One-Eyed Doctor

For the past week, I've been going to see my good friend the surgeon every three or four days.

I begin our encounter with what I really feel, "It's not that I don't want to see you, but..."

He agreed it would be far nicer to meet me somewhere outside the hospital. I'll choose to ignore the implication that I am a difficult patient. But I agree it would be nicer to run into him on the street.

On Monday, he removed the bandage. Things has been getting ally itchy, so pulling the giant Band-Aid off the skin (with hair I haven't been able to groom since a) it's covered by a bandage and b) I haven't been allowed to shower) and the attendant pain actually felt almost good. At least it didn't make cry.

And then he started poking around, as he does. Does this hurt? No. This? No. This? No. (Are you seeing a patten here?) He even told me what he was doing. "Now, I'm going to wipe out the wound with some gauze. Tell me if it hurts."

"Have I ever not told you if it hurts?"

"OK? Tell me of it hurts?"

I think his English is great, but he didn't understand my negative sentence construction. I guess he doesn't get so much snark, even from his Western patients.

"Of course I will. I'll scream if it hurts. You know that."

"I like that you are so straight-forward. I don't have to worry about you."

Or something. I forget exactly what he said. (So I should take out the quotes.) But that was the upshot — I don't hide my feelings so he doesn't have to wonder about the pain. When your job includes making decisions based on the physical reactions of your patients, getting an accurate read on those reactions is rather important. (I could say this is the reason why I'm so free with my screams in the ER, but I don't think it is. I don't know, a doctor's office just seems like the one space I can express pain without embarrassment, so I take advantage of the situation. And more than one doctor has told me its OK to scream. And really, if you're going to make me hurt, I'll let you know. So maybe that is the reason. And, I've sad that vocal expressions actually help us deal with pain better.)

So he wraps his scissors in a gauze pad and wipes inside the abscess. I lie there, clutching the pillow I have moved from the other end of the table (because the wound is on my right leg and I have to lie on the table the wrong way so he has access to said abscess), waiting. I even had my face screwed up in a very Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes) expression (at least it was in my mind) just waiting for the pain.

And it didn't hurt.

I'll repeat that: It didn't hurt!

So I go back again in a few days to have the dressing changed. He actually took a picture with his own phone to show me just how clean the edges of the wound were. You can see little dots of light and dark indicating that the abscess is knitting itself back together. And it's "clean". I give him him the English: there is no pus. Yes, there is no pus.

We agree to meet on Saturday. And on Saturday, I show up, but he is unavailable. I am disappointed, true. He said he'd text me if surgery came up, but these things happen with doctors. It's OK.

So I wait for the fill-in doctor, who is also Chinese. Sigh.

He walked in and I immediately realized that my impressions about Dr. Li had been entirely correct. This doctor, also a surgeon as far as I know, had that nervous, quiet energy that makes me uncomfortable. He didn't even have to say, "I think you might want to..." for me to not trust him. He pretty much didn't say anything. He didn't ask me any questions. He didn't tell me what he was doing. He flipped through my chart and then started to, well, hurt me.

He was so nervous, he did everything by tweezers, including peeling the tape off of my leg. (I swear Dr. Li pulls off every layer in one fell swoop — this "dude" took off the outer layer, then used alcohol to release the tape, then again, and again.) So when I gave a yelp of pain (because he's pinched my skin with said tweezers) he assumes it's because he's pulled hair (because it's been under a bandage for three weeks) and promises to go slow. Nooooo! Even when I tell him to just pull it off, he doesn't. The nurse even interprets for him, but he never learned how to pull off a Band-Aid: anchor the skin with one hand and pull quickly and firmly with the other.

How I miss my doctor.

It's amazing what three weeks of baring your thigh and bum to a man while screaming and crying in pain will do.

On my way home, I texted Dr. Li. I am going away from Monday to Saturday, but I could check in with him on either of those Sundays (when the surgery clinic is not open at all, so the nice nurses can't schedule an appointment for me). He wrote back that he waited for me at 8:30 as we agreed, but I didn't show.

And then he said his son had thrown a book at him so his eye was all red and tearing. (Yes B, as I said, he is married.) So he could not see me on Sunday, but I needed to see someone.

I would like to say that his story didn't make me laugh, but it did. How many text messages does one receive that end with "Typed with one eye," and are in mediocre English to begin with. And he's my doctor! Who's been making me cry for weeks! It was funny. I wasn't proud walking down the street laughing, but I did laugh. It was the "Typed with one eye" that got me.

Anyway. I replied back that I like sleep far too much to have agreed to an 8:30 appointment on the first day of a holiday; we had said 11:00. However, I had seen another nice man who changed my dressing (I almost told him that he wasn't as nice, but I wasn't sure he would get the joke in text), so we could meet in a week. (The nice nurse is far less able to arrange schedules around my schedule than Dr. Li is, so I would rather arrange with him directly. Not to mention these were the nurses that made me go to the ER to in the first place because they said no one was available until Tuesday — but the ER gave me Dr. Li.) He said it was his fault and apologized.

He returned the text that he would see me on Sunday, but we could arrange a time later in the week.

I agreed, and told him to take care of his eye.


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Location:Beijing, China

Sweet Dreams

Last night, I had a dream. In this dream, I was in China, but I was just moving in (or something — this past is a little hazy). Whatever it was, I was testing out new mattresses. I had friends with me, helping me test out my options. They had actually provided samples of what they slept on.

So much like Goldie Locks, I went down the row trying out the mattresses. One guy (I have no idea who) had a unique set-up. He had pillows for his head, but otherwise slept on the floor. I tried it out.

Ouch, was it uncomfortable. I have a distinct memory of his sleeping arrangement being completely uncomfortable. I told him how horrible it was. He denied and said it was great. I tried to move on to the next mattress, and maybe I did, but it was shortly after that that I woke up.

Oh.

That was my mattress I was sleeping on.


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Location:Beijing, China

Nearing the End

Today, having been given a whole day off from visiting my surgeon, I once again trekked across town (at the tail end of rush hour no less). I arrived late, but at least I was kind enough to let him know. Since he was in the ER, though, I think other people managed to keep him busy.

First off, he complimented my dress. Now, this evening was Parents' Night at school, so I was wearing one of my tailored dresses. And seeing as my surgeon is just the sort of highly-educated, Western-leaning, English-speaking professional Chinese parent that we target, getting a compliment was a particularly good thing. (On the flip side, it could just mean that I usually look like crap.)

Then, the bandage removal. Ooh, look how little pus is on the gauze. Granted, this was the outer gauze, not the inner gauze, but it was looking good. He also showed me the inner gauze, which did have more pus on it, but it was also a day and a half old.

Then, he looked in the wound and pronounced it clean. Surprisingly clean. (I must have a pretty good immune system, once it decides to start working.) So, we were moving on from the stent! But! He was going to have to wipe it out with Betadine. And that's when I saw wiping technique:

He takes forceps or a pair of scissors or some other pointy, metal object, wraps the end in gauze, and then dips that in the Betadine. Then, he runs this little tool along the inside of my abscess (yes, Gentle Reader, inside the hole in my leg). No wonder this part always hurts.

But then we were done! Three ladder strips to keep the edges together, some gauze, and then... Then! A waterproof Tegaderm sticky covering thing. Yes! I can shower again! (But it's not super waterproof, so I need to dry it immediately after showering and I am not allowed to take baths. I told him that I lived in China, of course I didn't have a bathtub. That got a laugh from him AND the nurse, and those ladies are nice but really don't have the language skills to keep up with my jokes.)

And then, he told me I didn't have to come back until Monday! Whoopee! Of course, I forget until after I left that I run out of antibiotics on Saturday and I don't know if he wants me to take more.

But from the way this thing has been itching all night, it's well on its way to healing. From intense pain to aggravating itch. Joy.

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Location:Beijing, China

Scrub-A-Dub-Dub

The major problem with not being able to take a shower (besides not being able to take a shower) is the "hair-washing problem".

In the States, if I couldn't take a shower, I could still stick my head under the tap in the tub. The tub was deep enough and while it might be uncomfortable, it could be done. Of course, I could also stick my head under the kitchen tap. There's a sprayer, so I could use that to get sour f the back of my head.

But here? No. No tub, and while I do have a kitchen sink, it's not that deep and it definitely does not have a sprayer.

On Sunday, while roaming around my apartment complex, I noticed there was a hair-dresser's. Around here, there is pretty much a small, neighborhood shop (or 12) for just about every service imaginable. I don't even have to go out on the main drag.

It took me a day to put two-and-two together, but I finally realized that my local hairdresser would probably be more than happy to wash my hair for me. Crap, women have probably been paying other people to wash their hair for centuries, especially when it was a lot harder to wash it yourself on a daily basis.

Yesterday, I went over after work. There was some slight confusion about whether I wanted a wash and a cut, or just a wash, but we worked it out. And then she washed my hair. Of course, being a good hairdresser, she followed the instructions on the bottle:

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

And, I got a nice head massage out of the deal. Although she did get a little forceful at the end... I probably could have done with a little less nail on the second washing.

I even got a blow dry out of the deal.

All for ¥15, or about $2.25. I might have to do that more often, just for the head massage.


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Location:Beijing, China

Walking Wounded

On Sunday, I headed back to the hospital for my dressing change. I sauntered into the ER (well, as well as you can saunter with a limp), and asked to see my good friend Dr. Li.

He came over and in we went along with one of the many kind nurses to a curtained room where I dropped my trousers so he could change the dressing.

But first, there was the poking. Does this hurt? No? How about this? No? This? Yes! This? Yes!! Which is worse, here or here? Ahhh! They both hurt, a lot! Then, he washed the area. Then he told me he was going to rinse it with an "antibiotic" and it might sting a little. A little? Ow! Ow! Ow!

He is sorry, but he has to. I know. And he has to remove the stent, too.
What?! He said "dressing", not "stent". Great, he's going to be pulling things out of my leg and putting them back in, and something tells me this is not going to be one of those Novocain visits.

Oh no, it is not. After "rinsing out" my abscess, he pulled out the stent. Oh, it's only five seconds. True, the sharp pain lasts five seconds, but the aftershocks remain. (I don't think he understood that analogy; his English is good, but he probably doesn't get much call for the geology vocabulary.) Remember, my wound is inflamed and very tender. It doesn't stop hurting just because you've stopped touching it.

After the removal, there is the reinsertion. Oh joy, oh rapture unforeseen. It pinches, in a, "I'm once again tense and screaming into the pillow" sort of way. And then it's over.

He shows me the pus that's leaked into my gauze pads. Cool, huh? I get new gauze and more tape (still no showers for this injured girl) and sent on my way with the directive to return the next day.

However, when I mention that one of my colleagues really wanted to see what it looked like, he was more than willing to take a picture. I should have just told him! He'd be happy to photograph my misery in pus. Who wouldn't?
Monday was much the same, although I must admit that there was less pain. When he poked around the edge of the wound, I did not scream in agony, I just groaned a little. He also skipped the "antibiotic" wash. He did, however, trim some "dead" skin along the edge (or something). I say "dead" because it hurt like a mother and I wondered why he hated me so much. Yes, I said that. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Why do you hate me so much?!?"

He did make me admit that it was less painful than the prior day, but I reminded him that he didn't use the... Stuff there. Ah yes. I could see him struggling for the name of the stinging liquid. "Hydrogen peroxide," I said.

"What? How did I know what that was?"

"Uh, it's standard in every good first-aid kit."

"Oh no. This is a very strong liquid."

Really? Then what do Chinese mother pour over the scrapes of little Chinese children when they trip and and fall and skin their knees?

But it does make me wonder why I call hydrogen peroxide an antiseptic and not an antibiotic. I think I'm going to have to look that up.

But, having impressed him (yet again), I forced him to agree that my wound was the highlight of his day. He was about ready to deny it because he's spent the entire time telling me that my abscess is tiny, boring, and nowhere near traumatic enough to make a surgeon happy. He did realize I was being sarcastic just at the right minute and he had the wherewithal to agree with me.

Smart man.

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Location:Beijing, China

Lancing, Part Deux

Towards the end of last week, things were starting to get better. By Thursday night, I was pretty sure the redness was going down, and by Friday night, I was positive. But, there was still a nasty wound leaking pus down my leg and it still hurt (just less).

I was still taking my antibiotics, and while I had long since eschewed the iodine that was being thrust upon me (iodine is actually pretty damaging to tissue and I didn't want to overdo it, no matter how much the Chinese doctors loved it). However, I was on my last tablet and was quickly burning through my bandages (I had even moved on to scratchy Chinese plasters).
So, on Saturday, I went in search of a surgeon.

While I went out to get some more cash for my impending taxi ride, I decided to be smart. Instead of heading off willy-nilly for the hospital, I would call and make an appointment with a general practitioner. I probably should have done that on Tuesday, but when I called the hospital, they sent me to dermatology. She should have had enough sense to refer me to a surgeon. Sure, I'm a bit more informed than your average joe, and I'm not afraid to use my brain, but I do readily admit that I have not attended medical school and I haven't been working in the field for years. I do rely on my doctors to tell me when I'm in the wrong place.

So, off I went. My GP was a nice, American man of Middle Eastern extraction. He was a very quiet, unflappable man. He did not rise to any of my quips or jokes — even when I told him that he wasn't rising to my jokes.

However, he was with it. He agreed that I needed a surgeon. He also ordered an ultrasound. And he didn't blink when I told him I was worried about a yeast infection. He was even seconds from writing me a prescription for Diflucan before he did the responsible thing and checked the drug interactions and saw that it can interact with the Levofloxacin and cause electrical problems in the heart.

Because he had removed my nasty, pus-filled bandage to get a look at the wound, he asked the nurses to clean it off and put on a new dressing. And, just as quickly as they reached for the iodine, he told them to skip the iodine and just use saline and some clean gauze — exactly what I would have done if only I had the resources and ability to turn completely around to reach said wound.

So, I checked in with the GP nurses to call on finding a surgeon. Oh, no. There are no surgeons in the hospital at 3:30 on a Saturday. They can see me on... Tuesday.

Yeah, that's not going to work. I told the surgery nurse as much and she was adamant that there was no one. In a hospital (not a doctor's office, not a clinic, a fully-functioning hospital with an ER and everything). Well, here's how I could tell I was really feeling better. I thanked her, hung up, told the GP nurses they couldn't see me until Tuesday, so I would go to the ER after I had the ultrasound. They agreed.

So, I went over to ultrasound. A nice young nurse took me I to the room, and then a rather heavy-handed older nurse thrust the paddle onto my still-aching wound to take the pictures. She, for one, was not concerned with my yelps of pain or tears.

And then, I took myself to the ER after some nice young nurses button-holed me in the hallway to make sure I knew where I was going. It was the United Family hospitality I had heard so much about.

But I had also heard they were all about ordering more and more tests to make you spend more money. They'd keep you overnight if they could.
So, imagine my surprise when I head down to the ER and a very nice ER nurse tells me hat not only do they have a junior surgeon on staff and in the building, but she'll call over to Family Medicine and get them to call him so I won't get double-charged for seeing and ER doc. Finally. Someone really out to help me, not only with my health but also with my pocketbook.

Of course, things are spread out between three buildings, so I walk back to the surgery unit in Building 2 and sit in another waiting room. Finally, after six days, I am staring at a surgeon.

Of course, he's Chinese, and I've already been through the "different cultures" spiel, but from the start he just looks like a good man. His face is open and expressive. He listens to my whole story. He even had the good sense to note just how "straight-forward" I am when I told him I made the dermatologist lance the infection AND do a culture. I think he might have even been a little impressed that I had not only demanded a culture, but that I knew the danger of MRSA (thanks B!). He even laughed at my jokes and cracked a couple of his own.

Then the "surgery" begins. It starts with the Novocain. Painful as shit shots of Novocain. There are tears and some screams (although not as bad as on Tuesday). Just when I think things are going to be OK, he tells me that now they have to numb the other side. What the!? I could have sworn he'd been the whole way around, but no. And the needle is going deep because I have a massive hole in my leg. Well, I think it's massive at 1cm x 2cm x 2cm, but the surgeon seems to think it's child's play.

First is the sound of squishing. In my mind, he is sucking out the pus with a plastic syringe, but I can't see, so I'm not positive. And then there's some washing and some rinsing with what I suspect is hydrogen peroxide from the sting and the sound of effervescence. And it hurts. He trims some dead skin from around the edge, which doesn't hurt at all thanks to the Novocain. Then there's a scraper. Yes, a long metal something that he's using to maybe break down the hard wall that's between the abscess and the rest of the healthy tissue. And that hurts, a lot. More screams and tears, so he finally relents. Finally, he inserts a stent so the wound can drain and stay open. We don't want the skin to heal over the start and start the whole damn process over agin, now do we?

Finally, he covered it all with gauze and some plastic sticky stuff and then he taped over that. I got the distinct impression that he didn't want the dressing to come off. He also told me that I can't get it wet, so no showers. And, I get to come back to see him everyday so he can change the dressing. I am not allowed to do it myself.

Then, we make a plan to meet at the ER on Sunday around 2 for a dressing change, and he sends me on my way with a handshake and a smile.
I hobble back to my humble abode, where I take one of my Percocet, prop up my leg on a pillow (to take the pressure off the abscess), and watch some much-deserved television.

The Wire. HBO — my one true love — never lets me down.

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Location:Beijing, China

I've Never Seen One of Those There Before

I walked away from the dermatologist with ointments and creams and medicine: I refuse the IV antibiotics crap. I keep with my nice, easy, once-a-day Levofloxacin tablets. I use the weird, brown "soften the tissue" cream once, but it's too difficult to make sure I'm only getting around the wound and impossible to do at school. I change the dressing often — three or four times a day. The wound is, of course, weeping pus. Which is totally gross, especially when it leaks through the bandage and starts running down my leg in the middle of class, but it's far better than keeping it in my body. This is one of those rare moments when pus is a good thing.

Many years ago, I was a waitress in a wonderful establishment, Elmo's Diner. It's a small, locally-owned chain (of two) diners that specialize in all-day breakfast and square meals with an emphasis on a regular clientele. As a server, I was encouraged to make a personal connection with my tables (within reason); the personal touch is part of what makes Elmo's great. I contend it's where I really learned how to flirt. Not nasty, dirty flirting, but building a positive connection with a stranger based on light jokes and a charming smile. (You have to tell me if I was a good student.)

It's been years (7? 8? 10?) since I've worked there, but it's still the first restaurant I visit whenever I'm in Durham (when I was there two summer ago, I ate at Elmo's at least once every day). And there are still some customers that I remember: Pet Fashion Woman and Her Husband, the Man Who Ordered the Big Salad, the Mother Who Said Her Asshole Son Respected Me. And then there was the Man with the Injured Knee.

As I walked up to his table, I heard, "Go on. Ask her."

"No way. I can't."

"Ask me what?"

It turns out, he had injured his knee and there was all this pus. He was emailing his friend to tell her about it. Her reply was, "I've never seen one of those there before." So, how do you spell that adjective that describes something covered with pus?

I thought it needed a dash. Pus-ie. Or maybe even pus-y. But definitely not pusie or pusy, and certainly not pussy. Nope. Not at all.

I have since decided it just can't be written. They all look funny and none of them sound like you'd say it. So, while I have been disgusting my colleagues with tales of pus in the adjective form, I won't tell you about it in that way.

No, for you, Gentle Reader, I will talk about the pus weeping from my wound, or leaking out of the cyst, or dripping down my leg. But I guarantee, for all the drama caused by my infection, I don't have one of those there.



P.S. One of my colleagues is totally enamored with my Tales of Pus. He's a middle school teacher (big surprise there), and a dude (another surprise) of the sporting kind (and again, surprise). He told me guys used to get infections all the time during football because they wouldn't wash their pads for weeks on end. He has been begging me to take pictures of the thing, and really wants video footage of the lancing. His wife is far less interested, but it's nice to have someone to listen attentively to my grossness. (That I love telling the tales is probably an indication of why I get along with guys so well.)

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Location:Beijing, China

The Lancing

By Tuesday morning, I realized that my stoicism was getting me nowhere.

I was in in absolute agony. Even talking about the lump on my leg was enough to bring tears to my eyes — and yet I had to talk about it. Like the pus in my leg itself, I needed to get it out of me or it would just fester. I disgusted some more of my colleagues before classes started and then stumbled my way through a homeroom, an 80-minute class, and a 50-minute assembly. Halfway through the assembly, I realized that even though I wasn't sitting down and putting pressure on the lump, the mere act of standing was causing me pain. I was distracted and found it impossible to focus, constantly shifting my feet and clenching my jaw.

Enough was the proverbial enough.

I sent an email to my administrator telling her what was up. I had developed a nasty infection, for two days I had been in excruciating pain (I believe I described myself as "a hair's breadth from tears"), and I needed to see a doctor. I had one afternoon class, and I would happily leave a sub plan, but I needed to go.

So go I did. I made an appointment with a dermatologist at what is the "best" hospital in Beijing. (By "best", I mean "most expensive". It is true that it is a bastion of Western medicine and English-speaking doctors, but it's not the only one in town. But it happens to have direct billing with my insurance company, so I was sold.)

Of course, the dermatologist was Chinese. As I explained my issue, I started crying. What can I say? I was at an 8 on the pain scale. (I think my 10 is after the bone graft in my chin. It hurt. A lot.) She freaked out. Oh no! There was a whitewoman crying in her office! She told me to stop crying. It didn't help. This was not "Don't cry over a silly boy" or "You can get a new pet goldfish." These were response-to-stimulus tears.

I told her I needed the thing lanced and I wanted it cultured to see if it was MRSA. Oh, but it takes 5-7 days for a culture! So... all the more reason I needed it done NOW. And, but, maybe only the central part is soft enough for a lancing. Maybe she can't get it all.

Lady. Do you see these tears? I don't give a flying rat's ass how much of the pus you can get out as long as you get some of it out and relieve the goddamned pressure!

OK, OK. She can do that. But she thinks that maybe my antibiotic pills aren't enough and I need IV antibiotics. What. Ever. Lance the bitch on my leg.

Obviously, part of the problem is cultural. Chinese medicine of the Western sort is madly in love with IVs. Why take five days of pills when you can take three days of an IV? Well, that might be true if you really don't have to be at your job in order to get paid. Maybe it's true if you want to relieve the monotony of your life by spending 1-2 hours in the clinic for each drip (at twice a day, that 2-4 hours of my life a day). And maybe it's true if it doesn't take at least two tries to get a line in. But it's not true if there are other things you'd rather do: teach, grocery shop, eat, sleep, maybe spend a few minutes on Facebook. It's further not true of you don't relish looking like a junkie. But I think the other part of the problem is just in the language. When Chinese speakers learn English, they end up doing a lot of direct translation. The problems is, politeness is Chinese comes across as indecision in English. They do not say, "Please do this." They say, "I think you should maybe do this." Which makes me say, "No, I think not."

Anyway, she does say that yes, she will give me a lancing, she just felt the need to harangue me about the IV medicine first (no she didn't actually say that second part, I figured it out). So we went into the treatment room (each room has a separate purpose instead of each patient getting their own multi-purpose room).

As I was removing my trousers and climbing onto the table, she felt the need to tell me that I should avoid fatty and spicy foods. Really, woman? You're pulling out TCM (traditional Chinese medicine) now? Not helpful. We are long past the time when TCM will help. So shut up and get out your scalpel.

Then, she gets what I can only imagine is a needle of Novocain (I imagine because I am lying on my stomach with my face buried in a pillow). She says she'll go slowly, but holy crap, it hurts like nothing else and I burst out into tears. Full-on, body-wracking sobs. So I get another round of "don't cries" which are just as useless (and thus, annoying). No one thinks to hand me a tissue, so I take a small amount of pleasure in wiping my snotty nose on their linens. Yes, they're covered with the waffle-weave throw-away sheets, but I know some of it has leaked through and they're going to have to send it all to the laundry.

And then she removes the needles and pokes me in a slightly different spot — with just as much pain. She seems surprised by my reaction, like it shouldn't hurt anymore. I know the Chinese think all Westerners are delicate flowers, but I think she seriously underestimated the level of my pain.

Finally, it seemed to not hurt quite as much anymore, although the tissue around the lump was so inflamed and angry, no amount of Novocain was going to dull the entire area. I assume she made some sort of cut, and then she started squeezing.

I had been half-joking when I likened it to squeezing a really big zit, but it turns out that's exactly what it's like. Exactly.

Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze. "Oh, but I am only getting clear fluid." I had no idea what that meant, and I was still wracked with sobs, so I said nothing. Then she said it again. I asked what that meant. Well, it meant that she wasn't getting the pus out since the cyst was too deep.

You know, she didn't want to cut too deeply so she wouldn't leave a scar. I told her I didn't care about a scar; she could cut as deeply as she needed to. Oh, well, actually, now that I mentioned it, she really wasn't equipped (or skilled enough?) to cut as deeply as she needed to.

Oh.

The next time, she thinks maybe I could go to a surgeon.

This is a testament to just how badly I was feeling, because while the thought, "Then why didn't you just send me to a surgeon? We're in a stinking hospital!" flitted through the back of my mind, I said nothing. I just kept crying I still have no idea if it was pride or idiocy that kept her from sending me to a surgeon in the first place. (But I think it would have saved me a few days of healing if she would have just 'fessed up at the beginning and sent me to a surgeon. It still rankles.)

But, back to the pus-letting. If the pus doesn't come out, then there won't be any relief for my pain. And I cannot continue the way I've been. So she keeps squeezing, and I guess something happens. She hits a vein, so to speak. The pus starts to come out. Maybe there is an additional incision or the pus sorta found its way out on its own (as sometimes happens with zits, too). But now we're in it to win it, so there's more squeezing going on.

And it goes on, and on, and on.

Remember, the area all around the actual infection is red and inflamed and sore. And that part didn't get any Novocain. So, there's still a whole lotta pain. The tears are subsiding, but I am still rather tense. It's becoming more manageable, however; either she is actually relieving some of the pressure in there or I'm just becoming numb. I do want her to stop, though, and she's not stopping. I think she needs to get all the pus out because you really don't want it hanging out in the body to become more infected, but this is ridiculous. Now I'm really annoyed that she didn't just send me to a surgeon in the first place.

Finally, she stops. They put on a Band-Aid (I think it might actually be brand name). She gives me a baggie full of these little iodine cotton swabs that will release the iodine into the tip when cut as well as some Tegaderm dressings. (I highly doubt they will be free.) she also gives me a prescription for some bacitracin ointment (I could get it locally for a lot cheaper, but that would involve finding a place that sells it and language barriers and and and — CVS and Walgreens or anything similar don't exist.) I also get some ointment that is supposed to soften up the hard tissue around the cyst so it can get lanced. But! I should put that around the wound, not on it. And change the dressing three times a day, swabbing it with iodine each time.

And away I go. I go up one floor to pay, where I see there is a surgery unit. Seriously? One floor up and she couldn't send me upstairs? God. Mother. Fucking. Damn. But I pay my 20% co-pay (¥500 or $75) and grab a cab home.

As we turn the corner, I see one of the Western grocery stores. Well... Crap. I could've bought some cheese. Oh well. Next time.

I head home and get in around 3:15. I take one of my Percocet. (Dermatologist woman didn't even offer pain meds; I knew there would be severe pain after the procedure, I'm not sure why she didn't figure that out.) I send an email to my administrator and department chair that I'm feeling a little better and plan on being at work the next day, and crash.

I sleep until about 7:00. Then I fumble around making some food (mashed potatoes, the ultimate of comfort food) and am back in bed, turning out the light at 9. I sleep all night long.

Being infected takes a lot out of girl.


- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China

Oh, Dear Lord, Not a Chinese Hospital

WARNING: This post discusses some icky medical procedures (but nothing to do with lady bits). Proceed with caution if you are a squeamer (one who tends towards being squeamish).

A few days ago I noticed some redness and swelling on my leg. Like a bug bite gone haywire. Or a zit, but one you can't pop. Oh, well. It will go away. Right?

No. It won't. In fact, it will get bigger and redder and be on the back of my leg where a) I can't really see just how bad it's gotten and b) it gets in the way of, oh, sitting.

After a few days of hemming and hawing (no one wants to travel an hour and spend a thousand+ kuai to see a doctor — but it's the weekend and I don't speak Chinese, knocking a lot of local Chinese hospitals out of the running), I decide it's time to suck it up and go to the ex-pat clinic.

Had I only done it three days sooner...

So, I now have a full-fledged skin infection. Whee! And there's this big, nasty, warm lump that hurts because it's all swollen and stuff. My thighs might be a bit on the thunder side, but the skin isn't supposed to stretch that far.

The nice British doctor gives me a prescription for antibiotics and tells me of the swelling doesn't go down in a couple of days, then I should go to the ER and have the thing lanced. (Like popping a REALLY big zit.)

The MD told me I could take paracetamol (acetaminophen) for the pain. I've found Brits tend to use paracetamol loosely — ibuprofen, paracetamol, tomato, tomahto. I have ibuprofen. We're good.

Off I go. I take my antibiotics and go to work this morning. And it hurts. Dear sweet baby Jesus, does it ever hurt. And I've read the drug facts: talk to your doctor before combining with an SAID (i.e., ibuprofen). Me and Google discover that the SAIDs have been known to react with the same class of drugs as the antibiotic I'm on and cause seizures (although not ibuprofen with this antibiotic specifically, and certainly not in all patients, but still). So no pain meds for this stalwart woman. I have a meeting a lunch so I don't even try to find paracetamol at lunch. (I am beginning to see all my mistakes... Are you?) By the end of a day of teaching, it's all I can do to not burst into tears.

I talk to a colleague, print put my forms, and decide I can't take it anymore. I'm taking myself to an ER to get this mother-f%*%#¥£%# lanced.

I go home. Drop off my bike. Pick up my insurance card. Do, in fact, burst into tears when the first two phone numbers I find don't work; one does not head off into the greater Beijing unknown with pre-planning. Head across town to the "International" (but still Chinese) hospital. And then...

I will say, the nurses and the doctor have pretty good English. Certainly far better than my Chinese (but that's not hard considering the state of my Chinese). Doctor says, "Oh yeah, that's bad, but I can't lance it yet." she says this while I have burst into tears from a day of pent-up pain. I guess because it's still a hard mass, all the icky won't come out, so you have to wait until it gets all soft and gooshy.

But maybe I have diabetes! Go have blood drawn and we'll check your blood sugar. Since I haven't eaten since lunch, it's pretty much fasting blood sugar which is what you want. Yay for me. And we'll count your "red" blood cells (Chinese have a hard time distinguishing between the words "red" and "white" as anyone who has tried to order a glass of red wine in a Chinese restaurant (in China) knows.

Well, my blood sugar is all nice and low where we want it (yay for me) and after half an hour we learn that I have an elevated white blood cell count. Well, duh. We know I have an infection, right? You've seen the massive lump on my leg! Right?

So, the doctor swabs me down with some iodine (and actually gives me the rest of the almost-empty bottle — try to get that in a U.S. hospital) and tells me it will soak into my skin as it dries. OK, cool beans.

But, the antibiotics I'm on aren't enough! You need IV antibiotics! Throw out those others and come back twice a day for three days!

Um. Exsqueeze me?

That is NOT going to happen. It took me about an hour/hour and a half to get here. And I have one of those J-O-Bs, you know?

Oh, we'll, she can give me a "certificate" (prescription) to take to my local hospital. But (sorry, girly bits being discussed) she can't give me a prescription for Diflucan in case I end up with a yeast infection after she doses me with all these antibiotics. Any normal person (OK, I added the normal, but it was implied) will not get a yeast infection from six measly doses of IV antibiotics. Lady, I don't know how they do in your country, but where I come from, the IV antibiotics are the big guns. They're the "You have a heart murmur and we're petrified you'll sue for malpractice if you end up with a heart infection after we slice your mouth open so we're going to kill every bit of bacteria in your body once and for all (even the good bacteria)." That was the first time I got a yeast infection, and I've gotten one with IV antibiotics ever since. So maybe my flora aren't as strong as they should be... they've been killed before. She was adamant, and I told her I hoped I didn't have to come back in three days and tell her, "I told you so." Yes, I actually said that.

Did I mention I hadn't had dinner yet? We're at about 8pm at this point.

At this point, there doesn't seem to be much I can do. Can you tell the doctor, "Bu yao"? If you can, you should probably be a lot healthier, more well-fed, and in less pain than I am. Do I tell her I don't want her stinking antibiotics. Does she know something my other doctor doesn't? Can I eat now?!?

So I go back down the hall to give a piece of paper to the nurse who sends me back to the cashier's window (where I've been two or three times before, although the only money I forked over was ¥5 for my ID card (with RFID chip)).

And this is when the next reality sinks in. They mean IV antibiotics, not just a shot in the arm. Not only does this take time, but I have horrible veins. Not as bad as some, but bad enough that I doubt I could ever be an IV drug user (if I were so inclined). Typically, the nurses need to get the doctor to start an IV after they've left track marks ups and down my arms. Even then, the doctors sometimes need two tries in my hands (of all painful places). And she wants me to do this six times?!?

But, I go to the pharmacy (limping all the way) where I am handed six baggies of IV drip (even though I'm only having one dose in this hospital). I go back to the nurses' station where I am led into a room (that at least has curtains and is currently empty). She wanders off to get the IV cart and I am left to peruse my medicine. I have my (free?) bottle of iodine, the aforementioned IV saline bags plus 10 bottles of something else that go in the IV bag (but are not the medicine as far as I can tell), some antibiotic ointment (to rub on said cyst after I let the iodine dry — four times a day, and some pain reliever.

Hmm. What's in the pain reliever? All the writing is in Chinese. I can find someone to translate it tomorrow, but why not see if the blister pack tells me something... No. Sometimes the paper insert has English. Ah, yes, here it is. Acetaminophen (good... no seizures) and oxycodone.

Wait. Back up.

She won't write me a prescription for Diflucan (flucanazole) because it's dangerous and I guess the ONE TABLET dosage is too much to trust me with. However, she will calmly (and without encouragement on my part) hand over TEN tablets of a schedule ii controlled substance that is addictive and a morphine derivative. I would have been happy with plain old paracetamol that I didn't have to go anywhere else to buy.

Granted, I was in tears in her office because my leg hurt so much. Do not underestimate the power of a white woman in (obviously legitimate) tears.

Then the nurse came in. I told her she probably wanted my right hand (I don't think anyone has been successful getting an IV in my left hand and rarely (if ever) in my arms). So she takes my left hand and sticks me fairly painlessly. She rooches around with the needle for a second and then turns on the tap, whereupon a bubble starts to form under the skin because she really wasn't in my vein. There goes the "Best IV Insertion" award for her.

Now she heads for my right hand, slaps me around a little, and tries again. This time it hurts more, but she finds the vein. (I decided to skip the "I told you so" with her because she seemed genuinely sorry that she messed up the first time.) Drip, drip, drip, and I am left to sit for 30 minutes.

I return to this very blog post you are now reading (or maybe gave up on half an hour ago). While typing, this is what I figured out.

I went to the emergency room because pain was so bad I couldn't wait the 2-3 days my first doctor told me to wait. Upon seeing the amount of pain I was in, the second doctor informed me that it was still too soon to lance my cyst and embarked on a whole slew of new tests (all of which involved me hobbling back and forth from room to room and sitting on chairs and increasing my pain level). After discovering I did still have the infection I only began treatment for yesterday, she changed my treatment to one that would be far, far more intrusive to my life. Then she gave me serious pain medicine. All of which took me two and a half hours (or so) in the hospital plus the hour and a half to arrive at said hospital. And without dinner.

She could have (go with me here) told me it was too soon to lance, given me the pain meds, and told me to continue the treatment I already had (which is not so radically different from hers — antibiotics or antibiotics), and come back in 2-3 days if it has gotten worse or squishy enough to lance. That would have been maybe an hour (even with the blood test to see if I developed this cyst because of diabetes).

I mean, I'm not a doctor, but...

When they finally told me I could go, they told me I didn't have to pay. (Wha-what?) Maybe they have direct-billing with my insurance company? (And I will say it was only about ¥450 compared to ¥1600 at the ex-pat place... which is a bargain unless you value your time.) My form wasn't even completely filled out because I don't know my bank's sort code and I have no idea what name they used because the school set it up for me. I could be Scott C or C Scott or Socff Crlinoline for all I know. But, actually, I owe them my 20% co-pay, not the other way around, so if then never find me...

And then, at 9:15 (after limping around the block because the south gate was closed), I found my way to the Restaurant Formerly Known as Outback (Seriously, Outback closed and someone bought the whole thing; the Bloomin' Onion is now a "Burst Onion" and the side salad is no longer part of an entrée, but it is otherwise exactly the same.) It was (fortunately for everyone involved, but mostly me) still serving food.

After dinner, I only had to wait about 10 minutes for a cabbie who wasn't a thieving asshole (but that's another post for another day), and at about 10:30, I was returned to my humble abode. I still have a bubble of liquid under the skin in my left hand, and my leg does still hurt, but I've taken one of my Percocet, and I no longer care quite so much.

And tomorrow is another day.

- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China

<3

I've been emailing some of my students from last year who have various questions and concerns about school, mostly about applying to college. I got this in response to one I sent to a girl asking for feedback on her personal statement:

Dear Scotty,
Yes, Mr. **** is really nice, but, I'm sure yuo are better.^_^
MUA,
...

Some days, this job sucks ass. And then some days, it totally rocks. Here's to the moments that rock.

- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China