And then I go and break my toe
Not really. Well, maybe
I was carrying a late-lunch/4-PM-tea sort of thing to the couch yesterday. Our apartment tries to compensate for its tiny rooms and substandard kitchen by having stone stairs everywhere, including three going down to a small 70s-style sunken living room. I missed a step, and I was somewhat more concerned with keeping my lunch on my plate (moderately successful) than in breaking my fall.
My pinky toe swelled up to about twice normal size and kept me off my feet all night. This morning, it was still bloated and had turned -- the whole thing -- such a vivid purple that K couldn't refrain from wondering whether I was in danger of losing it. I think he's been more freaked out about it than me; it looks much worse than it feels. When we went to a cafe this afternoon to continue our looong chain of discussions and I was having trouble walking, he insisted we go to the hospital.
I really didn't want to. I'm physician-phobic enough in the States; being in India just adds layers of complication, and, I think, is often worse than not seeing a doctor. (Case in point: a colleague just took her son in for a minor complaint, and was informed he had a rare, fatal heart disease. After hours of phone calls with John Hopkins, practically canceling her next assignment, and a terrified trip to a specialist clinic in Singapore, she was told he'd been misdiagnosed.) But I didn't want to damage my future mobility by neglecting to get treatment at the right time, if it was necessary, either.
So, we took a taxi to Breach Candy Hospital, and were directed to the emergency room, which turned out to be a desk and a chair. I sat, and a young guy came out a few minutes later, introduced himself as the doctor, and peered disdainfully at my toe from across the desk. He asked if I could still move my finger. Since I could -- and since I could also move my toe -- I said yes. He informed K that I probably just had some internal bleeding, and that, even if there was a fracture, there was really nothing that could be done. Then he wrote a prescription for some mysterious pills (which I think I would take only if I were both screaming in pain and out of Advil), and handed it to K. Then a nurse came in and filled out a discharge sheet and a bill, both of which she handed to K. I distinctly felt like Charlotte at the vet.
I wasn't addressed again until we were at the cash counter, paying the total charges for my visit, which came to 150 rupees (approx $3.10).
"Isn't it a load off your mind? Aren't you relieved we came? Wasn't this worth it?" K asked.
"No," I said.
"Age?" the cash counter guy asked.
"36," I said.
"26?" the cash counter guy verified.
"Now it's worth it," I told K.
I was carrying a late-lunch/4-PM-tea sort of thing to the couch yesterday. Our apartment tries to compensate for its tiny rooms and substandard kitchen by having stone stairs everywhere, including three going down to a small 70s-style sunken living room. I missed a step, and I was somewhat more concerned with keeping my lunch on my plate (moderately successful) than in breaking my fall.
My pinky toe swelled up to about twice normal size and kept me off my feet all night. This morning, it was still bloated and had turned -- the whole thing -- such a vivid purple that K couldn't refrain from wondering whether I was in danger of losing it. I think he's been more freaked out about it than me; it looks much worse than it feels. When we went to a cafe this afternoon to continue our looong chain of discussions and I was having trouble walking, he insisted we go to the hospital.
I really didn't want to. I'm physician-phobic enough in the States; being in India just adds layers of complication, and, I think, is often worse than not seeing a doctor. (Case in point: a colleague just took her son in for a minor complaint, and was informed he had a rare, fatal heart disease. After hours of phone calls with John Hopkins, practically canceling her next assignment, and a terrified trip to a specialist clinic in Singapore, she was told he'd been misdiagnosed.) But I didn't want to damage my future mobility by neglecting to get treatment at the right time, if it was necessary, either.
So, we took a taxi to Breach Candy Hospital, and were directed to the emergency room, which turned out to be a desk and a chair. I sat, and a young guy came out a few minutes later, introduced himself as the doctor, and peered disdainfully at my toe from across the desk. He asked if I could still move my finger. Since I could -- and since I could also move my toe -- I said yes. He informed K that I probably just had some internal bleeding, and that, even if there was a fracture, there was really nothing that could be done. Then he wrote a prescription for some mysterious pills (which I think I would take only if I were both screaming in pain and out of Advil), and handed it to K. Then a nurse came in and filled out a discharge sheet and a bill, both of which she handed to K. I distinctly felt like Charlotte at the vet.
I wasn't addressed again until we were at the cash counter, paying the total charges for my visit, which came to 150 rupees (approx $3.10).
"Isn't it a load off your mind? Aren't you relieved we came? Wasn't this worth it?" K asked.
"No," I said.
"Age?" the cash counter guy asked.
"36," I said.
"26?" the cash counter guy verified.
"Now it's worth it," I told K.
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