Three weeks before leaving for Ireland, I had eye surgery on both eyes. In the following weeks, I slowly recovered, finished the school year (mostly by having to depend on other people), packed up all my worldly possessions, and, on the same day that I left for 23 days of Ireland, I MOVED!! In hindsight, it is really not surprising that the trip did not have the most auspicious of beginnings . . .
My friend Linda (who's also the cousin of my Chinese teacher) wanted to take me out for dinner that last day and also wanted to drive me to the airport. Since that solved two potential stressors for me, I was overjoyed to accept. We had a wonderful meal during which I was privileged to eat beef tail soup for the first time (and in China, phrases like "beef tail" are always brutally honest translations). I actually really liked that soup! We got to the airport in plenty of time, and the flight from Qingdao to Beijing was smooth sailing. No problems at all. But, there was a very wise nagging sense of impending doom in the back of my mind. . . .
The troubles started in Beijing. The line for Etihad Airlines was the longest I have ever seen in a Chinese airport (to be fair, I have seen longer lines a few times in other countries). Apparently, half of Beijing was bound for Abu Dhabi -- or at least that's how it felt. I started to get a headache and a neck-ache while in line, but didn't think too much about it. I was more interested in whether or not customs would confiscate the bag of shrimp in my backpack (Linda had thought I might want a snack on the plane). Regrettably, as I would later learn, I had very foolishly packed all of the emergency medication in my suitcase, not my carryon. Oh stupid, stupid Stephanie!
As the plane from Beijing to Abu Dhabi took off, all you-know-what broke loose from my neck up. The headache accelerated into a massive migraine. My eyes, probably overstrained (I had only slept for about three hours in the past three days), started to feel tremendous pressure and excruciating pain. Cold-like symptoms kicked in about half an hour later, with a sore throat, runny nose, and rapidly stuffed sinuses that made my whole face hurt like a second migraine. And then my neck, not to be left out, started having spasms of pain that were almost beyond my already-strained tolerance level. Tears were streaming down my face for hours as I alternated between desperate prayers for relief and failed attempts to sleep. No doubt, it was the worst pain I have felt at one time since my stomach burn years ago. Even breathing hurt.
Although Etihad has fantastic in-flight meals, I could only force a few bites down. I did manage to drink some soda, hoping it would help. I even kept biting my finger, hard, hoping to divert some of the pain to another region (that does actually work for me sometimes). For six hours, then seven hours, I continued in this pitiful condition. I started to feel nauseated, so I got up for the bathroom, but someone else had apparently taken up semi-permanent residence inside. As the minutes ticked by on my watch, the nausea grew from just a hint to something serious. Desperate, I darted back to my seat to grab the barf-bag, then went back to desperately wait for the bathroom . . . And then started projectile vomiting, quite spectacularly, into the bag, IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE PLANE. Humiliation now added to my list of woes.
When we finally landed in Abu Dhabi, after arguably the worst flight of my life, I did a frenzied search of the airport shops and managed to locate a pharmacy. I bought some pain pills that claimed to be both maximum strength and fast-acting, then had a quick thought and snatched up some eye drops, too (I had my antibiotic drops, but I thought maybe some soothing moisture might comfort my eyes more). I bought a bottled water for an ungodly price and then found my gate, breathing thanks when I saw that it had reclining chairs. I dosed myself up and then curled into a limp fetal position on the nearest of these inviting chairs. The drugs started noticeably working their magic within about fifteen minutes, and soon I had fallen asleep.
A two-hour nap, followed by a meal of yogurt, mango, and coffee soon set me to rights. I took some more medicine to finish the job, and by the time I boarded my plane to Dublin, I was weak and a little shaky, but no longer in agonizing pain. I was able to both eat and sleep on that flight, and felt just fine when we reached Dublin.
Showing posts with label Why Do These Things Always Happen to Me?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Why Do These Things Always Happen to Me?. Show all posts
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Brutus
For about six days after my eye surgery, my stomach did its best to steal some of the attention back from my eyes. Oh yes, power nausea . . . and projectile vomiting. For six days, I was one fun lady (please be sure to admire the stellar sarcasm). And my roommate Debra, bless her heart, willingly held my hair out of my trajectory and emptied/cleaned my basins (I had a two-basin rotation going during the worst part of it).
On the second day after surgery, the vomiting was particularly powerful — so powerful, in fact, that one rather awful heave actually popped a stitch in my right eye. I will pause my narrative politely so that you may gag as needed. Yes, that eye was very picturesque after that, as Debra shudderingly informed me.
And that is how Brutus came into my life.
The popped stitch resulted in a long (about 1 cm) strand of suture coming free on one side but remaining anchored on the other. I know it's well anchored because twice now, at approximately 4 am, when all forms of behavior seem quite logical, I have grasped it with tweezers and attempted to gently yank it out of my eye. Fear not, I stopped when I felt resistance (I'm just as grossed out by eye stuff as the majority of you). And so, for three weeks now, this loose suture has taken up residence in my right eye. Since he has no immediate intention of leaving, I felt that naming him was appropriate. And no name was more imminently suited to him or our relationship than that of Brutus.
Imagine, if you will, the feeling of an eyelash stuck in your eye. Now imagine that the eyelash is made of steel wool and is bound to you with greater dedication than most Hollywood marriages. Yes, that is precisely my relationship with Brutus. He likes to do aerobics and yoga, being a rather spry fellow, so there is never a chance to get used to him in any position. Thus, my eye constantly itches, aches, and waters. Many nights, I am unable to sleep because there is nothing capable of distracting me from Brutus's late-night calisthenics. I get by with naps, but I really miss sleeping an entire night. Some nights, I don't fall asleep until 7:00 or 8:00 am. I methodically scan the eye in the mirror multiple times per day, assessing whether or not Brutus has loosened himself enough on the anchored end to get out the tweezers again. So far, he is remaining stubbornly fixated.
Et tu Brute?
On the second day after surgery, the vomiting was particularly powerful — so powerful, in fact, that one rather awful heave actually popped a stitch in my right eye. I will pause my narrative politely so that you may gag as needed. Yes, that eye was very picturesque after that, as Debra shudderingly informed me.
And that is how Brutus came into my life.
The popped stitch resulted in a long (about 1 cm) strand of suture coming free on one side but remaining anchored on the other. I know it's well anchored because twice now, at approximately 4 am, when all forms of behavior seem quite logical, I have grasped it with tweezers and attempted to gently yank it out of my eye. Fear not, I stopped when I felt resistance (I'm just as grossed out by eye stuff as the majority of you). And so, for three weeks now, this loose suture has taken up residence in my right eye. Since he has no immediate intention of leaving, I felt that naming him was appropriate. And no name was more imminently suited to him or our relationship than that of Brutus.
Imagine, if you will, the feeling of an eyelash stuck in your eye. Now imagine that the eyelash is made of steel wool and is bound to you with greater dedication than most Hollywood marriages. Yes, that is precisely my relationship with Brutus. He likes to do aerobics and yoga, being a rather spry fellow, so there is never a chance to get used to him in any position. Thus, my eye constantly itches, aches, and waters. Many nights, I am unable to sleep because there is nothing capable of distracting me from Brutus's late-night calisthenics. I get by with naps, but I really miss sleeping an entire night. Some nights, I don't fall asleep until 7:00 or 8:00 am. I methodically scan the eye in the mirror multiple times per day, assessing whether or not Brutus has loosened himself enough on the anchored end to get out the tweezers again. So far, he is remaining stubbornly fixated.
Et tu Brute?
Communist Infiltration of Our Precious Bodily Fluids
I think the general anesthetic had an odd reaction when it reached my brain during my operation, because for some reason it made me think about Dr. Strangelove. I don't know whether I dreamed about that film or whether the anesthetic coupled with the pain meds (no idea what they gave me, but it was goooood) awakened the part of my brain that obsessively remembers movie lines and plots. Either way, when I awakened with my leaky eyes, I kept giggling thinking of the poor general's obsessive fear of Communists gaining control of our precious bodily fluids . . . because here I was, in Communist China, rapidly losing my own precious bodily fluids!
I know, it was the meds talking. Not nearly as humorous now that they've long worn off.
So, how did the surgery go? Well, let me illustrate for you:
I arrived at the hospital to learn that I needed to retake the urine test because, and I quote, "something was wrong." (That something later proved to be nothing.) I was then told that my chest x-ray (in China you need a chest x-ray before eye surgery because . . . because . . . yep, I'm stumped, too) showed a serious problem. "You have a mass," the doctor informed me. "You will need to get a CT scan right after surgery."
Cancer. That's immediately where my brain leapt. I pondered whether or not to call off the surgery — after all, why operate on my eyes unnecessarily if I only had months to live? A mass, in my chest . . . lung cancer, I decided. From all that second-hand smoke in elevators and restaurants . . . curse you, smokers! It's not fair! I've never even so much as sampled a single cigarette and now here I am approaching my deathbed . . . common sense came back after a short jog around my brain. Best to hold off panicking until after the CT scan, I reasoned. And you might as well get those eyes fixed so that at least you can read in your remaining months, if you do happen to be dying. It was reasonable, so I took a deep breath and went in the room to be prepped for surgery.
Dr. Ai (her name, most appropriately, is pronounced "Dr. Eye") wanted my eyes thoroughly flushed. The method for accomplishing this was not, as I had expected, one of those sinks with the emergency eye flushing faucet like factories and laboratories have. Instead, the friendly, smiling nurse asked me to lay on my back, relax, and remain perfectly still while she stuck that needle in my tear duct?!?! I really wanted to be a good patient, the sort that nurses beam approvingly at, but in all honesty, who exactly in this world can actually relax while a needle goes into their tear duct? Any takers? I didn't think so. My tear ducts, apparently, bear much in common with Goldilocks: one needle was too big, another too small, and, in the end, no needle could be located that was just right. Maybe I have oddly shaped tear ducts, or perhaps the hospital just forgot to order my size. Regardless, I was relieved beyond belief when Dr. Ai showed up and said, "Let's just pour water into her eyes with this tube." Ah, yes, that I could stay calm and cool for. No problem (or mei wenti as we say in Chinese).
After the eye flushing, they sent me upstairs to my private room (my surgery was inpatient) to wait. "Think of some stories to tell me while we're doing the surgery," Dr. Ai told me as we parted ways temporarily. In a little less than an hour, the nurses and stretcher arrived for me and I was carted off downstairs to my fate. Personally, I would have preferred to walk, but I guess the nurses wanted some exercise. They wheeled me into the operating room, which was decidedly cold and reminded me, unpleasantly, of Dr. Mallard's morgue in NCIS. Since I knew I had lung cancer and was likely morgue-bound in the next few months anyways, I tried not to ponder that idea too much.
I know, it was the meds talking. Not nearly as humorous now that they've long worn off.
So, how did the surgery go? Well, let me illustrate for you:
I arrived at the hospital to learn that I needed to retake the urine test because, and I quote, "something was wrong." (That something later proved to be nothing.) I was then told that my chest x-ray (in China you need a chest x-ray before eye surgery because . . . because . . . yep, I'm stumped, too) showed a serious problem. "You have a mass," the doctor informed me. "You will need to get a CT scan right after surgery."
Cancer. That's immediately where my brain leapt. I pondered whether or not to call off the surgery — after all, why operate on my eyes unnecessarily if I only had months to live? A mass, in my chest . . . lung cancer, I decided. From all that second-hand smoke in elevators and restaurants . . . curse you, smokers! It's not fair! I've never even so much as sampled a single cigarette and now here I am approaching my deathbed . . . common sense came back after a short jog around my brain. Best to hold off panicking until after the CT scan, I reasoned. And you might as well get those eyes fixed so that at least you can read in your remaining months, if you do happen to be dying. It was reasonable, so I took a deep breath and went in the room to be prepped for surgery.
Dr. Ai (her name, most appropriately, is pronounced "Dr. Eye") wanted my eyes thoroughly flushed. The method for accomplishing this was not, as I had expected, one of those sinks with the emergency eye flushing faucet like factories and laboratories have. Instead, the friendly, smiling nurse asked me to lay on my back, relax, and remain perfectly still while she stuck that needle in my tear duct?!?! I really wanted to be a good patient, the sort that nurses beam approvingly at, but in all honesty, who exactly in this world can actually relax while a needle goes into their tear duct? Any takers? I didn't think so. My tear ducts, apparently, bear much in common with Goldilocks: one needle was too big, another too small, and, in the end, no needle could be located that was just right. Maybe I have oddly shaped tear ducts, or perhaps the hospital just forgot to order my size. Regardless, I was relieved beyond belief when Dr. Ai showed up and said, "Let's just pour water into her eyes with this tube." Ah, yes, that I could stay calm and cool for. No problem (or mei wenti as we say in Chinese).
After the eye flushing, they sent me upstairs to my private room (my surgery was inpatient) to wait. "Think of some stories to tell me while we're doing the surgery," Dr. Ai told me as we parted ways temporarily. In a little less than an hour, the nurses and stretcher arrived for me and I was carted off downstairs to my fate. Personally, I would have preferred to walk, but I guess the nurses wanted some exercise. They wheeled me into the operating room, which was decidedly cold and reminded me, unpleasantly, of Dr. Mallard's morgue in NCIS. Since I knew I had lung cancer and was likely morgue-bound in the next few months anyways, I tried not to ponder that idea too much.
 |
| On the bright side, he shares all sorts of fascinating trivia with his patients . . . |
Now, I should pause here to explain why I was still awake and alert at this point. The reasoning behind this was that, in order for the best possible chance of success in an operation that I only had about a 75% chance of success in, the doctor wanted me awake and alert enough to be able to tell her what I was seeing. This was to help her get the adjustments more accurate. Unfortunately for me, this also meant that I would have to be awake while both eyes were being cut . . . and I would need to be able to feel much of the pain. It was no easy choice, but I did opt to try for local anesthetic just to give my eyes a better chance at being fixed. I was more terrified of a future of only being able to use one eye than I was the pain of the operation . . . or so I thought, pre-surgery.
As I lay on the VERY narrow table, reflecting on the fact that it clearly was not built with a western body in mind, the nurses and Dr. Ai bustled about preparing for the Big Event. They set up instruments, sterilized my entire face, gently scolded me for touching my newly-sterilized face, and draped several coverings over my head so that eventually only the left eye was exposed. They offered to tie down my arms and legs, but I felt that I would be more comfortable untied. I tried not to think about my lungs, pitifully heaving against that encroaching tumor. I focused on the surgery instead . . . and then decided that it might be better to think about butterflies and mint milkshakes.
As I tried to think happy thoughts, I felt my arms begin to shake. Clearly, they were not listening to my brain telling them, in soothing terms, to relax and ponder Irish sunsets. My lungs felt heavy in my chest . . . probably that tumor weighing them down. I decided to think about how selfish and evil smokers are for polluting the air of innocent bystanders . . . and that's when that needle came into view. Yes, the one aimed DIRECTLY FOR MY EYEBALL!! "Don't look," Dr. Ai commanded. A reasonable request, which my eye had no intention whatsoever of following. An enemy is approaching! my dutiful left eye informed me loudly. Captain, enemy vessel in sight. Initiating closing procedure . . . Dr. Ai put the needle aside momentarily and captured my wayward eyelids in a most uncomfortable clamp that clearly was designed during the Spanish Inquisition. Captain, Captain, enemy vessel in sight again! Approaching rapidly — abort, abort! Closing procedure denied — Captain, whatever are we to do? My poor left eye screamed in terror as the needle plunged into the eyeball. My brain winced in sympathy, but then reminded me that chemo would definitely hurt a lot worse. With that comforting thought, I forced my forsaken left eye to abandon its post and focus on the wall rather than that other rapidly approaching sharp object . . .
Dr. Ai paused and asked if I felt that we should give up on local and switch to general anesthetic. She reminded me that there was an anesthesiologist standing by for that very purpose, if I should feel that the pain/fear/outright trauma was too much for me. "No, I want to try for local," I resolved. I could tell from her voice that my doctor was pleased. I tried to feel happy about that, but there just wasn't room in my brain for another emotion. Dr. Ai made pleasant small talk as the sharp object approached again . . . she reminded me not to look . . . my left eye feebly tried to warn us all about the encroaching danger before submitting to being redirected towards the wall again . . . and then the excruciating pain and pressure started and I knew quite certainly that my eyeball was being forcibly ejected from my skull. Traitor! my left eye whimpered as the pain overpowered it. I involuntarily cried out and shuddered.
"I don't think you can do this, Stephanie. I think we need to switch to general." Dr. Ai told me.
"Yes," came my strangled response as I fought the wave of nausea that accompanied the pain.
I drifted in and out of awareness as they prepped me for general; perhaps it was a result of pain coupled with far too much fear. I apologized over and over again for not being strong enough to handle the pain. Dr. Ai kept patiently reassuring me that it was fine; most people can't stay awake. I drifted in and out again. At one point, I thought that maybe I was awakening and the surgery was over. But then I heard the anesthesiologist informing me that he was about to give me the good stuff, and I knew that we had scarcely begun. Another flight of panic welled up within me as they inserted the oxygen tubes in my nose. I'm going to die on this operating table . . . right now . . . oh, Lord Jesus, into your hands I commit my spirit . . . I don't recall anything further after that frenzied prayer.
The next thing I knew, I was awakening, blind, in what I decided was probably the recovery room. The sound of a man somewhere within the room shrieking in agony confirmed my hypothesis. I was in quite a bit of pain, too, but I decided to just whimper quietly until the nurses gave him his morphine first. After all, even on my deathbed I'm polite. In a short while, the screaming man's voice petered off into something dazed and rather loopy, and I knew that he was well-dosed. A nurse came to me then and asked how I was feeling. "Hurts," I gasped out. And then, moments later, I felt the very nice sensation of whatever she put in my arm, and the pain was just a memory. I thought about asking to go home now that I was all better, but then I remembered that I was inpatient. After an hour or so, they finally carted me back to my private room.
And that's where I started thinking about Dr. Strangelove, as my eyes dripped something that I instinctively knew was bloody, and as I drooled slightly on the pillow. Hee hee, the Communists are getting my precious bodily fluids! my brain gleefully chortled. My eyes, having lost their sense of humor, ignored my brain, but the rest of my body enjoyed the joke. I continued to privately ponder my macabre little jests as I was slowly weaned off the heavy pain drugs (i.e. morphine) and onto the lighter sort. The next day, they carted me down and performed the CT scan. I tried to think positive thoughts. At least I've done a few good things with my time here on earth, I reassured myself. No matter what happens, I know that I tried in good conscience to do the right thing, to brighten my corner, and to serve God and others. I guess that's a pretty good legacy, even if I didn't get as much time as I had hoped.
In the early evening of the day after surgery, Dr. Ai uncovered my eyes and did an adjustment to the suture in the right one (because I had to be put to sleep, she had opted to put in an adjustable suture so that she could try to be more exact in getting the angle of my eye right). The time came to test my eyes:
"Stephanie, how is this Q-tip?" Dr. Ai asked me. "Can you see it clearly? Only one?"
My heart sunk deep into bleak despair. For, after all that suffering and all that fear and those three months of nearly constant migraines and worsening vision . . . the surgery had failed. My eyes were still seeing two Q-tips.
"Oh no," I told her. "I see TWO of them, STILL!!"
Dr. Ai cast a startled glance at her hand.
"Oh no," she laughed, "There are two!"
And then she shared the CT results with me: No mass at all, just swelling because I apparently had pneumonia a few times in the past year or so without knowing it. No cancer. But I probably should do better about going to the doctor the next time that I'm sick.
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| My eyes, about two weeks after surgery. Red, sore, and itchy, but only seeing ONE of everything! (Unless there are supposed to be two.) Surgery was a success! |
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
The Day Before
Well, tomorrow's the day. Tomorrow at 11:30 am, I go under the knife. Last night it was impossible to sleep; tonight will probably be the same. So many thoughts keep galavanting through my mind, all crowding into one another like over-stimulated aristocracy at a Regency-era cotillion (oh, thank goodness all this has not hindered my ability to make metaphors):
- Will my three months of nearly constant headaches come to an end (or at least lessen) tomorrow?
- How are my students going to do on their finals without me helping them prepare?
- Did I teach them well enough? Oh gosh, what if I didn't?
- What if I can't bear the pain and have to switch to general anesthetic during the operation? What if that means Dr. Ai can't do the adjustment correctly?
- How am I going to get dressed the morning after, when both eyes are bandaged up?
- How will I keep from going crazy having to sit out the last weeks of the school year in order to recuperate? Could I maybe go in and just stay on the first floor . . . . no, too many stairs just getting there.
- But what about the students who are leaving our school? I want to see them one last time!
- How much more help am I going to have to ask for?
- I hate asking for help! Argh, I don't want to keep burdening other people!
- I know it's going to hurt, I know it's going to hurt . . . how much?
- What if I accidentally move during surgery, right when she's cutting?
- Thank goodness Jane is coming to help me make it home; she's so comforting.
- Oh man, I am going to be blind at Beijing airport!!! How the heck is Jane going to get me through there?
- What if it doesn't work?
I know it's going to be fine; I know I will survive. I really am focusing on the 75% chance of success — I'm no gambler, but I do know those are good odds. I am still keeping my sense of humor, even when I've got worries tumbling around inside.
I thoroughly appreciate the fact that my flight out of Beijing Friday night is a red eye!
Saturday, May 18, 2013
The Eye Saga, Day Three Point Five: "I'm Not a Klutz After All — I Just Have Miserable Eyes!"
Today might be best summarized as a "whiplash day":
. . . And then we did the other tests. I completely and spectacularly failed the binocular vision and the 3D tests! This was something that had not been expected — I figured I wouldn't do great at those tests, but I never imagined my eyes were that bad. Also, my binocular and 3D vision is steadily getting worse (thus the lousy depth-perception). This means that a little more needs to be done during the surgery, making recovery a bit longer and the procedure more painful. I was startled by the results, but also a bit relieved in some ways: For so long now, I have felt like I must be stupid or inept to be so clumsy all the time, and I have been driven nearly mad trying to establish why I get so many headaches, migraines, and eye aches. I am relieved to at least have answers about all of that. It's truly amazing just how important your eyes really are!
After the initial meeting with the specialist, the afore-mentioned Dr. Ai, she said that surgery would be necessary on both eyes, as expected, and that this could be done on Thursday. She did some pre-surgery measurements and then patched over my left eye for some further tests she needed to do. I had to wait for about an hour and then return to her. So, I began to make plans to go ahead and return to Qingdao tonight, since I would not need to be back in Beijing until Thursday . . .
. . . And then we did the other tests. I completely and spectacularly failed the binocular vision and the 3D tests! This was something that had not been expected — I figured I wouldn't do great at those tests, but I never imagined my eyes were that bad. Also, my binocular and 3D vision is steadily getting worse (thus the lousy depth-perception). This means that a little more needs to be done during the surgery, making recovery a bit longer and the procedure more painful. I was startled by the results, but also a bit relieved in some ways: For so long now, I have felt like I must be stupid or inept to be so clumsy all the time, and I have been driven nearly mad trying to establish why I get so many headaches, migraines, and eye aches. I am relieved to at least have answers about all of that. It's truly amazing just how important your eyes really are!
Then Dr. Ai very gently dropped a bombshell: There is about a 25% chance that the surgery won't work - it's really hard, apparently, to fully correct issues like this in an adult. However, since there is still a decent chance of surgery fixing the problem, it's worth going through with. Basically, if it doesn't work, I will keep worsening until my vision is permanently double — I would then have to start using only one eye for the rest of my life. If I do nothing, it will definitely happen, so I have opted to take the 75% chance of saving my vision. I know that it is possibly to have a very meaningful and rewarding life without vision or with terrible vision, but I am going to take every possible chance not to have to experience that firsthand.
So, I will remain in Beijing until Friday of next week. On Tuesday, I will complete pre-surgery examinations and testing. On Thursday, Lord willing, I will have the operation on both eyes. Because I had a previous operation as a child on the easiest eye muscles, this time it will be on the two most difficult muscles of each eye, which is a little more complicated. Furthermore, in order to have the greatest possible chance of success, I need to be awake for it, so I have agreed to do local anesthetic instead of general. They need to be very certain with positioning my eyes and such. Dr. Ai explained that this means I will feel a lot of pain during the surgery. I will also need to stay in the hospital for one night.
The recovery will take a while — at least 2-3 weeks, and I will be quite uncomfortable during that time. Also, during that time, I cannot use computers or read — that part is going to be really tough. I need to be resting my eyes as much as possible. I cannot wear contacts again until my retinas are fully healed, which will be about 4-5 months after surgery. I will be more sensitive to light for a while and I have to be careful about the possibility of infection. I will likely have red "rabbit eyes" for about 4 months as well! That should come in handy for scaring my new students next school year . . . (^_^)
Obviously I am a bit scared about the surgery, especially since I know it will be very painful. I am trying not to think about the possibility of it not succeeding, since that is not helpful. I do have the comfort of a very good doctor — I took an immediate liking to Dr. Ai. She is very intelligent, kind, compassionate, and just has a great way of being both reassuring and factual. Also, the hospital where I am having the procedure done is, quite honestly, the nicest hospital I have ever in my life seen. So, on the whole, I am in a reasonably okay state mentally/emotionally. I am just going to take this whole business one day at a time and stay focused on the positives.
As the Andrews Sisters memorably sang, "You've gotta ac-cent-u-ate the positive, e-lim-i-nate the negative, latch on to the a-firm-a-rive, don't mess with Mr. In-Between."
The Eye Saga, Days Two and Three: Frankly, Boredom Is a Nice Change
Despite not leaving a forwarding address, my birthday still had no trouble locating me here in Beijing. Yup, today starts my last year of my twenties . . . I'm not sure how I feel about that, to be honest. Part of me feels like I'm already 40, but then there's also a part of me that is frolicsome and young and bears absolutely no resemblance to the slightly frumpy ole gal I'm starting to get glimpses of in the mirror each morning.
I was, admittedly, initially rather sad about the prospect of spending my birthday alone in Beijing with an impending surgery dangling its black crepe over the day. I live in an environment where it is pretty easy to feel or be forgotten, so that mixed with the general migraine-created gloom that had descended over my life for the past few months. I quite frankly was all set to skip this birthday entirely because it just didn't feel like a day worth remembering after the past few months that I've had. But, thankfully, my natural self is starting to return little by little (especially now with a cure in sight . . . pun unintentional), and I actually feel pretty good today. I'm not entirely alone, either. I was awakened by a text message from one of my two dearest friends here wishing me a happy birthday, and by the time I had blearily texted back a reply, my other dearest friend texted me. It was a nice way to wake up. And then, at noon, I'll be joining my new friend Diana for lunch before we head off to my appointment with an eye specialist (whose name, appropriately, is pronounced Dr. "Eye" — although it's actually spelled Dr. Ai).
Yesterday's appointment went well. I saw a Dr. Xi who was friendly and quite competent — I liked her immediately and felt like she took my problems seriously. She agreed with the previous diagnoses, but wanted me to see the strabismus specialist before actually having the surgery (I like the whole "measure twice, cut once" philosophy when applied to my eyes or other body parts). I do not have glaucoma, which is a HUGE relief. I do have something a little off about my left retina, but it's nothing worrisome.
After the appointment, I spent some time with my friend Kathryn, who had come to Beijing to join me for a day, and then from 1:00 on, I was on my own. I elected to stay in the hotel room and do absolutely nothing, since my eyes were really bothering me (particularly after some of the eye tests I had to do). One Beijing is bustling enough — when you see the whole thing in double, it's beyond overwhelming. It wound up being a very dull evening, but I honestly appreciated having a boring night. I dealt with necessary correspondence, listened-rather-than-watched to some television programs, and decided that impending surgery justified eating some of the birthday cake Oreos that my roommate bought for me before I left Qingdao.
After the meeting with the specialist in just a few hours, I should finally have a surgery date and know exactly what is about to be done to me. And then I'll have another pleasantly boring evening, I hope.
I was, admittedly, initially rather sad about the prospect of spending my birthday alone in Beijing with an impending surgery dangling its black crepe over the day. I live in an environment where it is pretty easy to feel or be forgotten, so that mixed with the general migraine-created gloom that had descended over my life for the past few months. I quite frankly was all set to skip this birthday entirely because it just didn't feel like a day worth remembering after the past few months that I've had. But, thankfully, my natural self is starting to return little by little (especially now with a cure in sight . . . pun unintentional), and I actually feel pretty good today. I'm not entirely alone, either. I was awakened by a text message from one of my two dearest friends here wishing me a happy birthday, and by the time I had blearily texted back a reply, my other dearest friend texted me. It was a nice way to wake up. And then, at noon, I'll be joining my new friend Diana for lunch before we head off to my appointment with an eye specialist (whose name, appropriately, is pronounced Dr. "Eye" — although it's actually spelled Dr. Ai).
Yesterday's appointment went well. I saw a Dr. Xi who was friendly and quite competent — I liked her immediately and felt like she took my problems seriously. She agreed with the previous diagnoses, but wanted me to see the strabismus specialist before actually having the surgery (I like the whole "measure twice, cut once" philosophy when applied to my eyes or other body parts). I do not have glaucoma, which is a HUGE relief. I do have something a little off about my left retina, but it's nothing worrisome.
After the appointment, I spent some time with my friend Kathryn, who had come to Beijing to join me for a day, and then from 1:00 on, I was on my own. I elected to stay in the hotel room and do absolutely nothing, since my eyes were really bothering me (particularly after some of the eye tests I had to do). One Beijing is bustling enough — when you see the whole thing in double, it's beyond overwhelming. It wound up being a very dull evening, but I honestly appreciated having a boring night. I dealt with necessary correspondence, listened-rather-than-watched to some television programs, and decided that impending surgery justified eating some of the birthday cake Oreos that my roommate bought for me before I left Qingdao.
After the meeting with the specialist in just a few hours, I should finally have a surgery date and know exactly what is about to be done to me. And then I'll have another pleasantly boring evening, I hope.
Friday, May 17, 2013
The Eye Saga, Day One: "A Hospital by Any Other Name . . ."
As people may or may not know, over the past 2-3 months I have had a troubling increase in my migraines (actually, there has been a general increase ever since the May 2011 car accident, but the past few months have been surging out of control). It reached the point where I truly felt like I was a poor, battered little rowboat adrift in an endless typhoon of migraines. I eventually concluded that I must have a brain tumor and perhaps only weeks to live (migraines tend to stifle logic). So, I reluctantly trudged to the local international clinic at the hospital, where I was subjected to more tests than my body has seen in years: MRI, blood work, you name it. All came back normal or at least un-worrisome. Finally, in desperation, I thought about having my eyes checked.
Previously, I had always assumed that such issues as double-vision, severe eye pain, and other vision problems were merely symptoms related to the migraines — it had not occurred to me that these might, in fact, be the triggers. Since the conditions with my eyes were getting worse even in the rare moments when I did not have a headache or migraine, it seemed that an examination was in order. As the initial eye visit and a visit to the local eye hospital concluded, this was in fact the case. Furthermore, both doctors said that surgery was necessary, along with further testing. They were positive that I had strabismus (a condition that causes double-vision), but also concerned that I may additionally have glaucoma.
And so, "hi-ho, hi-ho, to Beijing I must go . . . " I took time off from school and scheduled an appointment at an excellent hospital up in Beijing. I booked a hotel. I booked a flight. With my magnetic attraction for trouble and disaster, what followed was perhaps quite inevitable:
The Trouble with Visually-Impaired People Booking Flights
The night before I left — around 11:00 pm to be precise — I wisely remembered to double-check my plane ticket to determine the exact time that I would need to leave home. As I soon learned, it is perhaps not the wisest course of action for a person struggling with vision issues to book her own flights. Yep, the flight that I thought left at 9:30 am was actually a 9:30 pm flight! Panic! Forehead smacking! Lamentations! I rushed online to change the ticket and learned another important lesson: Orbitz sucks. Sure, they may have great prices and convenience when initially booking, but the minute you try to change a flight . . . grief. It could not be done online, the phone number that Orbitz provided for overseas customers did not work, and finally my only recourse was to call my father in America over a deplorable Skype connection and beg him to call Orbitz on my behalf. I emailed him all of the details and finally, at just past midnight, the flight had successfully been changed. Whew!
On the plane to Beijing, I enjoyed perusing two complimentary newspapers. After fully digesting all of the highly amusing heavily-biased articles (I do love Chinese newspapers), for lack of anything further to read, I happened upon the page where horoscopes are listed. Now, of course, I never read or regard such idiocy . . . but maybe I should have just this once. Mine read, "When things start to get tense today, don't lose your head. Make sure that you're keeping a cool mind. Patiently arrange everything and handle those tasks one by one. You are going to make it!" (I recall thinking at the time, "Sheesh, good thing I don't believe in omens!")
I got in and found my hotel with a delightful lack of trouble. I relaxed briefly, then asked the hotel concierge, in Chinese, which bus to take to the hospital from the hotel. She cheerfully informed me that it was actually within short walking distance and gave me directions. I was perhaps a bit too prideful at completely understanding the entire conversation . . .
A City Tour of Beijing's Hospital Industry
Indeed, a short walk away and exactly as directed, there was a hospital . . . but it looked too small and the name wasn't quite right. Since my Chinese friends have graciously overloaded me with phone numbers of complete strangers to ring in case of trouble, I texted one lady whom I had at least met once before to ask what the characters were for the hospital I was supposed to go to. She texted back, "协和医院". Nope, that definitely did not match the name on the sign. So, I walked a bit further, found nothing, and decided to ask for further directions. I was still about an hour early since I had not wanted to run the risk of being late. The nurses at the front desk of the wrong hospital were quite friendly and immediately told me that I needed to take a taxi. Although catching a taxi in Beijing is much like snipe-hunting at times, I actually got one rather quickly. He understood my accent and cheerfully headed off to the hospital with me.
It was a long drive. Too long. People had told me to book that particular hotel because of its convenient proximity to the hospital. Now, granted, convenience is often largely in the eye of the beholder . . . but I cannot think of any definition in which a 40-minute drive across gridlocked Beijing is considered "so convenient!". I began to worry that perhaps the driver thought that I was out sightseeing and had requested transportation to the Summer Palace or some such location. Was my accent that bad? Quite possibly, I told myself. To test this theory, I oh-so-casually struck up a conversation with the driver about the quality of hospitals in Beijing. Was this a good one? Oh yes, quite famous, he reassured me. Ah, good. So we were headed for the hospital after all . . . but still a nagging doubt persisted. Convenient distance? Really? Something was off . . .
We got to a ginormous conglomeration of buildings with the correct characters (协和医院) on the front of one of them. It was a bustling, crowded, not-terribly-clean place with an overlying aura of hopelessness and a lot of people in lab-coats rushing about. There did not seem to be any way to enter the buildings, as every single likely door was labeled “出口" (exit). I glanced at my phone — only 20 minutes until the appointment, and they had asked me to arrive 30 minutes early to handle registration paperwork. I quickened my step and beseeched the first non-harried-looking lab-coat wearer, in my best slightly-stressed Chinese, to please tell me where I could locate the eye clinic. He pointed abstractedly to the left and muttered something unintelligible. I sprinted in that direction, located another exit, and hailed another lab-coat wearer. This lady smiled encouragingly, pointed back to the direction from which I had come, and told me to go to the third floor. I was still outdoors at this point, so the mention of a third floor was not as helpful as the mention of where an entrance existed would have been. The next four wearers of white lab-coats directed me to four additional directions. It seemed that this was a hospital from which patients leave, in droves, but seldom actually enter. Was it like the Ministry of Magic with a phone booth or toilet entrance? I noticed, with no small amount of concern, that I was now exactly on time for my 2:30 appointment.
Fighting back some inopportune tears of frustration and also fighting to convince my eyes to see only one hospital instead of two, I battled my way through a crowd of people who seemed equally baffled by this entrance-less fortress. My eyes alighted on a sign that bore glorious English words. Once I managed to focus my eyes better, I saw that the sign said "International Clinic" with an arrow pointing towards a direction that none of the lab-coat wearers had sent me toward. I raced into a quite forlorn entryway (Huzzah! An entrance! Who cares if it isn't a pretty one!), found a bored security guard, and begged him to direct me to the eye clinic that, frankly, I had begun to doubt the existence of. Furthermore, I was growing increasingly uneasy that this might not be the correct hospital, despite the characters on my cellphone matching those on the front of the (I assume) main building. The guard directed me to the third floor . . . oh, so the first lab-coat wearer was partially correct — just a bit geographically challenged. I was now definitely late for my appointment, so I charged up the stairs with all the vigor of Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill.
Ah ha! I spied other people with non-Chinese faces. Foreigners! Yes, this was indeed an international clinic . . . crowded, old, quite dank, but unmistakably a place where a foreigner might seek aid. I wasn't so sure that I wanted my eyes being operated on in this place, but it seemed preferable to limitless migraines. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. After all, appearances can be deceiving. Some of the best-tasting Chinese food bears a troublesome resemblance to a bowel movement, after all. I could be brave and seek treatment here. I took a deep breath and sought out the nearest nurse. She didn't seem terribly fond of humans, but she did direct me to a different dank hallway when I asked about the eye clinic . . . sadly, there was no eye clinic down that hallway. I did find a urology room, but felt it wouldn't quite suffice as a substitute. Timidly I returned to Nurse Frightengale, who sternly directed me back down that same hallway.
I found a nurses' station and asked another nurse about the eye clinic. By this time, the eye clinic was beginning to resemble Xanadu in my mind — a mythical and lovely land that cannot be found. I was, by now, about 15 minutes late. This nurse smiled and reassured tearful me that this was the right place . . . but she had never heard of the doctor I was supposed to be seeing. "Isn't this 协和医院?!" I semi-shrieked. The nurse nodded. Something was very, very wrong.
I called the hospital (the one I had made the appointment with) and asked them, as, in retrospect, I should have from the beginning, what the name was in Chinese. "和睦家," the very friendly and perky operator helpfully informed me. "和睦家?!?!? I'm at 协和医院!" I gasped. "Oh, that is very far away," the operator sympathetically clucked. "You definitely will not be able to see the doctor today."
The Comfort of a Semi-Stranger
I walked about, blinded by tears, as I struggled to track down a taxi. A bus nearly ran me down, followed by a car and then a motorcycle. I felt very alone and utterly despondent. I would never make it to the hospital. I would not be able to get the surgery in a timely fashion. I may have weeks of waiting ahead of me . . . 3:30, and I was still semi-blindly struggling along, hopelessly lost and taxi-less. And then, my friend's friend texted me. I texted back a terse reply about seeking out a taxi after going to the wrong hospital and she immediately called me. After a confusing interlude of walking and scanning crowds for a Chinese face that I had only seen once before (and briefly at that), we amazingly were able to find one another. I felt a bit like Stanley located Dr. Livingstone at last, minus the cannibals.
Diana (her English name) was deeply apologetic over the mix-up and immediately made me a fresh appointment for the next morning. She sat me down in a KFC and held my hand while I poured out, in a mixture of English and Chinese, the tale of my tragic day. She led me by the arm back out to the street where she located an elusive Beijing taxi. She then located the correct hospital (just down the street in the opposite direction from the first one that I had walked to . . . about ten minutes' walk from my hotel). Diana saw me safely to the door of my hotel and then left, with a promise to accompany me the following morning.
I love my new friend Diana.
Previously, I had always assumed that such issues as double-vision, severe eye pain, and other vision problems were merely symptoms related to the migraines — it had not occurred to me that these might, in fact, be the triggers. Since the conditions with my eyes were getting worse even in the rare moments when I did not have a headache or migraine, it seemed that an examination was in order. As the initial eye visit and a visit to the local eye hospital concluded, this was in fact the case. Furthermore, both doctors said that surgery was necessary, along with further testing. They were positive that I had strabismus (a condition that causes double-vision), but also concerned that I may additionally have glaucoma.
And so, "hi-ho, hi-ho, to Beijing I must go . . . " I took time off from school and scheduled an appointment at an excellent hospital up in Beijing. I booked a hotel. I booked a flight. With my magnetic attraction for trouble and disaster, what followed was perhaps quite inevitable:
The Trouble with Visually-Impaired People Booking Flights
The night before I left — around 11:00 pm to be precise — I wisely remembered to double-check my plane ticket to determine the exact time that I would need to leave home. As I soon learned, it is perhaps not the wisest course of action for a person struggling with vision issues to book her own flights. Yep, the flight that I thought left at 9:30 am was actually a 9:30 pm flight! Panic! Forehead smacking! Lamentations! I rushed online to change the ticket and learned another important lesson: Orbitz sucks. Sure, they may have great prices and convenience when initially booking, but the minute you try to change a flight . . . grief. It could not be done online, the phone number that Orbitz provided for overseas customers did not work, and finally my only recourse was to call my father in America over a deplorable Skype connection and beg him to call Orbitz on my behalf. I emailed him all of the details and finally, at just past midnight, the flight had successfully been changed. Whew!
On the plane to Beijing, I enjoyed perusing two complimentary newspapers. After fully digesting all of the highly amusing heavily-biased articles (I do love Chinese newspapers), for lack of anything further to read, I happened upon the page where horoscopes are listed. Now, of course, I never read or regard such idiocy . . . but maybe I should have just this once. Mine read, "When things start to get tense today, don't lose your head. Make sure that you're keeping a cool mind. Patiently arrange everything and handle those tasks one by one. You are going to make it!" (I recall thinking at the time, "Sheesh, good thing I don't believe in omens!")
I got in and found my hotel with a delightful lack of trouble. I relaxed briefly, then asked the hotel concierge, in Chinese, which bus to take to the hospital from the hotel. She cheerfully informed me that it was actually within short walking distance and gave me directions. I was perhaps a bit too prideful at completely understanding the entire conversation . . .
A City Tour of Beijing's Hospital Industry
Indeed, a short walk away and exactly as directed, there was a hospital . . . but it looked too small and the name wasn't quite right. Since my Chinese friends have graciously overloaded me with phone numbers of complete strangers to ring in case of trouble, I texted one lady whom I had at least met once before to ask what the characters were for the hospital I was supposed to go to. She texted back, "协和医院". Nope, that definitely did not match the name on the sign. So, I walked a bit further, found nothing, and decided to ask for further directions. I was still about an hour early since I had not wanted to run the risk of being late. The nurses at the front desk of the wrong hospital were quite friendly and immediately told me that I needed to take a taxi. Although catching a taxi in Beijing is much like snipe-hunting at times, I actually got one rather quickly. He understood my accent and cheerfully headed off to the hospital with me.
It was a long drive. Too long. People had told me to book that particular hotel because of its convenient proximity to the hospital. Now, granted, convenience is often largely in the eye of the beholder . . . but I cannot think of any definition in which a 40-minute drive across gridlocked Beijing is considered "so convenient!". I began to worry that perhaps the driver thought that I was out sightseeing and had requested transportation to the Summer Palace or some such location. Was my accent that bad? Quite possibly, I told myself. To test this theory, I oh-so-casually struck up a conversation with the driver about the quality of hospitals in Beijing. Was this a good one? Oh yes, quite famous, he reassured me. Ah, good. So we were headed for the hospital after all . . . but still a nagging doubt persisted. Convenient distance? Really? Something was off . . .
We got to a ginormous conglomeration of buildings with the correct characters (协和医院) on the front of one of them. It was a bustling, crowded, not-terribly-clean place with an overlying aura of hopelessness and a lot of people in lab-coats rushing about. There did not seem to be any way to enter the buildings, as every single likely door was labeled “出口" (exit). I glanced at my phone — only 20 minutes until the appointment, and they had asked me to arrive 30 minutes early to handle registration paperwork. I quickened my step and beseeched the first non-harried-looking lab-coat wearer, in my best slightly-stressed Chinese, to please tell me where I could locate the eye clinic. He pointed abstractedly to the left and muttered something unintelligible. I sprinted in that direction, located another exit, and hailed another lab-coat wearer. This lady smiled encouragingly, pointed back to the direction from which I had come, and told me to go to the third floor. I was still outdoors at this point, so the mention of a third floor was not as helpful as the mention of where an entrance existed would have been. The next four wearers of white lab-coats directed me to four additional directions. It seemed that this was a hospital from which patients leave, in droves, but seldom actually enter. Was it like the Ministry of Magic with a phone booth or toilet entrance? I noticed, with no small amount of concern, that I was now exactly on time for my 2:30 appointment.
Fighting back some inopportune tears of frustration and also fighting to convince my eyes to see only one hospital instead of two, I battled my way through a crowd of people who seemed equally baffled by this entrance-less fortress. My eyes alighted on a sign that bore glorious English words. Once I managed to focus my eyes better, I saw that the sign said "International Clinic" with an arrow pointing towards a direction that none of the lab-coat wearers had sent me toward. I raced into a quite forlorn entryway (Huzzah! An entrance! Who cares if it isn't a pretty one!), found a bored security guard, and begged him to direct me to the eye clinic that, frankly, I had begun to doubt the existence of. Furthermore, I was growing increasingly uneasy that this might not be the correct hospital, despite the characters on my cellphone matching those on the front of the (I assume) main building. The guard directed me to the third floor . . . oh, so the first lab-coat wearer was partially correct — just a bit geographically challenged. I was now definitely late for my appointment, so I charged up the stairs with all the vigor of Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill.
Ah ha! I spied other people with non-Chinese faces. Foreigners! Yes, this was indeed an international clinic . . . crowded, old, quite dank, but unmistakably a place where a foreigner might seek aid. I wasn't so sure that I wanted my eyes being operated on in this place, but it seemed preferable to limitless migraines. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. After all, appearances can be deceiving. Some of the best-tasting Chinese food bears a troublesome resemblance to a bowel movement, after all. I could be brave and seek treatment here. I took a deep breath and sought out the nearest nurse. She didn't seem terribly fond of humans, but she did direct me to a different dank hallway when I asked about the eye clinic . . . sadly, there was no eye clinic down that hallway. I did find a urology room, but felt it wouldn't quite suffice as a substitute. Timidly I returned to Nurse Frightengale, who sternly directed me back down that same hallway.
I found a nurses' station and asked another nurse about the eye clinic. By this time, the eye clinic was beginning to resemble Xanadu in my mind — a mythical and lovely land that cannot be found. I was, by now, about 15 minutes late. This nurse smiled and reassured tearful me that this was the right place . . . but she had never heard of the doctor I was supposed to be seeing. "Isn't this 协和医院?!" I semi-shrieked. The nurse nodded. Something was very, very wrong.
I called the hospital (the one I had made the appointment with) and asked them, as, in retrospect, I should have from the beginning, what the name was in Chinese. "和睦家," the very friendly and perky operator helpfully informed me. "和睦家?!?!? I'm at 协和医院!" I gasped. "Oh, that is very far away," the operator sympathetically clucked. "You definitely will not be able to see the doctor today."
The Comfort of a Semi-Stranger
I walked about, blinded by tears, as I struggled to track down a taxi. A bus nearly ran me down, followed by a car and then a motorcycle. I felt very alone and utterly despondent. I would never make it to the hospital. I would not be able to get the surgery in a timely fashion. I may have weeks of waiting ahead of me . . . 3:30, and I was still semi-blindly struggling along, hopelessly lost and taxi-less. And then, my friend's friend texted me. I texted back a terse reply about seeking out a taxi after going to the wrong hospital and she immediately called me. After a confusing interlude of walking and scanning crowds for a Chinese face that I had only seen once before (and briefly at that), we amazingly were able to find one another. I felt a bit like Stanley located Dr. Livingstone at last, minus the cannibals.
Diana (her English name) was deeply apologetic over the mix-up and immediately made me a fresh appointment for the next morning. She sat me down in a KFC and held my hand while I poured out, in a mixture of English and Chinese, the tale of my tragic day. She led me by the arm back out to the street where she located an elusive Beijing taxi. She then located the correct hospital (just down the street in the opposite direction from the first one that I had walked to . . . about ten minutes' walk from my hotel). Diana saw me safely to the door of my hotel and then left, with a promise to accompany me the following morning.
I love my new friend Diana.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
It Works by Scaring the Migraine away . . .
I spent most of the weekend with a migraine, just taking a bit of time out for a Sunday school lesson that did not go so well as planned (when you plan for nine kids aged 6-10 and instead get about twenty kids, aged 4-10 . . . things fall apart). I suspected that the origin stemmed from my neck, which still has not recovered from that car accident two years ago. Unpleasantly, my migraine enjoyed its comfortable life in my head so much that he even stuck around for Monday. So, after school, my friend Maggie insisted upon taking me for some good ole Torture Treatment (my special name for Chinese medicine).
It works . . . but oh, does it hurt.
It works . . . but oh, does it hurt.
I've done this type of treatment many times before and although I hate it while it's happening, it actually does improve things. For example, when I had a very serious flu (might have actually been pneumonia) last October, I simply could not get better. I had all kinds of Western medicine to deal with symptoms, but none of it was even touching the real problems. When I finally did three days in a row of even-more-intensive-than-last-night Chinese medicine, I radically improved. In three days time, I went from feverish and miserable to all the way better.
When I went last night, the lady who treated me was able to tell exactly what was wrong with me from just touching certain places on my back. She knew all sorts of details like exactly where the migraine was, where my blood was not circulating well, etc. She said that my neck was badly jammed and spent a long time working on it. According to Chinese medicine, the darker the purple left by the cupping, the more serious your problem is. If your body is doing well, the cupping actually only leaves light red marks (I have in fact seen and experienced this). As you can see in the picture above, my neck turned VERY dark purple, in exactly the areas that were hurting the most over the past few weeks.
Today, I am quite colorful: covered in dark purple marks from last night's cupping therapy, some areas are red from scraping treatment, plus I am also nicely be-spotted with bruises from the heavy massage treatment. There is a bit of swelling, too. It did actually end my three-day migraine. Of course, I am quite sore everywhere else today! I feel a bit like some hamburger meat that got beat up by a gang of bullies.
My left arm is a work of art:
I have my own theory about how and why Chinese medicine works, though I am at a loss as to how to prove it scientifically: I believe that the pain or illness, upon personally witnessing exactly what you are willing to go through to rid your body of it, becomes horribly frightened and flees the scene. Judging by the amount of pain I went through last night, my former migraine currently is probably huddled in a fetal position somewhere in the middle of Canada, whimpering as it self-consoles to recuperate from its abject terror.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Candle on the Window
Today, I worked hard to create a lovely space in my bedroom for lying on the floor (on my very soft rug), studying or perhaps enjoying a pleasant novel. All that was needed for the perfect ambiance to add to my most recent Kindle acquisition was a nice lavender-scented candle, in its pretty glass holder. I spent a very happy interlude with my book on the floor, then went off to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I returned, less than two minutes later . . .
The candle somehow reached a temperature hot enough to send flames leaping from the glass holder. Concerned for the safety of my bedroom, I tried to blow it out, but the flames happily lapped up my expelled breath and grew larger. Thinking rapidly, I became aware of the glass of water in my hand. Now, I am smart enough to know that pouring the whole thing on the fire would have likely ended badly, so I instead opted to slowly dribble a bit of water on the fire, hoping to shrink it down gradually and calmly. What happened next was a massive sizzling, followed by some spitting and hissing (it sounded not unlike an angry stray cat), followed by an explosion of glass, wax, and fire. My glasses and window were splattered by the wax and the glass had enough force to send some of it more than three feet away. As I opened the window to release the billowing smoke afterwards, I observed a moment of silence for the ten years of my life that fled in panic during the explosion. An hour later, my hands were still shaking!
Who knew that cheap candles could be so dangerous???
The candle somehow reached a temperature hot enough to send flames leaping from the glass holder. Concerned for the safety of my bedroom, I tried to blow it out, but the flames happily lapped up my expelled breath and grew larger. Thinking rapidly, I became aware of the glass of water in my hand. Now, I am smart enough to know that pouring the whole thing on the fire would have likely ended badly, so I instead opted to slowly dribble a bit of water on the fire, hoping to shrink it down gradually and calmly. What happened next was a massive sizzling, followed by some spitting and hissing (it sounded not unlike an angry stray cat), followed by an explosion of glass, wax, and fire. My glasses and window were splattered by the wax and the glass had enough force to send some of it more than three feet away. As I opened the window to release the billowing smoke afterwards, I observed a moment of silence for the ten years of my life that fled in panic during the explosion. An hour later, my hands were still shaking!
Who knew that cheap candles could be so dangerous???
 |
| All that remains of my dearly departed candle. |
Thursday, November 1, 2012
The Stomach Flu: We Shall Call It a Cultural Experience
Just two weeks had passed since my lengthy bout with flu, and I thought all was well. Aaaaand then, the roommates both toppled over with stomach flu. I knew my days were numbered.
The vomiting actually started on Tuesday evening, but I thought I could just forego eating and thus make it through school on Wednesday. With many, many teachers down with this thing, I was concerned that we would not have enough subs to cover my classes. However, the low blood sugar from not eating had me so dizzy on Wednesday that I finally gave in and ate a decent lunch . . . mistake. After I vomited up my lunch, I agreed with the other teachers that it was best to head home, rather than help spread the disease further.
Heading home was not such a simple matter. Our dreadful dirt road that leads up to the school building is at present being paved, which means one cannot walk down it to the main road. Fortunately, the guards were helpful (and my Chinese is good enough now) so I was able to get directions to the main road via a very rustic, "scenic" route through the local village. Nothing like getting raced at by a bedraggled chicken while holding your heaving stomach and attempting not to trip on VERY narrow alleyways! A few locals chatted with me pleasantly as I wound my way through the never-ending maze of tiny ramshackle buildings in search of the main road that I was beginning to question ever being able to find. I was quite delighted when my path finally deposited me on the correct road - albeit a bit further down than I had anticipated (I guess the chicken distracted me a bit).
I had initially planned to taxi home but, ditz that I've been lately, I forgot to put money in my wallet and only had a few kuai with me. So, 104 bus it was for me - my least favorite bus, but the only one that goes from way out where the school is to my home. The main trouble with the 104 is that it never comes! I waited more than 30 minutes for that wretched contraption, while suffering the indignity of having THREE 301 buses arrive in succession, within less than five minutes. I was, in my present nauseated and dizzy state, rather embittered against the 104 bus.
When the bus finally came, I breathed a sigh of relief - and after the second stop, realized that that breath might well be my last. A man sat in the available seat next to me, hauling a basket full of very fresh, very fragrant fish. It may have been the fever, but I am convinced that I saw some wiggling tails . . . and I also earnestly believe that one of those fish winked impishly at me. The smell was pretty damaging to me in my state, but the other options were stand in the back or get off and wait forever for another 104. It was only the beguiling image of my oh-so-merciful bed playing across my mind that kept me in my seat, holding my breath next to the fish-man.
As soon as I got off the bus, I began to heave and soon discovered, to my surprise, that there were indeed still some contents left in my stomach. The gutter received them all. I was relieved that, for once, there were very few people around to see the show, "Remains of the Lunch." As I finally recovered myself enough to head home (the 104 doesn't go all that close to my home, so there was still a decent walk after disembarking), I became aware that the Korean business behind me was merrily blasting "Gangnam Style" on its loudspeakers . . . and I just happened to be vomiting right during the line "Hey, sexy ladies!" I stifled a chuckle, then headed home, mentally composing my own version of the song, containing the memorable line "Upchuck Gangnam style!"
It was with considerable relief that I entered the front door, ghostwalked to the bedroom, and collapsed facedown in the welcoming embrace of my bed.
The vomiting actually started on Tuesday evening, but I thought I could just forego eating and thus make it through school on Wednesday. With many, many teachers down with this thing, I was concerned that we would not have enough subs to cover my classes. However, the low blood sugar from not eating had me so dizzy on Wednesday that I finally gave in and ate a decent lunch . . . mistake. After I vomited up my lunch, I agreed with the other teachers that it was best to head home, rather than help spread the disease further.
Heading home was not such a simple matter. Our dreadful dirt road that leads up to the school building is at present being paved, which means one cannot walk down it to the main road. Fortunately, the guards were helpful (and my Chinese is good enough now) so I was able to get directions to the main road via a very rustic, "scenic" route through the local village. Nothing like getting raced at by a bedraggled chicken while holding your heaving stomach and attempting not to trip on VERY narrow alleyways! A few locals chatted with me pleasantly as I wound my way through the never-ending maze of tiny ramshackle buildings in search of the main road that I was beginning to question ever being able to find. I was quite delighted when my path finally deposited me on the correct road - albeit a bit further down than I had anticipated (I guess the chicken distracted me a bit).
I had initially planned to taxi home but, ditz that I've been lately, I forgot to put money in my wallet and only had a few kuai with me. So, 104 bus it was for me - my least favorite bus, but the only one that goes from way out where the school is to my home. The main trouble with the 104 is that it never comes! I waited more than 30 minutes for that wretched contraption, while suffering the indignity of having THREE 301 buses arrive in succession, within less than five minutes. I was, in my present nauseated and dizzy state, rather embittered against the 104 bus.
When the bus finally came, I breathed a sigh of relief - and after the second stop, realized that that breath might well be my last. A man sat in the available seat next to me, hauling a basket full of very fresh, very fragrant fish. It may have been the fever, but I am convinced that I saw some wiggling tails . . . and I also earnestly believe that one of those fish winked impishly at me. The smell was pretty damaging to me in my state, but the other options were stand in the back or get off and wait forever for another 104. It was only the beguiling image of my oh-so-merciful bed playing across my mind that kept me in my seat, holding my breath next to the fish-man.
As soon as I got off the bus, I began to heave and soon discovered, to my surprise, that there were indeed still some contents left in my stomach. The gutter received them all. I was relieved that, for once, there were very few people around to see the show, "Remains of the Lunch." As I finally recovered myself enough to head home (the 104 doesn't go all that close to my home, so there was still a decent walk after disembarking), I became aware that the Korean business behind me was merrily blasting "Gangnam Style" on its loudspeakers . . . and I just happened to be vomiting right during the line "Hey, sexy ladies!" I stifled a chuckle, then headed home, mentally composing my own version of the song, containing the memorable line "Upchuck Gangnam style!"
It was with considerable relief that I entered the front door, ghostwalked to the bedroom, and collapsed facedown in the welcoming embrace of my bed.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Feed a Cold, Starve a Fever . . . Torture a Flu?
I had big plans for my week off (October Holiday, a lovely Chinese creation): I was going to climb a mountain with friends, get all of my grading done, spend some time with a few friends, and, naturally, take a ton of extra Chinese lessons. In short, it was going to be the perfect week. I even planned out a special help session for my sophomores, just because I thoroughly enjoy spending time with the rather nutty creatures.
And then the flu happened.
On the very first Saturday of the break, I climbed the mountain as planned. As a cheery group of Chinese and Westerners, we took on Fu Shan, a rather pretty and pleasantly small mountain near my home. We had an utterly glorious day for it: perfect blue sky, cool air, invigorating-without-overpowering wind. And, I only fell . . . well, I think 5-6 times (the first time was within seconds of boasting loudly about not falling, of course). But no real injuries other than a few cuts!
We ate a picnic lunch together up there, then split up, with a few of us going down one way and a few choosing the opposite way. My group of 6 paused for a bit, under a canopy of Buddhist decorations (Hannah called this spiritual warfare), to sing a hymn together in two languages simultaneously (I LOVE doing that with Chinese friends) and then to pray together . . . simply beautiful. After climbing down, I had the chance to do something I have always wanted to do: I drank water straight from an old, deep mountain well. A very sweet group of locals filled our water bottles for us from the well, laughed at how thirsty I was, gave me a refill, and then complimented me on my Chinese. I came home exhausted, but merry.
Really exhausted, actually. I took a nap — something I very seldom do — and when I woke up, I noticed that my throat was starting to really hurt. I chalked it up to a day of mountain climbing, then joined a friend for a massage and dinner . . . I got to eat donkey meat soup for the first time. Surprisingly delicious, and now I can mark another hooved animal off the list of those few remaining that I have not eaten. By the end of dinner, my sinuses were starting to feel heavy and full. By the time I got home, the fever had arrived: 102°. I made my way steadily up to 103° the next day . . . and except for a few isolated times, spent most of the next week in bed, weak as a newborn calf. My body ached as though a tank had rolled over me a few dozen times.
By Wednesday, I was enjoying the added features of vomiting and nausea with rampant dizziness. The fever enjoyed our time together so well that it stuck around for a week. I eyed my dying plants that I keep forgetting to water with marked envy — at least their suffering only consists of dehydration. I kept mechanically trying to get grading or lesson-planning done . . . but the words would start spinning on the page within minutes, and my fuzzy head just couldn't take it. I found that doses of The Mentalist were about all that my fevered brain could focus on. I survived mostly on crackers, cough syrup, NyQuil, Chinese cold medicine, Halls cough drops, and Sprite. Definitely not my diet of choice.
On Monday, after more than a week of flu, school resumed. That first day just about killed me — I honestly have no idea where I found the strength to stay on my feet. Since my flu seemed so pleased about taking up residence in my body and showed no particular inclination to leave, I named him Irving and contemplated enrolling him as a student at our school. My concerned Chinese teacher and adopted older sister, Maggie, insisted on taking me out for traditional Chinese medical treatment after school. In other words, she wished to torture me.
The treatment consisted of this:
And then the flu happened.
On the very first Saturday of the break, I climbed the mountain as planned. As a cheery group of Chinese and Westerners, we took on Fu Shan, a rather pretty and pleasantly small mountain near my home. We had an utterly glorious day for it: perfect blue sky, cool air, invigorating-without-overpowering wind. And, I only fell . . . well, I think 5-6 times (the first time was within seconds of boasting loudly about not falling, of course). But no real injuries other than a few cuts!
We ate a picnic lunch together up there, then split up, with a few of us going down one way and a few choosing the opposite way. My group of 6 paused for a bit, under a canopy of Buddhist decorations (Hannah called this spiritual warfare), to sing a hymn together in two languages simultaneously (I LOVE doing that with Chinese friends) and then to pray together . . . simply beautiful. After climbing down, I had the chance to do something I have always wanted to do: I drank water straight from an old, deep mountain well. A very sweet group of locals filled our water bottles for us from the well, laughed at how thirsty I was, gave me a refill, and then complimented me on my Chinese. I came home exhausted, but merry.
Really exhausted, actually. I took a nap — something I very seldom do — and when I woke up, I noticed that my throat was starting to really hurt. I chalked it up to a day of mountain climbing, then joined a friend for a massage and dinner . . . I got to eat donkey meat soup for the first time. Surprisingly delicious, and now I can mark another hooved animal off the list of those few remaining that I have not eaten. By the end of dinner, my sinuses were starting to feel heavy and full. By the time I got home, the fever had arrived: 102°. I made my way steadily up to 103° the next day . . . and except for a few isolated times, spent most of the next week in bed, weak as a newborn calf. My body ached as though a tank had rolled over me a few dozen times.
By Wednesday, I was enjoying the added features of vomiting and nausea with rampant dizziness. The fever enjoyed our time together so well that it stuck around for a week. I eyed my dying plants that I keep forgetting to water with marked envy — at least their suffering only consists of dehydration. I kept mechanically trying to get grading or lesson-planning done . . . but the words would start spinning on the page within minutes, and my fuzzy head just couldn't take it. I found that doses of The Mentalist were about all that my fevered brain could focus on. I survived mostly on crackers, cough syrup, NyQuil, Chinese cold medicine, Halls cough drops, and Sprite. Definitely not my diet of choice.
On Monday, after more than a week of flu, school resumed. That first day just about killed me — I honestly have no idea where I found the strength to stay on my feet. Since my flu seemed so pleased about taking up residence in my body and showed no particular inclination to leave, I named him Irving and contemplated enrolling him as a student at our school. My concerned Chinese teacher and adopted older sister, Maggie, insisted on taking me out for traditional Chinese medical treatment after school. In other words, she wished to torture me.
The treatment consisted of this:
- Step 1: The woman who treated me gave me a very hard pressure point massage, using some special type of salve. Maggie explained to me that the massage has the same principals behind it as acupuncture. It felt as though my neck and back were some stubborn bread dough that was being kneaded by an angry Soviet housewife.
- Step 2: Using an animal bone, my neck and back were scraped with great diligence and pressure. Known as 刮痧, this treatment, quite frankly, hurt like hell. I felt like a deer being field-dressed.
- Step 3: Using fire (held scarily close to my bare skin), the woman burnt the oxygen out of a glass, then suctioned it to my back and moved it, with super-human pressure, up and down repeatedly. Then repeated. And repeated. And repeated. Known as 推罐, this treatment put me in the appropriate frame of mind to sell out my country. I offered to share state secrets, but unfortunately could think of none.
- Step 4: The woman treating me took what is called a plum blossom needle — a delightfully sinister contraption with nine super sharp needles — and, quite literally, beat my back with it. Maggie graciously explained the technique to me, but I was too distracted with whimpering to hear her explanation. After about fifteen blows, the woman (and witnesses) were satisfied.
- Step 5: Once again, the oxygen was burnt out of glass jars, which were then suctioned to the now-bleeding areas on my back: 拔罐. I soon resembled a feverish glass-backed turtle (as Maggie gleefully observed . . . she does claim to love me). The jars syphoned out blood that, my practitioner informed me, was "bad". Feeling more than a little bit like a medieval plague victim, I lay still on the bed with the jars in place for about 15-20 minutes.
- Step 6: After the glasses were removed (each giving a rather satisfying ploop! as it came off), I received a harsh rubdown/massage with a rough towel. I was slightly startled to observe the amount of my blood that now stained the sheets . . . and slightly lightheaded as well.
- Step 7: Hygiene first! The woman sprayed my entire back with alcohol. She then stepped back and declared, “好的!"
My back, after the first day of treatment, was quite picturesque . . . I like to think that I resembled either a chemical warfare victim or the loser of an intense bar fight:
 |
| Yes, it was painful . . . very, very, very painful! |
I had a harrowing experience on the way home: I discovered the dead body of a person laying amidst some trash. For a horrifying, dreadful five minutes, I frantically thought through my options. Check for a pulse? Run for help? Phone someone? Scream? Since China has no Good Samaritan laws, I panicked that I might somehow be held responsible for the death, whilst simultaneously feeling extreme guilt for my own selfish self-preservation and grief for the human life cut short. Was it natural causes? Was it murder? What if the murderer was still there, lurking in those dark bushes, waiting to cut my own life short . . . you can well imagine my slightly hysterical relieved laughter when I discovered that my dead human body was actually a few ill-positioned bags of trash. Apparently, The Mentalist and fever should not be coupled together for prolonged periods of time.
On Tuesday, Maggie took me back for another round of the same treatment on my back, and my front and upper arms as well. Although I at one point begged Maggie to mercy-kill me, I did appreciate getting to miss a meeting. 推罐 and 拔罐 over my breastbone felt as though ravenous demons were tearing into me and sucking the breath from my quivering body . . . Maggie found the imagery amusing (although she did sympathetically pat my head through it all). On the way home, I had a violent nosebleed that thoroughly terrified about three dozen Chinese people. It startled me a bit as well — I wasn't sure how much more blood my body could afford to lose!
On Wednesday, Maggie took me in for the third and (thank God) final treatment. On the way there, she amused herself by making me tell a story in Chinese to the entire bus full of Chinese coworkers . . . I promptly began my story by informing them, in Chinese, that I have a sadistic teacher who enjoys torturing me. The entire bus applauded. (Although a bit embarrassed, I was flattered when Maggie explained later that she just wanted to show off her student.) The final treatment had me writhing in agony on the bed — Maggie cheerily observed that I quite resembled a worm. Indeed, I did feel rather like a smashed one there at the end.
I have this to say about all the torture, however; it did actually bring about a turning point in my flu. Maggie gave me a very thorough explanation of the entire process and theory/history behind it, but I have my own theory on why traditional Chinese medical treatments actually work. I believe that the flu, observing the lengths of torture that you are willing to undergo in order to purge it from your body, becomes so terrified that it packs up its bags and flees. Irving, being my own tailor-made flu, is, naturally, quite clumsy, so he keeps tripping on his way out. Thus, I still am left with the emphysemic sailor cough, exhaustion, gnawing headache, and a bit of physical weakness. Other than that, I am definitely getting better, little by little. Today I cheered to see the first non-colorful drainage from my sinuses.
Ah, China. Land of new experiences and new knowledge.
Monday, September 24, 2012
And Then You Smack into an Ironing Board . . .
I often suspect that many people believe if they were to cut me open, they would locate a Chinese book where a heart ought to be, a sheaf of history monographs where a brain ought to reside, and, most definitely, clumsiness in place of all the other essentials . . . and I bristle about it. Perhaps I ought to switch to decaf.
After 28 years of it, I'm used to my clumsiness and the oafish way in which I walk/stumble about . . . but lately, it has really irritated me. I'm tired of being that person, the court jester of bruises. Ordinarily I laugh or shrug those stumblings and bangings and tumblings away . . . but lately, I've gotten annoyed instead. I don't want to see those antsy looks on Chinese friends' faces each time I approach a staircase, or a crack in the sidewalk. I don't want students to hold their breath every time I walk past an extension cord. I don't want to approach the steps getting off the bus with trepidation each day, wondering whether or not I am about to plummet to the ground in an unladylike heap. I don't want to fear the rug that gleefully lies in wait for me in front of the main entrance of the secondary school building.
"Why," I ask the walls, the sidewalk, the sea, or even the trees (those wretched, ugly new ones that were controversially planted months ago at great expense and still can't stand up straight), whichever inanimate or animate object that happens to witness my latest escapade, "Why is it always me? Can't someone else do the tripping and slipping or the smashing and crashing for a bit? Can't I just have a moment of gracefulness in an entire lifetime of black eyes, sprains, scrapes, burns, scratches, inexplicable harm from seemingly-innocent objects --"
Yesterday, the universe replied. As I reflected on my own clumsiness, I tripped over the doorway whilst carrying an ironing board and got hit in the eye with the leg of it. Second black eye of 2012 . . . I'm choosing not to count the almost-black-eye back in July. As I commented to my roommates, "Usually when I get a black eye --" one of them interrupted, remarking, "Very few people would start a sentence that way - I don't think black eyes are usual for most people." I sighed, and chose to force a laugh, though inwardly I just wanted to . . . well, punch myself, but that would only have given me another black eye. It's tiresome being me.
Today I fell down the stairs again. I guess it's nice that now my left eye and my left ankle can color-coordinate.
After 28 years of it, I'm used to my clumsiness and the oafish way in which I walk/stumble about . . . but lately, it has really irritated me. I'm tired of being that person, the court jester of bruises. Ordinarily I laugh or shrug those stumblings and bangings and tumblings away . . . but lately, I've gotten annoyed instead. I don't want to see those antsy looks on Chinese friends' faces each time I approach a staircase, or a crack in the sidewalk. I don't want students to hold their breath every time I walk past an extension cord. I don't want to approach the steps getting off the bus with trepidation each day, wondering whether or not I am about to plummet to the ground in an unladylike heap. I don't want to fear the rug that gleefully lies in wait for me in front of the main entrance of the secondary school building.
"Why," I ask the walls, the sidewalk, the sea, or even the trees (those wretched, ugly new ones that were controversially planted months ago at great expense and still can't stand up straight), whichever inanimate or animate object that happens to witness my latest escapade, "Why is it always me? Can't someone else do the tripping and slipping or the smashing and crashing for a bit? Can't I just have a moment of gracefulness in an entire lifetime of black eyes, sprains, scrapes, burns, scratches, inexplicable harm from seemingly-innocent objects --"
Yesterday, the universe replied. As I reflected on my own clumsiness, I tripped over the doorway whilst carrying an ironing board and got hit in the eye with the leg of it. Second black eye of 2012 . . . I'm choosing not to count the almost-black-eye back in July. As I commented to my roommates, "Usually when I get a black eye --" one of them interrupted, remarking, "Very few people would start a sentence that way - I don't think black eyes are usual for most people." I sighed, and chose to force a laugh, though inwardly I just wanted to . . . well, punch myself, but that would only have given me another black eye. It's tiresome being me.
Today I fell down the stairs again. I guess it's nice that now my left eye and my left ankle can color-coordinate.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
The Tragic Tale of a Hand and a Doorknob
A few weeks ago, I slipped and fell in the shower, twisting my right hand under me. Five minutes later, after bending down to pick up my clothes, I smacked that same hand quite soundly on the bathroom doorknob. Two days later, I had a similar encounter with the same hand and the bedroom doorknob. Since then, my hand has taken more than fair revenge on me . . .
For more than two weeks, my hand looked like a purple balloon, or, as my Chinese teacher pointed out, a mantou (Chinese dumpling). I figured it was just a typical back of the hand injury, so I kept using my hand and occasionally iced it. I finally went to the doctor after nothing improved . . . and learned that I had a stress fracture. No biggie, but I was banned from using my hand and sentenced to weeks of wearing a now-greatly-despised sling. No cast, for which I was grateful.
The trouble is, although the swelling is down most of the way, there is still quite an ugly bump, the color is still largely purple, and I'm still in daily pain. I tried typing a bit today and even writing my signature twice (I know I'm not supposed to yet, but sometimes necessity overrides doctors' instructions), only to find that I set it off again and had quite a bit of pain to deal with. I'm pretty tough when it comes to pain, having considerable experience with it, but wow does this hand HURT!
What hurts more though, is my pride. I don't really have too much pride normally, since injuries and my many shortcomings work together to keep me humble, but I am apparently not very accepting of my own weakness or lack of ability. I can't seem to bring myself to ask for help very often, even when I should. I know there's a lesson to be learned in all this . . . yes, Stephanie, you really are bound by multiple limitations! No, Stephanie, you cannot be a self-sufficient island. Yes, Stephanie, you do need to ask for and accept help sometimes.
On the bright side, I am getting very skilled at using chopsticks with my left hand.
For more than two weeks, my hand looked like a purple balloon, or, as my Chinese teacher pointed out, a mantou (Chinese dumpling). I figured it was just a typical back of the hand injury, so I kept using my hand and occasionally iced it. I finally went to the doctor after nothing improved . . . and learned that I had a stress fracture. No biggie, but I was banned from using my hand and sentenced to weeks of wearing a now-greatly-despised sling. No cast, for which I was grateful.
The trouble is, although the swelling is down most of the way, there is still quite an ugly bump, the color is still largely purple, and I'm still in daily pain. I tried typing a bit today and even writing my signature twice (I know I'm not supposed to yet, but sometimes necessity overrides doctors' instructions), only to find that I set it off again and had quite a bit of pain to deal with. I'm pretty tough when it comes to pain, having considerable experience with it, but wow does this hand HURT!
What hurts more though, is my pride. I don't really have too much pride normally, since injuries and my many shortcomings work together to keep me humble, but I am apparently not very accepting of my own weakness or lack of ability. I can't seem to bring myself to ask for help very often, even when I should. I know there's a lesson to be learned in all this . . . yes, Stephanie, you really are bound by multiple limitations! No, Stephanie, you cannot be a self-sufficient island. Yes, Stephanie, you do need to ask for and accept help sometimes.
On the bright side, I am getting very skilled at using chopsticks with my left hand.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Back at Last
After a three-month absence, at last I am back to blogging!
It has been a difficult three months, to say the least. I don't like to let myself dwell on negatives when there are always positives that one ought to focus on, but here are three of the "yuck ducks" I've battled recently:
It has been a difficult three months, to say the least. I don't like to let myself dwell on negatives when there are always positives that one ought to focus on, but here are three of the "yuck ducks" I've battled recently:
- Headaches every day for the past month. And I do mean every day. Up until this past week, about 4-5 of those headaches were migraines each week. It was exhausting and miserable trying to work through the pain, but I really had no other option -- I can't just quit when my body gets in the way. I got quite frightened at one point, wondering if perhaps my two little aneurisms had decided to grow up and cause trouble. During the worst of the migraines, I would huddle in my bed and worry that it was a brain tumor (believe me, migraines make even the most illogical things seem perfectly logical and likely). I greeted each new day with dread, knowing that it would only be a matter of time before that day's headache arrived. I finally broke down and went to the doctor, and I am now trying to make some changes to improve my condition. I'm still having headaches each day, but it has been a full week since my last migraine.
- My closest friend here in China had to leave, owing to visa problems. This is her story, not mine, so I won't go into all the details. We spent the past week in Hong Kong trying to get another visa for her and had the sudden surprise ending of her having to temporarily return to the USA instead of getting a visa -- I didn't see that blow coming. It's going to be lonely without her.
- For one terrifying week, my MacBook died and appeared to have deleted everything on it. EVERYTHING . . . including my only (at the time) copies of my master's thesis and my 310-page completed first novel. It was my most emotional week of 2012, believing that I had lost the only two impressive achievements of my life.
And, for balance, three of the "yay ducks":
- I was able to restore everything on my MacBook, so nothing was truly lost. And, now everything is backed up as well.
- I can now read more than 800 Chinese characters, after only eight months in China. Although I'm a little proud of this, I'm also a bit disappointed with my recent slow progress (owing mostly to the headaches). I had set a goal of 1,000 characters by my upcoming birthday, which means I need to speed up the learning process if I am to make it. I did, however, have one achievement today: I finished writing my first short story entirely in Chinese characters. It's nothing great, of course, but I am pretty happy that I managed to do it. I can't wait until the summer, when I can work on writing a much longer and more complex one!
- I got to go to Hong Kong this past week (for spring break; blog post about it coming soon)!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
The Great Camera Caper
For those who are regular readers, you already know the long, sad story of my battle with cameras since leaving the USA in July. For the sake of newer readers, however, I'll go ahead and summary the whole story, rather than just starting with the conclusion.
So, here is the "bullet point" version of my long-lasting camera escapades:
So, here is the "bullet point" version of my long-lasting camera escapades:
- When packing to leave the USA, I had the hindrance of having to first move everything from Virginia to Michigan. Because of that, some things got hopelessly lost. Among those hopelessly lost items were both my universal camera battery charger and the cords to connect either of my digital cameras to my computer (in lieu of the charger, the cord would actually have sufficed for charging the cameras, so really I could have gotten by with just one cord). So, no way to charge the cameras and no way to access the pictures on the cameras. Hoping optimistically that I would be able to find a charger and cord in China for at least one of the cameras, I went ahead and packed both cameras.
- Once I arrived in China, I discovered that no, cords could not be found, nor could acceptable chargers. So, I now had two completely useless digital cameras.
- I spent a ridiculous sum ordering the appropriate cord for my Cybershot off of Amazon. It took a while for it to clear customs and make it to me, but once it finally did . . . I learned that it was for a later model than the one I have. So, still two useless cameras.
- I attempted again at some different stores to see if I could find the necessary cord for at least one of the cameras in China -- no luck. I felt saddened and a bit covetous every time a friend whipped out her camera to snap pictures of all of the beautiful and new things we were seeing and experiencing in those first months.
- I did considerable research into the best cameras for my purposes and went ahead and ordered a new camera off of Amazon. I figured that it would prove to be worth the investment, since both the amount of megapixels and the zoom were so much higher than either of my cameras. I awaited the arrival of my new camera in eager anticipation of the wonderful photos I would soon be able to take . . .
- Chinese customs kidnapped my new camera.
- Weeks passed . . .
- I filled out forms, sent copies of everything from the sales slip to a copy of my passport, and even had our school receptionist do a bit of begging and beseeching on my behalf.
- More weeks passed . . .
- Finally after paying a ridiculous ransom (they called it a customs fee), I received my new camera. The first days in China were long past, but at least I could finally catch up on photo-taking . . . or could I?
- The new camera, as it turned out, did not come with an SD card. The internal memory could only store up to twelve photos.
- I went to the electronics stores around town, only to learn that none of them carried the type of SD card that my new camera required. I now had two completely useless cameras and one partially useless one.
- I felt like weeping as time after time, I had the privilege of traveling to various places throughout China (Hwangdao, Beijing, Weihai, Penglai, Weifang, Shenyang), only to be unable to capture any of it on film. So many special moments had to go completely unrecorded. I was able to get some photos from friends, but it just wasn't the same.
- Months passed . . .
- The first semester of school ended . . .
- On my daytrip down to Gyeongju, I stopped at an electronics store that has a reputation for having everything. I asked for an SD card, showed them the camera, they got out an SD card for me . . . and it was the wrong size. The two salesmen informed me that I would have to get it online.
- Here in Seoul, I decided to put forth one last effort. I went to an E-Mart, figuring that I would once again be disappointed. Even when the salesman handed me the SD card and I payed for it, I was still convinced that it would turn out to be the wrong one and I would have to return it. At a Starbucks, with considerable trepidation, I inserted the card into the camera . . . and it fit. At last, I had a digital camera that I could use! Overjoyed, I began to mentally plan out where I could go to start experimenting, at long last, with my wonderful new camera that finally was usable . . .
- The battery died.
- I left the charger in China.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
"No Unnecessary Walking"
The doctor said "no unnecessary walking".
I am not a good patient. When a doctor tells me to rest and drink lots of fluids, I go to work instead (but I do increase my coffee intake -- hey, coffee is a fluid!). Actually, I don't even go to the doctor for most illnesses. I follow the example set by my mother and wait until it's bronchitis or plague. I'm a Thompson -- we're tough! (And stubborn, and accident-prone . . . ). When I sprain my ankle, I often don't bother to ice it (but I do wrap and elevate . . . and then walk on it). I never finish antibiotics -- I stop when the symptoms stop or when I just plain forget to take them. Yes, thanks to that habit, I will probably be one of those people who die of antibiotic-resistant ear infection someday. When I had my wisdom teeth removed, I pulled out my own stitches -- and the pain was a lot more bearable after I did so. I don't read all the warnings on medication. I don't measure out my cough syrup -- I just take a big gulp from the bottle when I feel like I need it. I never stay on crutches as long as I'm supposed to.
Yes, I am a very, very bad patient. A patient with no patience for being a patient, in fact. Which, coupled with chronic badluckitus, is not a good combination. Not at all. I am very often a patient, and I seldom listen to all the directions.
I really am trying to be a good patient right now. I'm trying not to walk . . . but not walking is BORING! I watched a Chinese soap opera with Korean subtitles today (I understood about 10% of what was said and absolutely none of the subtitles). I studied my Chinese characters. I played Sparkle on my iPad. I threw a rope for my friend's dog. I did laundry. I planned writing assignments for my sophomores and my freshmen (mwa ha ha). I practiced my epitome-of-evil-supervillain-history-teacher laugh. I tried not to think about how much I really wanted a long walk . . . even in freezing-beyond-belief, so-cold-that-your-eyeballs-turn-to-iceballs Seoul. Occasionally, I cast hate-filled glances at my ankle and talked aloud of amputation (the ankle heard me. I don't care if it doesn't have ears).
Four more days until I return to the hospital for more tests. Four more days of being a good patient. . . . You know, I wouldn't mind taking a cross-country trip to Jinju again . . . maybe walk around that castle for a few hours?
Okay, fine. I'll go find another Chinese soap opera with Korean subtitles.
I am not a good patient. When a doctor tells me to rest and drink lots of fluids, I go to work instead (but I do increase my coffee intake -- hey, coffee is a fluid!). Actually, I don't even go to the doctor for most illnesses. I follow the example set by my mother and wait until it's bronchitis or plague. I'm a Thompson -- we're tough! (And stubborn, and accident-prone . . . ). When I sprain my ankle, I often don't bother to ice it (but I do wrap and elevate . . . and then walk on it). I never finish antibiotics -- I stop when the symptoms stop or when I just plain forget to take them. Yes, thanks to that habit, I will probably be one of those people who die of antibiotic-resistant ear infection someday. When I had my wisdom teeth removed, I pulled out my own stitches -- and the pain was a lot more bearable after I did so. I don't read all the warnings on medication. I don't measure out my cough syrup -- I just take a big gulp from the bottle when I feel like I need it. I never stay on crutches as long as I'm supposed to.
Yes, I am a very, very bad patient. A patient with no patience for being a patient, in fact. Which, coupled with chronic badluckitus, is not a good combination. Not at all. I am very often a patient, and I seldom listen to all the directions.
I really am trying to be a good patient right now. I'm trying not to walk . . . but not walking is BORING! I watched a Chinese soap opera with Korean subtitles today (I understood about 10% of what was said and absolutely none of the subtitles). I studied my Chinese characters. I played Sparkle on my iPad. I threw a rope for my friend's dog. I did laundry. I planned writing assignments for my sophomores and my freshmen (mwa ha ha). I practiced my epitome-of-evil-supervillain-history-teacher laugh. I tried not to think about how much I really wanted a long walk . . . even in freezing-beyond-belief, so-cold-that-your-eyeballs-turn-to-iceballs Seoul. Occasionally, I cast hate-filled glances at my ankle and talked aloud of amputation (the ankle heard me. I don't care if it doesn't have ears).
Four more days until I return to the hospital for more tests. Four more days of being a good patient. . . . You know, I wouldn't mind taking a cross-country trip to Jinju again . . . maybe walk around that castle for a few hours?
Okay, fine. I'll go find another Chinese soap opera with Korean subtitles.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Bad News, Bad News, and Good News
Okay, good news first: According to the doctor whom I saw at the hospital today, I'm not just imagining things -- there actually is something wrong with me! (Yes, this is good news. Few things are as annoying as pain or other symptoms with a cause that a doctor cannot locate.)
The first bad news: My ankle is worse off than I thought. I thought that I just had a stretched ligament, from all of the sprains I've had over the past nine years. Wrong! Apparently, somewhere down the road, I managed to tear that ligament. And, there is a problem with my leg that I never knew about (the muscle has had damage and weakening owing to the ankle problems, and it is in turn contributing to the ankle problems). I wound up being at the hospital until about 3:00 today, and in addition to my two doctor appointments, also squeezed in a radiology visit. Thank goodness I have really good insurance now!
The second bad news: I have to stay in Korea a bit longer than planned, because I need to do more testing to determine what is to be done with me. I definitely have to have physical therapy, both for the ankle and for the leg, but I also am probably going to wind up having surgery. I'll find out for sure after some more testing and related mafan on the 4th of January. Until then, the doctor warned me "No unnecessary walking." Not sure what that means, in a country (continent, actually) where one walks just about everywhere, but I guess that means no more cross-country trips this week. Good thing I did Gyeongju yesterday!
The first bad news: My ankle is worse off than I thought. I thought that I just had a stretched ligament, from all of the sprains I've had over the past nine years. Wrong! Apparently, somewhere down the road, I managed to tear that ligament. And, there is a problem with my leg that I never knew about (the muscle has had damage and weakening owing to the ankle problems, and it is in turn contributing to the ankle problems). I wound up being at the hospital until about 3:00 today, and in addition to my two doctor appointments, also squeezed in a radiology visit. Thank goodness I have really good insurance now!
The second bad news: I have to stay in Korea a bit longer than planned, because I need to do more testing to determine what is to be done with me. I definitely have to have physical therapy, both for the ankle and for the leg, but I also am probably going to wind up having surgery. I'll find out for sure after some more testing and related mafan on the 4th of January. Until then, the doctor warned me "No unnecessary walking." Not sure what that means, in a country (continent, actually) where one walks just about everywhere, but I guess that means no more cross-country trips this week. Good thing I did Gyeongju yesterday!
Saturday, December 17, 2011
This Past Month . . .
For the sake of relatives whom I have not, perhaps, done well at calling or otherwise communicating with (although, to be fair, that is a two-way street -- you relatives could email me once in a while, you know!) and readers who may have wondered why I didn't blog for nearly a month, here is a summary of what's gone on this past month:
- My VPN stopped working and a multitude of other technological problems/frustrations took place. Hence, no access to my blog for weeks.
- I tried out multiple types of (PAINFUL) Chinese medicine on my bad ankle, and finally decided to bite the bullet and look into surgery. So, I'm heading to Korea in ten days, with the main purpose of the trip being to see a doctor. Perhaps if we fix this ankle, I might be less clumsy! (Or just find another body part to keep injuring.)
- I got put in charge of designing/planning a game for our entire high school, which we'll do next week. Needless to say, the game involves spies. ☺
- I was coerced into eating another type of fish. It wasn't horrible, so long as I kept my mind off of what I was eating.
- I got lost trying to cut through the hospital to get to a bus stop and wound up in a maternity ward. (To be fair, that hospital is MUCH bigger than it looks at first glance.)
- I was introduced to three more fruits that I have never heard of before (which do not, to my knowledge, have English names). All three, by the way, were quite tasty.
- I accidentally taught moderately offensive English slang to a group of Chinese friends.
- I got to relive part of my thesis research by teaching my sophomores about the Ottoman Empire.
- I had my first experience with a Chinese tailor: After doing a spectacular free-fall down the front steps of one of the buildings at school, I tore my only pair of black slacks (and skinned up my knees, naturally). The tailor not only completely repaired the large hole in one day, but also did it for less than a dollar! I only wish knees could be repaired so promptly!
- I discovered that, contrary to the beliefs of several friends and students, a stapler CAN in fact be used to successfully repair a severely torn backpack.
- It snowed a few times -- and very graciously all melted within the same days that it fell.
I'm Alive! -- Just Weary. Very, Very Weary.
I wonder, is it possible for a teacher to get Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from the week before final exams? If so, I am definitely a casualty.
Honestly, it shouldn't have been that stressful of a week. I had no teaching to do, for one thing (let me clarify that statement by reassuring all my readers that I do, in fact, love teaching). All I had to do, initially, was spend the week reviewing with my students so that they could go forth and do well on their final exam on Friday. Should have been an easy week, right?
Wrong.
Remember back in May when that irresponsible twenty-year-old wasn't paying attention, was driving in the middle of the road, and managed to hit my car head-on on a mountain road? I decided to behave in accordance with my Christian worldview and didn't sue, even though I had ample grounds for it. After all, I was injured: internal bleeding, concussion, whiplash, massive bruising, worsening migraines . . . and let's not forget the psychological impact, either. I have not driven a car even once since May 6 -- and I don't want to. I still have nightmares about the crash. I still relive the fear, emotion, tension, etc. every time that I recall the crash or look at the photos. As much as I may strive to stay in control and sensible, that crash really shook me up.
I bring this up, because it's all back in the forefront of my mind: The woman who hit me (who was AT FAULT) had the audacity and greed file a claim against me. I spent last weekend writing a seven-page account of the accident, which I sent, along with photos, to the insurance companies involved. Two more emails from them followed, hounding and harassing me for details and documents that I simply do not have. This, readers, is just one example of what is wrong with the United States. Victims don't have rights. The person who caused that accident, who is to blame for my injuries and etc., gets to continue to intrude into my life six months later. She can waste time and money of others with . . . you know what; I am going to cut this rant off right here. Suffice to say, I am pretty irritated.
On Wednesday, my stress was up the wazoo, what with the emails and other mafan from this legal hassle. I barely slept that night, with the result that on Thursday I had my worst migraine in months. I went into school an hour late, hoping an extra hour of sleep would help, but it did no good. On the bright side, I did get to practice nearly all of my Chinese vocabulary from lesson 8, as the taxi driver had no idea how to get to our school (even after calling and talking to our receptionist) and I had to direct him most of the way. Unfortunately, I had to fight nausea and vertigo the entire day, not to mention being in excruciating pain. Ordinarily, I would have called in sick under circumstances like that, but with my freshmen taking their final the very next day, I was worried that they wouldn't do well without a final review day with me. I figured that one day of suffering for me was worth it if it helped them do better on a test that is worth 20% of their total semester grade.
Friday dawned a better day, I am glad to say. I had some great encouragement from some Chinese friends, my secret santa left me another in a line of wonderful gifts (a fuzzy blanket that just begs for hot chocolate and a good book), and our principal gave me a good pep talk. With my students all taking their finals together in the lunchroom, I had most of the schoolday to myself, so I could do some planning and tackle a bit of grading. I had the chance to check out the middle school science fair and get an idea of the sort of students I'll be having in the next few years (some good prospects, I think). I was particularly looking forward to seeing the project done by a coworker's daughter: this incredibly creative young girl gave spiders drugs (alcohol, sleeping pills, and caffeine) to see how it impacted their ability to spin webs. Now that is a student that I want in my class! (So long as she doesn't bring spiders to class, of course -- those things are definitely the spawn of Satan.)
Yay Duck and Yuck Duck scores from this week:
Yay Duck: My freshmen did an AWESOME job on their huge history project -- they completely blew me away! My Chinese lessons are still going really well. I was finally able to get a new adaptor for my Mac, so I no longer have a dead computer. I leave for Korea in ten days! The semester is, for all practical purposes, over!
Yuck Duck: The legal mess from the US (hey, that rhymes!). I've had the same migraine, off and on, since Wednesday night. The semester is, for all practical purposes, over.
Honestly, it shouldn't have been that stressful of a week. I had no teaching to do, for one thing (let me clarify that statement by reassuring all my readers that I do, in fact, love teaching). All I had to do, initially, was spend the week reviewing with my students so that they could go forth and do well on their final exam on Friday. Should have been an easy week, right?
Wrong.
Remember back in May when that irresponsible twenty-year-old wasn't paying attention, was driving in the middle of the road, and managed to hit my car head-on on a mountain road? I decided to behave in accordance with my Christian worldview and didn't sue, even though I had ample grounds for it. After all, I was injured: internal bleeding, concussion, whiplash, massive bruising, worsening migraines . . . and let's not forget the psychological impact, either. I have not driven a car even once since May 6 -- and I don't want to. I still have nightmares about the crash. I still relive the fear, emotion, tension, etc. every time that I recall the crash or look at the photos. As much as I may strive to stay in control and sensible, that crash really shook me up.
I bring this up, because it's all back in the forefront of my mind: The woman who hit me (who was AT FAULT) had the audacity and greed file a claim against me. I spent last weekend writing a seven-page account of the accident, which I sent, along with photos, to the insurance companies involved. Two more emails from them followed, hounding and harassing me for details and documents that I simply do not have. This, readers, is just one example of what is wrong with the United States. Victims don't have rights. The person who caused that accident, who is to blame for my injuries and etc., gets to continue to intrude into my life six months later. She can waste time and money of others with . . . you know what; I am going to cut this rant off right here. Suffice to say, I am pretty irritated.
On Wednesday, my stress was up the wazoo, what with the emails and other mafan from this legal hassle. I barely slept that night, with the result that on Thursday I had my worst migraine in months. I went into school an hour late, hoping an extra hour of sleep would help, but it did no good. On the bright side, I did get to practice nearly all of my Chinese vocabulary from lesson 8, as the taxi driver had no idea how to get to our school (even after calling and talking to our receptionist) and I had to direct him most of the way. Unfortunately, I had to fight nausea and vertigo the entire day, not to mention being in excruciating pain. Ordinarily, I would have called in sick under circumstances like that, but with my freshmen taking their final the very next day, I was worried that they wouldn't do well without a final review day with me. I figured that one day of suffering for me was worth it if it helped them do better on a test that is worth 20% of their total semester grade.
Friday dawned a better day, I am glad to say. I had some great encouragement from some Chinese friends, my secret santa left me another in a line of wonderful gifts (a fuzzy blanket that just begs for hot chocolate and a good book), and our principal gave me a good pep talk. With my students all taking their finals together in the lunchroom, I had most of the schoolday to myself, so I could do some planning and tackle a bit of grading. I had the chance to check out the middle school science fair and get an idea of the sort of students I'll be having in the next few years (some good prospects, I think). I was particularly looking forward to seeing the project done by a coworker's daughter: this incredibly creative young girl gave spiders drugs (alcohol, sleeping pills, and caffeine) to see how it impacted their ability to spin webs. Now that is a student that I want in my class! (So long as she doesn't bring spiders to class, of course -- those things are definitely the spawn of Satan.)
Yay Duck and Yuck Duck scores from this week:
Yay Duck: My freshmen did an AWESOME job on their huge history project -- they completely blew me away! My Chinese lessons are still going really well. I was finally able to get a new adaptor for my Mac, so I no longer have a dead computer. I leave for Korea in ten days! The semester is, for all practical purposes, over!
Yuck Duck: The legal mess from the US (hey, that rhymes!). I've had the same migraine, off and on, since Wednesday night. The semester is, for all practical purposes, over.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Finally, Something that Translates into Every Language!
In the midst of all of the fun/difficulty/jubilation/headache (it really is a mixed bag) of learning Chinese, I finally found one sure-fire thing that translates well with minimal confusion.
Are you ready for it?
It's a cough. Or, in my case, a massive, dramatic, whole-body-wracking, enough-to-knock-me-over-if-I-weighed-twenty-pounds-less attack of coughing. As one might infer, I am sick at the moment. As in, sick enough that I even took a sick day today (and have, naturally, spent the entire day babysitting my email just in case the substitute needs any help with my classes -- which she won't, because she is capable and brilliant, but I am such a teach-a-holic that I have to worry anyway).
I started getting sick earlier in the week, with the usual completely disgusting alien-goop pouring from my sinuses, a sore throat, and a chronic headache. By Tuesday, the cough had arrived. Tuesday night, the fevers and chills showed up, and I shivered and hacked my way through a very unpleasant night (but, on the bright side, got all of the freshmen projects graded since I couldn't sleep).
Wednesday was just plain miserable. I had a three-hour department meeting and two classes receiving tests, and I coughed my way pathetically through all three (I ran and got some very odd-tasting but reasonably effective Chinese cough drops from our very kind school doctor so that I did not distract my sophomores too much during their test). In the morning, I was cranky from being sick and stressed and lacking sleep, and I inadvertently put my foot in my mouth complaining about something being done wrong, only to run into the person who had done it . . . who graciously accepted my profuse series of apologies and even made a few of her own (have I ever mentioned how dearly I love the Chinese people in my life and just how kind, lovely, friendly, hard-working, etc. they are? -- now you know how horrible I felt when I accidentally said something negative about one of them).
By noon, I knew I should go home . . . but I had planned an afterschool help class for my freshman, who are taking their test as I write this very post, and I could not bear to cancel it and leave them hanging (some of them were really nervous about their test). So, I battled my way through the day, though I did inform one of our Chinese co-teachers (i.e. designated substitute teachers and generally awesome people who do pretty much everything, while being unbelievably sweet) that I would need her to teach my classes the next day. A sick day was no longer an option for me -- it was something I had to do. I hate taking sick days . . . . I really, really hate it. But, since I couldn't go more than five minutes without coughing, there was no way around it.
I foolishly forgot to bring Nyquil when I moved here from the US, and oh, have I suffered for that mistake! What I wouldn't give for some of that wonderful, merciful, drowsiness-inducing potion that got me through so many past rounds of "plague". With no other recourse, I decided to be brave and go to a Chinese drugstore after school in the hopes of finding something for, at the very least, the sore throat and cough.
When I entered the store, it occurred to me that I do not yet know any Chinese words related to illness, other than the words for diarrhea and vomiting, which were two of the first words I learned (you may draw your own conclusions from this revelation). I do know "tong" (pain) from when I went for massage and "bu hao" (not good), which is quite utilitarian, but that is a pretty small arsenal to have, particularly in a city full of thousands of helpful, friendly people who want to help the poor foreigner by offering loads of well-meant assistance . . . all in words that the foreigner has not yet learned from her beloved Chinese teacher. I boldly went forward anyway, confident in my ever-increasing charades skills.
I really need not have worried. The smiling pharmacist asked me (I assume, since it was Chinese words that I don't know yet) what was wrong with me (or what I needed, or more than likely something to that effect -- although she could have been asking if I like to watch water polo, for all I know). I pointed to my throat and said "Zhe shi bu hao" (This is not good) and then, before I could employ any charades skills at all, I erupted into a timely fit of lung-flinging coughs. The pharmacist nodded sagely, said something sympathetic that I understood the spirit of if not the meaning, and then went behind the counter and got something for me. I paid an insanely cheap price for it, went to the store for "sick foods" and then came home and opened the box to discover . . . . very nasty looking cough syrup (they all are, I know, but this one has the added bonus of being brown and a little frothy on top).
Since the dosage instructions were, of course, all in Chinese characters that I haven't learned yet (well, except for "ren" which means person and really doesn't help), I shrugged my shoulders, gritted my teeth, plugged my nose, and slurped down 20 milliliters of the stuff (it had a little measuring cup with it, just like in the States). The flavor tasted strongly of ginseng and ginger, intermingled with . . . swamp water, perhaps? I, fortunately, had had the foresight to have a chaser (Sprite) right at my elbow. The stuff was pretty effective for a few hours, although it made my brain a little fuzzy (or maybe the fever did that -- who can really say?).
Today, my sick day, my nasty medicine and I have spent the morning curled up on the couch together. My illness, whatever it is, apparently beat up my voice and stole its lunch money, but one really doesn't need a voice to sit on a couch huddled miserably under a blanket. At around 10:00 our ayi arrived, so there has been the "Yay Duck" of actually getting to see and talk to her (in my limited Chinese, since the only English she knows is limited to "hi" and "sorry"). Our ayi is very sweet and concerned -- she checked me for fever and offered to do something that I didn't understand (so I politely turned her down). She periodically checks on me in between cleaning, and says sympathetic things in her lovely language that I really want to someday be fluent in. Although a cough does translate into Chinese flawlessly, I really can't wait until I know enough verbs and nouns to be able to carry on a meaningful conversation!
Are you ready for it?
It's a cough. Or, in my case, a massive, dramatic, whole-body-wracking, enough-to-knock-me-over-if-I-weighed-twenty-pounds-less attack of coughing. As one might infer, I am sick at the moment. As in, sick enough that I even took a sick day today (and have, naturally, spent the entire day babysitting my email just in case the substitute needs any help with my classes -- which she won't, because she is capable and brilliant, but I am such a teach-a-holic that I have to worry anyway).
I started getting sick earlier in the week, with the usual completely disgusting alien-goop pouring from my sinuses, a sore throat, and a chronic headache. By Tuesday, the cough had arrived. Tuesday night, the fevers and chills showed up, and I shivered and hacked my way through a very unpleasant night (but, on the bright side, got all of the freshmen projects graded since I couldn't sleep).
Wednesday was just plain miserable. I had a three-hour department meeting and two classes receiving tests, and I coughed my way pathetically through all three (I ran and got some very odd-tasting but reasonably effective Chinese cough drops from our very kind school doctor so that I did not distract my sophomores too much during their test). In the morning, I was cranky from being sick and stressed and lacking sleep, and I inadvertently put my foot in my mouth complaining about something being done wrong, only to run into the person who had done it . . . who graciously accepted my profuse series of apologies and even made a few of her own (have I ever mentioned how dearly I love the Chinese people in my life and just how kind, lovely, friendly, hard-working, etc. they are? -- now you know how horrible I felt when I accidentally said something negative about one of them).
By noon, I knew I should go home . . . but I had planned an afterschool help class for my freshman, who are taking their test as I write this very post, and I could not bear to cancel it and leave them hanging (some of them were really nervous about their test). So, I battled my way through the day, though I did inform one of our Chinese co-teachers (i.e. designated substitute teachers and generally awesome people who do pretty much everything, while being unbelievably sweet) that I would need her to teach my classes the next day. A sick day was no longer an option for me -- it was something I had to do. I hate taking sick days . . . . I really, really hate it. But, since I couldn't go more than five minutes without coughing, there was no way around it.
I foolishly forgot to bring Nyquil when I moved here from the US, and oh, have I suffered for that mistake! What I wouldn't give for some of that wonderful, merciful, drowsiness-inducing potion that got me through so many past rounds of "plague". With no other recourse, I decided to be brave and go to a Chinese drugstore after school in the hopes of finding something for, at the very least, the sore throat and cough.
When I entered the store, it occurred to me that I do not yet know any Chinese words related to illness, other than the words for diarrhea and vomiting, which were two of the first words I learned (you may draw your own conclusions from this revelation). I do know "tong" (pain) from when I went for massage and "bu hao" (not good), which is quite utilitarian, but that is a pretty small arsenal to have, particularly in a city full of thousands of helpful, friendly people who want to help the poor foreigner by offering loads of well-meant assistance . . . all in words that the foreigner has not yet learned from her beloved Chinese teacher. I boldly went forward anyway, confident in my ever-increasing charades skills.
I really need not have worried. The smiling pharmacist asked me (I assume, since it was Chinese words that I don't know yet) what was wrong with me (or what I needed, or more than likely something to that effect -- although she could have been asking if I like to watch water polo, for all I know). I pointed to my throat and said "Zhe shi bu hao" (This is not good) and then, before I could employ any charades skills at all, I erupted into a timely fit of lung-flinging coughs. The pharmacist nodded sagely, said something sympathetic that I understood the spirit of if not the meaning, and then went behind the counter and got something for me. I paid an insanely cheap price for it, went to the store for "sick foods" and then came home and opened the box to discover . . . . very nasty looking cough syrup (they all are, I know, but this one has the added bonus of being brown and a little frothy on top).
Since the dosage instructions were, of course, all in Chinese characters that I haven't learned yet (well, except for "ren" which means person and really doesn't help), I shrugged my shoulders, gritted my teeth, plugged my nose, and slurped down 20 milliliters of the stuff (it had a little measuring cup with it, just like in the States). The flavor tasted strongly of ginseng and ginger, intermingled with . . . swamp water, perhaps? I, fortunately, had had the foresight to have a chaser (Sprite) right at my elbow. The stuff was pretty effective for a few hours, although it made my brain a little fuzzy (or maybe the fever did that -- who can really say?).
Today, my sick day, my nasty medicine and I have spent the morning curled up on the couch together. My illness, whatever it is, apparently beat up my voice and stole its lunch money, but one really doesn't need a voice to sit on a couch huddled miserably under a blanket. At around 10:00 our ayi arrived, so there has been the "Yay Duck" of actually getting to see and talk to her (in my limited Chinese, since the only English she knows is limited to "hi" and "sorry"). Our ayi is very sweet and concerned -- she checked me for fever and offered to do something that I didn't understand (so I politely turned her down). She periodically checks on me in between cleaning, and says sympathetic things in her lovely language that I really want to someday be fluent in. Although a cough does translate into Chinese flawlessly, I really can't wait until I know enough verbs and nouns to be able to carry on a meaningful conversation!
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