cheese with honey through the ear

That's what Trude said my doctor's report says.

Ever since coming here, I've had a certain terror of sometime needing to go to the doctor. This has been fueled by what I've seen when accompanying others to the doctor/visiting them in the hospital. Things I've seen: dogs and cats off the streets wandering the hallways of "nice" hospitals and clinics; patients slipping doctors money to ensure better treatment; catheters draining into used Coke bottles; poor lighting; general disrepair, questionable sanitation and lack of good equipment.

Weds, we left the bache to start a round of visits- the last before preps. That night, I had an 'incident'- really bad pain between my stomach and esophagus. Mrs Contact-lady where we were staying fed me warm tea and it subsided. (She also chatted away for about an hour while we waited for the thing to pass- and in the course of the visit informed me that it would be a lot easier for me to serve God if I were married...which I mention only because it's the first time I've heard that one and because I'm going to refer to it at the end.)

Thurs, more visits- really nice; but also another very frightening episode- pain so strong that it actually radiated out across my chest and made it hard to breathe. If I didn't have chronic stomach trouble, I probably would have panicked and thought I was having a heart attack. As it was, I was pretty scared. Called Sharon A, a nurse- they just happened to be visiting their doctor contact so she told me what to ask for at the pharmacy- and that calmed stuff down. Next am, I still have pain, esp when swallowing. We hit the road for more visits because I'm indecisive- what to do? T tracked down the # of a doctor up north whose wife and dau have been in touch for a few years and he has taken a personal interest in us. He's a big-shot in the area, which certainly doesn't hurt. His advice: the next city, get out and go see a dr there. I start a quiet panic but realize he's right. We get sent to Central Hospital, where they're all excited about having an Amer patient- I used to think we're no different than their reg patients, but I now know otherwise- I'm a wimp; they're not.

I get my own little 'Dobby-the-house-elf' to lead me around and she makes it her job to carry my 'medical records'- which are nothing more than half-sheets of paper with doctor scribbles on them. Doctor #1 actually makes me wait my turn- a good sign, in my mind- he's a good person. Dobby is a bit disappointed. Unfortunately, this means I have to stand outside the exam room and wait- which is a big room with 1 cot in the middle and about 6 or 8 chairs backed up to the walls with a stool in front of each. These are patient exam chairs- everyone is done in the same room by a team of doctors, the door's open and you can see and hear it all- which meant I got to watch some miserable pre-teen girl have something irrigated (sinuses, I reckon)- until I got smart (when I saw blood- that'll put me on the floor in no time flat) and quit watching. My turn comes- Dr #1 pokes and prods around my mouth and upper esophagus until he's satisfied that, indeed, the prob is further down- at one point he takes gauze and grabs my tongue, pulling it as hard as he could in order to see better. See, we used to do this to dogs at the vet clinic, after they'd been tranquilized, mind you- and just before we intubated them for surgery. He tells Dobby to take me to have either an x-ray or a scope done- whichever technician we can find- it's fairly "late" (2pm) and they've maybe gone home already- likely the xray doctor is who we'll find. So away we go. She nabs a doctor in the hallway (I've made up my mind that there will be no scope- I don't trust the hygiene and I want some sort of drug with mine; having sort of lived through DeAnn's upper GI procedure in Poland where they don't use anesthetic, I'm fairly certain they won't here either and I don't even want to think about that...) So, Dobby has caught me another Dr- in we go. He listens to my sad tale and reads the report from Dr #1, nods his head, hollers at his assistant to set up the machine. I get puzzled when they ask me where my towel is. Umm, I don't have one. For a full 2 min, it seems as though the whole thing will be abandoned for lack of a towel- they DO NOT HAVE a simple clean towel...not one. I remember that Trude and my backpack are in the waiting room and there's a towel in there- Dobby returns in a flash with my washcloth. Everything's happening really fast now- the assistant- who could be a linebacker for the Colts or the Pack...or both- has squirted something down my throat- which puzzles me- but here's Dobby with my wash cloth- I cuddle it- I'm just feeling really insecure by now- and they make me lie down on my side and tip my head up. I should have run. The next thing I see is Dr #2 with a long black snake looking thing and metal mouthpiece which I have to bite. Oh- and they made me put my washcloth under my mouth on the cot. Mind you, they've said nothing to me about what they're going to do, just tell me Do this, Do that...and being rather- rather what? I don't know- rather wimpy? Scared? Cowed? Whatever- I do it. And the next thing I know, I'm in the middle of an Upper GI scope procedure- and I'm truly panicking and flailing around. The Linebacker has me pinned down in such a way that I can't escape but I manage to move enough that they stop, spray more junk down my throat and go again- all of this was done in a very aggressive, very determined fashion and I'm in such a state that I can't do anything but make it worse. When it was finally over, they left and I sat on the cot with my knees under my chin, face in my hands sobbing and shaking and feeling like a complete fool and baby. I'd managed to throw up around the scope all over my washcloth and sweater. They gave me 2 min, then Linebacker said, Ok- you're fine, get up. So I did. And I had to collect my purse and washcloth and shoes and maneuver out of there and then pay the man and then follow Dobby back to the admitting room- T looks at me and I can tell I look bad by the look on her face. Dr #2 told me my esophagus was very inflamed about 20 cm down all the way to and into my upper stomach. I needed to go back to some other Dr who'd tell me what meds I needed. The admissions people had no idea who else I needed to see, no one could read Dr#2's writing; they instruct Dobby to take me back to Dr#1- who seems like an angel by now- maybe he can figure it out. After a hunt and a wait (during which I found a mirror and looked- interesting- the lower half of my face is totally broken out in what looks like hives- and in fact, it's only gotten marginally better- I said, must be either a reaction to the medicine or my total panic- T says, can't be the last or it'd always be that way- which brings a needed laugh)- here comes Dr #1- he takes me into the common Jr Dr office- and 3 of them try to figure out what the other Dr had written and to puzzle out what I should be taking as far as meds. They name one thing (Milk of Magnesia- which tastes really good to me just now- so I must have a problem- I hated that stuff as a kid) and then say Come back tomorrow for a barium xray and ultrasound and consultation. But in my mind, I'm thinking Nope, you've seen the last of me. They turn me over to Trude, we grab a cab and 20 min later are at the train station, T's bought tickets and is buying yogurt, bananas and whatever she can find. We flee. Literally. Phone Uncle D- who's been waiting to hear, by the way. So, in typical Uncle D fashion, he welcomes us to his city for as long as we need to stay. No asking Why didn't you see it through there? Just- come on up. I'm still sort of falling apart from time to time, so while T makes up our beds, she has me call everyone she can think of- all the cancelled plans people, Dima- where we'd made arrangements to stay should we miss the train, so that they won't worry anymore. And also Fred and Sally, since we'll be arriving at their apt at about 3.20 am. Well, hearing her Mom-voice (and then later F's Dad-voice) that undid me. Which brings me back to this: I don't need a husband to serve God- I just need some Moms and Dads- and that was promised and I have them- so I think I'm just fine, Thank You Very Much.

So- we've mostly calmed down again. I am well aware that part of my problem was definitely the fear I had going into it- but you know what? I seem to be hard-wired to panic...sometimes, it seems there's nothing I can do about it. Believe me, I would have preferred it otherwise- Be strong, take it like a real woman, blah blah blah...but that sort of seems out of reach for me. T said last night, Next time tell them you want that with Narcotics. (She meant to say "Narcoze"- which means anesthetic- but I think narcotics would certainly work.)

Called the big-shot doc up here this am- told him everything they'd said down south. I could hug him- he said: Unless you feel worse you don't need to see any more dr's; go get this med, take it for 10 days. What you have is no big deal, it'll pass and in 5 days' time you should be feeling a lot better. Shortly after that, Maria called- the weather's gorgeous, we're working outdoors- come spend the night with us please. So, here we are- at the grounds where the sun shines extra brightly and the kids are all home plus Tanya from down south, there's a kitten and fresh strawberries and life is great! T's recovering from taking care of me by running around barefoot outside taking pix and playing with the kitten.

Ps- not counting meds, the whole thing yest cost (ready? This is the only good thing about it): $18. Prices have sky-rocketed here the past year or so- but med care is still pretty cheap...and I can see why.