Yes I'm still here. I've just been put out of action for a number of days by a new episode in the next chapter of the epic tale known as The Lurking Plague--If You Didn't Believe it Could Get Worse, You Were Dead Wrong.
Day by day, I began to develop a strange feeling, at first just at night, of having something stuck in my throat. This symptom expanded to include a need to constantly swallow, and the swallowing then began to cause intense and relentless nausea.
I called Dr. Tutwuri, the ENT I had been seeing for some months now, and she suggested that I see a gastrohepatologist. This was not something I wanted to do, but she stuck by her guns and gave me no choice, really, but to shut up and suffer or see the gastrohepatologist.
(I am thankful, by the way, for the help of Louis and Wayne in this regard, as I truly felt too ill to make it on my own to the office, especially riding a motorbike and at nighttime when I can't see well anyway. They were very kind to convey me to the clinic and to stay for the examination and discussion with the doctor).
Beforehand, I had written down a summary of my history with the plague so far, which Dr. Wibawa, a soft-spoken, straight-faced gentleman, read dispassionately, and I thought, somehow, a bit doubtfully. I don't know, perhaps one corner of his mouth twitched upward toward the hint of a smile, or a smirk, toward the end of his reading. He then proceeded with a short examination, returned to his desk, and as Louis and I rambled through various elaborations, he wrote prescriptions on a pad, occasionally glancing up or muttering "Mm hm." One tends to think that one's own case of an illness is outstanding, particular, in need of careful explication, but I suppose that to a doctor they all look pretty much the same. He sees such-and-such symptoms over and over and treats them over-and-over with such and such meds.
"Fill these prescriptions," Dr. Wibawa drones, "give two lab samples before you go, and then get an upper endoscopy tomorrow."
His nurse hands me the envelop containing the 'invitation' to get an endoscopy.
So while Louis arranges things at the pharmacy counter, I am ushered into a separate room for the lab tests. First a tube of blood is taken (of which, I would mention, I have very little remaining in my veins after four months of intermittent lab tests, and then the young man who has drawn the blood hands me a little plastic tube with a little plastic spoon in it.
"What am I to do with this?"
"Poop," the young man says.
"Excuse me?"
"For da poop," he says.
"Now?"
"Yes."
"But I don't have to go now."
"Tomorrow. You poop. Bring da poop to da clinic. Open at 8 o'clock."
"You mean I have to poop at exactly 8 or get the poop to the clinic at exactly 8."
"Clinic open at 8. You poop when you want. But not more than 2 hours."
"Two hours for …?"
"For to bring da poop to da clinic."
I'm feeling a bit stressed at this. I'm picturing speeding to the clinic, being stopped by the police, and trying to explain I am transporting an important cargo of poop to the clinic and that it, like a carton of yogurt, has a pressing expiration time.
Well, upon finally arriving home, going on 11 now, I take the two pills, pop a piece of bread in the toaster for the required meal after taking the pills, and then, having eaten, crash on the bed. I had slept only a very few hours in the last few days and I am totally exhausted. And--wonders never cease--I fell asleep immediately. Heaven.
The next day, I am able to produce and deliver da poop, and moreover, what I produce seems conveniently custom-made for the little plastic tube! By 1 o'clock, I am on my way to the hospital for the endoscopy.
As it turns out, the hospital is located in the dim recesses of outer Denpasar, like Pluto in our solar system, and so I decided to take GrabCar. I can't imagine driving the scooter that far in my present condition.
As with all local hospitals (as opposed to international hospitals suited to wealthy ex-pat customers), BaliMed looks more like a warehouse than a hospital, although on the inside the quality improves to the level of an inner-city bus station.
Take a number, have a seat. And so I am sitting there, wondering whether they really do endoscopies in bus stations.
At last, after a slow-motion clerical flurry of papers, I am ushered into a closet which will serve as the endoscopy suite. A nurse lies me down on my side, places a towel under my chin, and calls the doctor over.
"You have opted for local anesthesia only, correct?"
We interrupt this broadcast for a test of the cognitive function system.
You see, when I registered at the front test, I was given the option of choosing local anesthetic or general anesthetic. I did recall having had an general anesthesia in the past-- twice, fact--once for wisdom tooth removal and once for insertion of a kidney stone catheter--but I did not recall general anesthesia in connection with a previous endoscopy. In fact, I barely remember the endoscopy from many years ago. Additionally, I noted that the procedure performed with general anesthesia was significantly more expensive than with local, and that I, after multiple doctor visits over the last few months, was significantly poorer than usual.
We now return you to the examination room
"Yes," I said, "that's correct."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Ready?"
"Proceed."
The nurse turns my head to the side, firmly holds my chin down, and the doctor proceeds.
Oh. My. God.
Who knew that an aluminum baseball bat could be shoved down the throat of a human being, slid in and out and back and forth, wiggled around? Every time I thought he had inserted the instrument as far as it could go, he inserted it further.
"Okay?" the doctor said,
"Gluck," I said.
"Relax," the nurse said, wiping snot and saliva from my chin.
Further again, and further yet.
"Okay?"
"Gluck!"
"Relax."
And then it was over. Praise God. I live.
Again, we interrupt this broadcast for a test of the cognitive function system.
I had been concerned from the start of my hospital visit--fixated, really--about who was to send the results of this study to the clinic, which was far away in the center of Denpasar. I did not want to have to pick it up and deliver it myself, and yet this is what the folks at the front desk had seemed to suggest. So I questioned the doctor as he studied the results from the endoscopy on his computer screen. Am I to pick this up, or will it be delivered to the clinic. I mean, do I have to return here and pick up the results? Or will they be sent to Dr. Wibawa's clinic?
By this point in my one-sided quandary, the doctor had begun to tap at a little plate pinned to his chest, eventually drawing my attention to it. The plate reads: Dr. Wibawa.
"Oh! It's you. You are Dr Wibawa!
This, I reckon, is either proof that all Asians do look the same, or that my brain is more deeply fried than I have realized. The latter, I think.
The doctor--Dr. Wibawa, actually, whom I met with in the first place at the clinic--finishes by asking why Dr. Tutwuri thought I had a fungal infection.
"Well, she did a throat swab, and the swab showed a fungal infection."
"That's strange," the doctor says, raising an eyebrow, and then two. "I see no evidence whatsoever of a fungal infection. None at all. It's a very specific thing. You can't miss it."
What does he mean by this. Can he possibly mean that Dr. Tutwuri has been treating me three months for a condition that I do not have?
Who can say? Anything is possible in Indonesia.
Now it's time to pay the bill and get the hell out of here. I rush down to the first floor, but cannot find the front desk. A helpful clerk tells me that it is on the second floor, where I had registered less than an hour ago. Remember?
So okay, back to the second floor. Come to think of it, this does look familiar. I find the cashier and wait my turn and pay my bill, and then I'm out of there.
Except that I cannot find the elevator.
It turns out, as is pointed out by another helpful clerk, that I am standing directly in front of the elevator, which, if I turn around, I will see.
As I ride home in the Grab Car I feel unusually well, despite having had the baseball ball inserted into my throat. Or is it because of this? Could this, after all, be the cure? If so, I hope that only a single treatment will be needed.
Day by day, I began to develop a strange feeling, at first just at night, of having something stuck in my throat. This symptom expanded to include a need to constantly swallow, and the swallowing then began to cause intense and relentless nausea.
I called Dr. Tutwuri, the ENT I had been seeing for some months now, and she suggested that I see a gastrohepatologist. This was not something I wanted to do, but she stuck by her guns and gave me no choice, really, but to shut up and suffer or see the gastrohepatologist.
(I am thankful, by the way, for the help of Louis and Wayne in this regard, as I truly felt too ill to make it on my own to the office, especially riding a motorbike and at nighttime when I can't see well anyway. They were very kind to convey me to the clinic and to stay for the examination and discussion with the doctor).
Beforehand, I had written down a summary of my history with the plague so far, which Dr. Wibawa, a soft-spoken, straight-faced gentleman, read dispassionately, and I thought, somehow, a bit doubtfully. I don't know, perhaps one corner of his mouth twitched upward toward the hint of a smile, or a smirk, toward the end of his reading. He then proceeded with a short examination, returned to his desk, and as Louis and I rambled through various elaborations, he wrote prescriptions on a pad, occasionally glancing up or muttering "Mm hm." One tends to think that one's own case of an illness is outstanding, particular, in need of careful explication, but I suppose that to a doctor they all look pretty much the same. He sees such-and-such symptoms over and over and treats them over-and-over with such and such meds.
"Fill these prescriptions," Dr. Wibawa drones, "give two lab samples before you go, and then get an upper endoscopy tomorrow."
His nurse hands me the envelop containing the 'invitation' to get an endoscopy.
So while Louis arranges things at the pharmacy counter, I am ushered into a separate room for the lab tests. First a tube of blood is taken (of which, I would mention, I have very little remaining in my veins after four months of intermittent lab tests, and then the young man who has drawn the blood hands me a little plastic tube with a little plastic spoon in it.
"What am I to do with this?"
"Poop," the young man says.
"Excuse me?"
"For da poop," he says.
"Now?"
"Yes."
"But I don't have to go now."
"Tomorrow. You poop. Bring da poop to da clinic. Open at 8 o'clock."
"You mean I have to poop at exactly 8 or get the poop to the clinic at exactly 8."
"Clinic open at 8. You poop when you want. But not more than 2 hours."
"Two hours for …?"
"For to bring da poop to da clinic."
I'm feeling a bit stressed at this. I'm picturing speeding to the clinic, being stopped by the police, and trying to explain I am transporting an important cargo of poop to the clinic and that it, like a carton of yogurt, has a pressing expiration time.
Well, upon finally arriving home, going on 11 now, I take the two pills, pop a piece of bread in the toaster for the required meal after taking the pills, and then, having eaten, crash on the bed. I had slept only a very few hours in the last few days and I am totally exhausted. And--wonders never cease--I fell asleep immediately. Heaven.
The next day, I am able to produce and deliver da poop, and moreover, what I produce seems conveniently custom-made for the little plastic tube! By 1 o'clock, I am on my way to the hospital for the endoscopy.
As it turns out, the hospital is located in the dim recesses of outer Denpasar, like Pluto in our solar system, and so I decided to take GrabCar. I can't imagine driving the scooter that far in my present condition.
As with all local hospitals (as opposed to international hospitals suited to wealthy ex-pat customers), BaliMed looks more like a warehouse than a hospital, although on the inside the quality improves to the level of an inner-city bus station.
Take a number, have a seat. And so I am sitting there, wondering whether they really do endoscopies in bus stations.
At last, after a slow-motion clerical flurry of papers, I am ushered into a closet which will serve as the endoscopy suite. A nurse lies me down on my side, places a towel under my chin, and calls the doctor over.
"You have opted for local anesthesia only, correct?"
We interrupt this broadcast for a test of the cognitive function system.
You see, when I registered at the front test, I was given the option of choosing local anesthetic or general anesthetic. I did recall having had an general anesthesia in the past-- twice, fact--once for wisdom tooth removal and once for insertion of a kidney stone catheter--but I did not recall general anesthesia in connection with a previous endoscopy. In fact, I barely remember the endoscopy from many years ago. Additionally, I noted that the procedure performed with general anesthesia was significantly more expensive than with local, and that I, after multiple doctor visits over the last few months, was significantly poorer than usual.
We now return you to the examination room
"Yes," I said, "that's correct."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Ready?"
"Proceed."
The nurse turns my head to the side, firmly holds my chin down, and the doctor proceeds.
Oh. My. God.
Who knew that an aluminum baseball bat could be shoved down the throat of a human being, slid in and out and back and forth, wiggled around? Every time I thought he had inserted the instrument as far as it could go, he inserted it further.
"Okay?" the doctor said,
"Gluck," I said.
"Relax," the nurse said, wiping snot and saliva from my chin.
Further again, and further yet.
"Okay?"
"Gluck!"
"Relax."
And then it was over. Praise God. I live.
Again, we interrupt this broadcast for a test of the cognitive function system.
I had been concerned from the start of my hospital visit--fixated, really--about who was to send the results of this study to the clinic, which was far away in the center of Denpasar. I did not want to have to pick it up and deliver it myself, and yet this is what the folks at the front desk had seemed to suggest. So I questioned the doctor as he studied the results from the endoscopy on his computer screen. Am I to pick this up, or will it be delivered to the clinic. I mean, do I have to return here and pick up the results? Or will they be sent to Dr. Wibawa's clinic?
By this point in my one-sided quandary, the doctor had begun to tap at a little plate pinned to his chest, eventually drawing my attention to it. The plate reads: Dr. Wibawa.
"Oh! It's you. You are Dr Wibawa!
This, I reckon, is either proof that all Asians do look the same, or that my brain is more deeply fried than I have realized. The latter, I think.
The doctor--Dr. Wibawa, actually, whom I met with in the first place at the clinic--finishes by asking why Dr. Tutwuri thought I had a fungal infection.
"Well, she did a throat swab, and the swab showed a fungal infection."
"That's strange," the doctor says, raising an eyebrow, and then two. "I see no evidence whatsoever of a fungal infection. None at all. It's a very specific thing. You can't miss it."
What does he mean by this. Can he possibly mean that Dr. Tutwuri has been treating me three months for a condition that I do not have?
Who can say? Anything is possible in Indonesia.
Now it's time to pay the bill and get the hell out of here. I rush down to the first floor, but cannot find the front desk. A helpful clerk tells me that it is on the second floor, where I had registered less than an hour ago. Remember?
So okay, back to the second floor. Come to think of it, this does look familiar. I find the cashier and wait my turn and pay my bill, and then I'm out of there.
Except that I cannot find the elevator.
It turns out, as is pointed out by another helpful clerk, that I am standing directly in front of the elevator, which, if I turn around, I will see.
As I ride home in the Grab Car I feel unusually well, despite having had the baseball ball inserted into my throat. Or is it because of this? Could this, after all, be the cure? If so, I hope that only a single treatment will be needed.
1 comment:
Drs are notorious for picking g an ailment to assign to patient when they have noises what you have. Basically, you have what the last guy had that visited that Dr.
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