Yep, that’s right. Contrary to what you may believe, but I
have the hospital records to prove it. My favorite part of my three days in the
hospital, all the food my friends brought me (I ate NO hospital food!). My
least favorite part: people poking at my head wounds inducing mass amounts of
tears, and then asking me “What’s wrong?”, as if there is no valid reason that
water should be shooting out of my eyes and collecting in large pools on the
floor. Oh, but I guess I am getting ahead of myself.
It was exactly one week before I was to leave for my
Christmas vacation in Cambodia.
I had a to do list as long as my arm, and instead I decided to take the day
off, and relax. I spent most of the day reading and drinking tea. I went to a
restaurant not far from my house for dinner. I choose it because I could sit
outside and watch the Sunday Walking Street action. After a leisurely dinner,
reading, and people watching, I unsuspectingly asked for the bill. (In hindsight
I should have waited, maybe I would have gotten a free meal out of it
all….opportunity missed!)
While waiting for the change, everything went wrong. I
remember not feeling right, and putting my head on the table. The next thing I
knew, I had the most intense headache I have ever had, so intense that I
remember not being able to comprehend the pain first, and then not sure if I
could stay conscious because it was so unbelievably extreme. Then I realized
that there was a great deal of pain in my tongue, do to my healthy teeth
digging into it. I told myself to stop biting my own tongue and about that time
I started to hear people shouting. I tried to open my eyes, and I saw a black
shoe, and then I was out again.
When I came to, I was sitting on the ground, sobbing,
hyperventilating, and in the center of a crowd. I had a person holding each
arm, someone rubbing my back, someone rubbing my chest, about 20 people holding
different smelly substances in front of my nose, a person holding a cold napkin
to my forehead, and another person holding one to the back of my head. There
was blood, noise, and despite my best efforts, I failed to understand ANY Thai
being spoken in my vicinity. What can I say, I know how to get attention.
At first I refused an ambulance, but once I realized how
much my head was bleeding, I decided it was easier just to give in. So an
ambulance was called, my landlord called, and the kind man holding my forehead
packed up all my belongings (including my change from the bill), made sure my
purse was shut, and put it on my lap, wrapping my hands around it, I don’t
think he ever said a word to me, but I do remember him smiling every once in
awhile. I remember a group of foreigners trying to be helpful giving me advice,
but all it really seemed like was strange people groping me, pulling at my
shirt and sticking their face in mine.
The ambulance ride was a hoot. It was actually in the back
of a truck with a canopy on it that I crawled into and laid on the stretcher.
The medic (who was probably just doing it for merit) kept waving smelling salts
above my nose. The noise was atrocious; the light inside kept flashing on and
off, the medic repeatedly hitting it to try to get it to stay on. I made a joke
about it being a disco, to which everyone laughed. The truck got stuck in some
Soi somewhere, so everyone (but me) jumped out, to maneuver and move some cars.
There were no straps on the stretcher, so every time we turned the corner, the
medic leaned over me, holding me onto the stretcher. There was also a person in
street clothes sitting on my feet. Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up.
When I got the hospital, I was placed in the middle of the
Emergency Room waiting room facing the TV. I was hooked up to a blood pressure
machine that looked like some archaic torture device, which cut off the
circulation in my arm. Someone stood above me pouring alcohol on my bleeding
head, and cutting my hair. I would love to see what my blood pressure reading
was there.
I was taken to a room, where an IV was put in my an ungloved
nurse, and the doctor talked to me for two minutes before telling me I had to
spend the night in the hospital. My leg and my head on the right side were
cleaned and bandaged. However, cleaned not were my forehead and my nasty,
bloody, skin flapping toe, despite my repeated requests.
I was wheeled up to my room, where five people “helped” me
into bed (i.e. watched me struggle from the gurney to the bed on my own, shoes
on, and unable to move my neck), and three people changed my clothes for
me….yep, three. (Side note: my wonderful laundry lady got ALL of the blood
stains out of the light blue and white clothes that I was wearing that day, a
week after the accident! See there are some exceptionally good things about
living in Thailand.)
Later I discovered that the hair cut from my head, had been conveniently
left mixed in with my still attached hair for some future purpose that I am
still unaware of. Ratted and caked with blood, I was afraid that I had another
cut on my head that hadn’t been caught by the staff. But that mystery was
solved when a friend was brushing my hair and started pulling out hair by, what
seemed like at the time, handfuls.
The night was pretty uneventful, with just groups of people
coming in to turn on all the lights in the room, and check my blood pressure
and temperature. The next morning brought the entire hospital staff through my
room for one reason or another. Including my doctor, who asked me where I hurt.
I pointed to my bloody, swollen forehead, back of the head, and neck (which I still
couldn’t move). I was told that was because of my fall, and he proceed to press
on my diaphragm and asked if it hurt there. Ummm, no. He seemed a bit
disappointed that it hurt where there were bruises, swelling, and blood. (Ok,
if he had pushed on some internal organs, I might have understood. But
seriously, my diaphragm was the only thing he pushed on.) After blessing me
with his presence for no more than two minutes, he left me to rest and wait for
the neurologist.
The neurologist actually spent a whole five minutes with me.
In that amount of time he diagnosed me with epilepsy (“You have epilepsy. I
think this because migraines and epilepsy are related, and you have
migraines.”). I choked back the laughter, not wanting to be rude. He ordered an
EEG and told me after the test I would finally be aloud some pain killers.
***Let me just briefly say here, that my head felt as if it
were about to explode. I was sleeping with the blinds shut, I couldn’t handle
the noise from the TV, and when shear boredom hit could manage to read for
about five minutes before feeling a wave of nausea and realizing that I had no
idea what I had just read.
The nurse came in and told me I had to wash my hair and
offered to help. She had me bend over, all the blood rushing to my pounding
head, and proceed to attack every sore point on my head. When she realized I
was crying, she honestly seemed confused and asked me why. Let me see, you just
forced my neck into a position that I was unable to accomplish on my own, you
pressed on every bump on my head, and pored shampoo into my open wounds. Despite
this, I found her and all the female staff very sweet, and what they truly felt
was helpful.
Other highlights from my visit included the EEG, with the
electrodes stuck in and on all my head wounds, the nurses arguing over who was
prettier, being told by every nurse that she wanted to learn English, being on
a first name basis with all the staff in the nurses station, even the staff
that didn’t speak English, and being forced to spend a second unrestful night
to see a neurologist the next day who never showed up, and finally the nurses,
orderlies, and cleaning staff who came in my room the third day, sitting and
watching Mr. Bean with me.
The real highlight was the second night when I broke a glass; the
cleaning staff was called in. The first group came in and changed my sheets,
the second came in to give me new clothes, and the third group came in barefoot
to clean up the glass and water off the floor. I couldn’t believe it. I looked
around the corner into the hall, just to see if maybe they had left their shoes
in front of my door. But there were no shoes visible. Barefoot in a hospital,
it still makes me shake my head.
I was completely bored the third day. All of the pictures
were taking this day (except the night pictures, someone else took those with
my camera), while trying to pass the time waiting for the neurologist who never
showed. The swelling had gone down considerably, and I could actually move some
muscles in my neck and forehead by then. This was also the day before the black
eyes showed up, so I was looking pretty good at this point. Admittedly they
were pretty lame bumps and bruises for a two night stay in the hospital.
I was never really given a diagnosis, and on the third day
when I asked the doctor for advice and information, I was told not to stand up
too quickly next time. I wanted to slap him, as I had been sitting down with my
head on a table when this happened. All in all it could have been worse. There
were the kind strangers who stopped the blood and made sure my purse wasn’t
stolen. I had a parade of friends who came to visit and brought food, and
plenty more who would have come if I called. And if nothing else, I was left
with a couple humorous stories.
