There I sat, hyperventilating on my apartment floor, half-laughing, half-sobbing wondering what my life was coming to. I had broken into a cold sweat. My foot pulsed with pain and a swollen bruise was quickly appearing just above my knee. My eyesight sporadically narrowed down to tunnel-vision and I could feel my heart pounding at my temples. Shit, shit, shit, shit. Calm the hell down, Kate.
I had been cleaning my apartment, an endeavor I undertake briefly a couple times a week to keep myself sane and clutter-free. This time was special though... in 48 hours my mother was going to be here. Such a visit elicits a very special cleaning regiment that I have dubbed ‘Calvinist Clean’. You see, I have a weird tick about my mother being in my personal space. I assume that she is going to judge me. I bank on the fact that it will never be tidy enough, never be decorated properly, never live up to her expectations. The truth is, as she has told me time and time again, this is all a figment of my imagination. None the less, I go into a cleaning frenzy so intense that I have been known to pull a cleaning all-nighter on the eve of her visits. I am a reasonably tidy person to begin with but there is just something about my mother visiting that makes me go OCD in a heartbeat and a half. So, in preparation of her arrival to Bangkok, I was bound and determined to make my apartment sparkle.
I was standing tip-toe on a wooden shelf in my closet, dusting the top of my bureau (I envisioned my mother in white gloves checking this usually unseen area for dust bits) when I slipped. Unfortunately, my ever-present grace made this slip particularly nasty. Somehow I managed to cut the fleshy pad of my left big-toe on the blunt wooden corner.... a feat I am still trying to understand the physics of. I yelp, gasped, did the absurd ‘I hurt myself’ dance and bounded into the shower to assess the damage. I knew I was cut, I just didn’t know how severely.
Before I go any further I should also explain that I have a complicated relationship with my own blood, it serves as a symbolic extension of my own mortality. I can’t handle it. Place me in front of an accident victim or bedside in an operating room... no problemo. Give me a paper cut and I get queasy. It is uncontrollable and it seems to be getting worse as I age.
So, there I was, standing in the pouring shower fully clothed, assessing the cut’s severity by watching burgundy tinted water pour out of the wound. *Bam* Next thing I knew I was on the floor having, presumably, fainted and fallen face first to the tile. Fabulous. I realized how panicked I was but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I found it hilarious I was being so ridiculous but, at the same time, I was irrationally terrified my foot would never stop bleeding and I would leave my apartment in a body bag (where there is panic irrationality runs rampant, no?). I began to laugh breathlessly and sob all at once. It was 3:15 in the afternoon, 3:15 in the morning in the States. All my Mercer friends were at work and, frankly, I’d made enough of a fool out of myself in normal day-day life... they didn’t need to see me like this. If I called my folks they too would think I was dying. So, I decided to call upon the most comforting and rational person I know... Jimmy.
I wheezed as I dialed his cell phone via Skype. This was getting out of hand. I could barely talk. A sleepy voice answered and all I could do was wail. Immediately he went into EagleScout mode. Asking all the right questions, reminding me to breathe, assessing the damage from 10,000 miles away. Almost instantaneously I began to calm down. After a long conversation punctuated by a few more good cries he convinced me that I needed to head to the hospital. His reasoning was spot-on: I didn’t have anything to clean the wound with, I clearly could not be trusted with doing it myself, and I probably needed a shot of antibiotics to stave off infection. I cushioned my toe in a comically huge bundle of a torn t-shirt and limped to a taxi.
I am fortunate that I live within sight of the oldest private, non religiously affiliated hospital in Bangkok, Vichaiyut. After a 5 minute drive, I was greeted at the taxi bay by a doorman who opened the taxi door for me, looked at my puffy eyes and silly toe, and offered his shoulder to help me to the reception desk. I tried to explain my situation in Thai, an effort that quickly resorted to pantomine and ended by me accepting language defeat and asking for a translator. I was directed to the ‘Emergency Wing’. If the overly-helpful doorman seemed cushy, this so called ER was beyond luxurious. Three nurses saw me coming. One directed me to a couch, the other grabbed a bowl of cool jasmine water to wash my hands and face, and the one with the best English began speaking to me prefacing everything with ‘Madame’. I explained my wound, my insurance situation, my non-regular patient status, and my Visa status. She said I would need to do some paperwork... I waited for the stack of never-ended medical exam sheets. Instead, I got a half-sheet of paper that asked for my name, my allergies, my current medications, and my ailment.
After the 2 seconds it took to fill this out, I was weighed and my temperature read. I then got something so rare in the US healthcare system I am not sure it exists... ‘I’m sorry Madame, our Emergency doctor is with an accident trauma victim, it might be a 10 minute wait. Usually we have two doctors but today we are short staffed’ I must have looked at her like she was crazy... I had a cut toe and she was apologizing to me (apologizing!) for a shorter wait than I would get it I had an appointment in the States. ‘Mai pen rai’ I replied, ‘The accident victim needs the doctor more than me.’ Five minutes passed and they brought me into a modern operating room where classical music was playing. They asked me to lay on the table, tucked a thick, fuzzy blanket around me, and tenderly took my fumbled bandage job off my toe. The nurses were empathetic and made me feel like less of a doofus for coming to the ER for what I thought was such a silly injury. The doctor came in, shook my hand, exchanged niceties, and took a look at my foot. He too was appalled at how I managed such a wound under the described circumstances. He apologized when he had to squeeze it to assess the depth. I winced and whimpered. ‘You cut to the bone’, he said, ‘you’re lucky you can feel it. I would have expected nerve damage.’ Greeaaat. Just wonderful. ‘I’ll need to give you some stitches.’ I nearly jumped off the table.
The room started to spin.
I protested, reminding him that I just wanted it thoroughly cleaned.
I feebly argued.
I lost.
Before I knew it I was squeezing a nurses hand as he administered a healthy shot of numbing meds. After a few firm thwacks of his thumb that I was blissfully unaware of, he set to sewing me up. 7 stitches in total. He complimented my bravery... a joke considering I am such a baby... then talked to me about home-care and stitch removal. All in all, it took about 15 minutes.
I left in a wheelchair and was wheeled to the on-site pharmacy where I was given oral antibiotics and heavy-duty tylenol. Then, I went to the payment window. Having a father who has his fair share of health issues, I knew the bill might not be pretty. I took a deep breath, prepared myself for the worst, and reminded myself that not getting stitches would have led to near certain infection. The kind lady on the other side explained that my US government insurance wasn’t accepted but gave me a run down of how to apply for a reimbursement. She asked if I could pay me total that day though I was still unsure of how much it was. I said I could as long as I could use a credit card. She handed me the bill: 2800 baht, approximately $94 USD. I asked her if it was complete. She walked me through the doctors fee, the cost of the stitch kit, the cost of my meds, the hospital fee and the taxes.
Sure enough... I was floored. It was 30 minutes after I had entered the place. I was given world-class care in a comfortable and nurturing environment. An MD stitched me up and dedicated a full 15 minutes of his time to me. I got all my prescribed medication instantly and on site. They were only charging me $94??!! I handed her cash, for which I got another 5% discount. Another apology spewed forth... this time about my visit being expensive. She seemed embarrassed she couldn’t take my Fulbright insurance and explained that Vichaiyut was one of the pricier hospitals in Bangkok. It took me great restraint to keep a straight face.
If only she knew what such a foray would cost in the States. I visited an emergency room (my first time ever) in November of 2009 and the bill was $800. I was given fluids and a chest x-ray. I saw a doctor for 60 seconds who expertly determined I wasn’t going to die. This cost did not include the ambulance ride which rang in, before insurance, at a whooping $2000 because they had to administer ‘life-saving-care’... better known as hooking me up to an EKG. Such cost seems unfathomable after my experience here.
To add insult to the injury, as I was being wheeled out to the taxi bay the lady whom I had just settled my bill with came running after me waving a 100 baht note. I didn’t remember needing change and was a bit confused. She breathlessly explained that the hospital fee included roundtrip taxi fare if you didn’t require an ambulance. Really, Thailand? You put the American healthcare system to shame.
And, for your viewing pleasure, a few action shots from my Calvinist Cleaning injury:
The first two images were taken via Blackberry while I was on the sewing table... the last in my apartment, after my return home. Did injury stop me from my agenda? Heck no! That very night I went out for HappyHour with friends, visited the flower market and had a lovely, limping time. I tolerated the stitches for a week before removing them myself... no time for return hospital visits when my folks were around. We were on a Type-A schedule!!!! Hear more about that in the next post!
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