On expectations

I can't really say what I was expecting. I was fervently avoiding the prospect of an open hallway, sitting on a gurney shoved into a nearly-out-of-the-way hallway open to the world while flies and mosquitoes buzz and swarm. When I asked the doc, she told me to bring a razor and shampoo, otherwise pack like for a hotel. Otherwise, what's it like to stay in a university hospital? What can I expect in terms of cleanliness, privacy, accessibility?
I packed a couple of undershirts, three pairs of underwear, shampoo and a comb and toothbrush. The doc wanted me to be present and ready in case a room opened up, so I left straight from work still wearing a tie. I doffed my long-serving Danskos, though, and on arrival to wait for a place to open up, I went shoe shopping.
It's exceedingly odd to be a small giant here--I'm skinnier than a local but they don't generally display clothes or shoes in my size. I'd planned on treating myself to a pair of Crocs, but they were 2000 TB and didn't come in my size. Funny enough, the knockoffs just around the corner--which came in sizes up to 13--fit great for 150 TB. Especially for someone considered small back stateside, how bizarre to buy large clothes or be larger than the shelf offerings.

Nothing the first evening or the next morning. Nothing the second day, Thursday. Sit tight and wait. And talk down the unease and nerves, the fear and worry and uncertainty. Easy to do, when it's still an indistinct possibility--the hard part is letting go of the teaching, letting go of working and keeping up the happy healthy appearance. The worry isn't about going into the hospital, the worry comes on the far side--after letting the mask fall, how to pick it back up and reassemble? That's the time to worry.
Now it's just waiting--make sure the phone is charged and close at hand, and pretend to kick back into what might pass for relaxation.


And then the phone call came and I was to show up Friday around 4:00.
It's amazing how scary it is to go into a hospital in a foreign country without knowing when or how you'll get back out.

Just in case, after I realized I'd already worn half my clean clothes, I went to the department store and bought a couple pairs of boxers, which turn out to be remarkably expensive this culture--premium foreign fashions, evidently. I meant to buy a new tee shirt, too, but I just couldn't justify the expense.

So I checked in with snacks and flip flops and knockoff crocks, dirty clothes and clean underwear, soap and my workaday backpack, bolstered by a comb and chargers.

It turns out, there's a phenomenal linen closet in the back of the ward--they have shirts, pants, sarongs, hand towels, sheets, and robes stacked ceiling high in crisp white folds. So much for the new boxers. And the presence of general discharge is explosively unpleasant enough to surpres any risings of appetite. The good news is that there's an outlet next to the bed, so the gadgets will have lifeblood and I'll feel like my umbilicus to the world is intact. And there's a steady cavalcade of med students who all want to practice taking a case history, some of whom are interested in practicing English. And while nobody's yet understood how terrifying this venture is, at least they speak English.


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