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.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Location:Beijing, China
No comments:
Post a Comment