily guarded, private, Ecuadorian hospital I started to wonder how in the living hell I was going to pull this off. Then I started wondering, how the hell did this turn into a living hell? Where did my sanctuary go? I could feel it fading into darkness a few floors above me.
They sent me a gentleman who worked in the financial department who spoke a tidbit of English and was obviously in over his head and not thrilled that his superiors were dropping him in with this gringa who was obviously in pain and less than thrilled at the goings-ons of the situation. He tried, but he really helped about as much as the janitor when it came to my situation. Unless we were in an episode of 'Scrubs' in which I would be both thrilled and terrified because it really, really hurt to laugh.
So, to recap: I had emergency surgery 36 hours ago, I'm a broke English teacher with a student visa, they won't reduce the fees on a $5,000 bill, they don't have wifi so I can get ahold of my folks for help (or even to let them know I'm alive), they won't let me go until its paid, and I'm pretty sure that guard with the shotgun has yet to have to use it and is looking like he has an itchy trigger finger. Right.
After a few more hours of talking to people and waiting around, occasional tears escaping my eyes, both from pain and frustration, the sun finally disappeared from the alluring glass doors that held my freedom. The darkness had settled outside my prison and inside my chest. I was being held captive. My chains were electronic lines of information and lightly-inked numbers I couldn't reproduce in reality. Such intangible things that mattered more than that tangible person and the tangible pain displayed before the eyes of heartless number crunchers. Finally, I just cried. I let them see me cry. I let each tear try to buy my freedom. I let each tear try and tug at heart strings that may or may not exist. I did it with dignity... Well, as much dignity I could, looking homeless an walking like a drunk toddler. They finally sent me back upstairs to the same room, Room 303, where I once maintained my sanity. They had again cleaned it and changed the sheets, but that wasn't why it felt different. It was no longer my sanctuary. I climbed into bed in my sweats and flipped on the TV, just to ignore it. I managed to steal some wifi for a few moments and sent electronic smoke signals back home. Rachel went and bought some awful fast food next door to the hospital with the last bit of our money and we forced down terrible burgers and remarkably delicious chocolate cake. She left me an hour later for the comfort of her bed and I laid there staring at the dark ceiling and the dancing shadows from the repeat of Friends, which was surprisingly comforting. I found no sanctuary here.
After having the needle ripped from my hand- following hours of pleading- the the evil bitch of a nurse laughing, I lost it. I informed her that it was extremely difficult for me to come to a foreign country, learn the language, have emergency surgery, and handle it all on my own. I am trying. How dare you. Tears of anger stung my eyes and the nurse looked as though she had struck a puppy with her car. She backed out of the room and was never to be audible again. A sweet, fresh faced doctor, Dr. Medina, came in and spoke with me, apologizing for all the mishaps and explaining the bill to me. After some hustling on my mother's part and a team effort of moving money around and asking for some help from the credit company, I was close to tasting freedom.
4:00 pm Thursday afternoon, with a drained bank account, $1.60 in coins to my name, and a maxed out American Express card, I walked through those elusive glass doors and breathed the fresh air of freedom. Tears, different than those that escaped my eyes before, streamed down my flushed cheeks and I breathed out every ounce of stress I had been holding in. I wobbled to a taxi, slumped in, and left the prison that had been my only world for the last 4 days.
A word from someone who has lived it: get travel insurance.
And, yes, my new tattoo is fine.
