So they popped me right into a cot, and started coming at me with needles.
"On a scale of new-ish to fresh out of the vein of that Hep B patient in the corner, how would you rate this needle?" I asked the nurse. Or anyway, that's what I would have asked her if I could have remembered how to say Hep B in Chinese.
She went on searching for a vein, relying more on a vigorous stabbing method than any apparent personal knowledge of the circulatory system.
"The expression on your face right now is priceless," Jonas observed helpfully.
My neighbor was a young man with an apparently grievous head wound (judging from the bloody bandage around his head) who may or may not have also been missing an eye. He seemed to have been on the losing side of some kind of family blood feud rumble, from what we could gather as his myriad friends and relatives trooped in and out, followed by the police, who came to photograph his injuries. The extent of his medical care also appeared to be an IV drip, possibly because the town was having a blackout that day.
(Oh yeah, did I mention the town-wide blackout? I'm sure there was a generator somewhere in that hospital, but it was not located in the emergency room. Which consisted of three cots and a contraption helpfully titled in English: "Stomach Washing Machine".)
Eventually the fly-infested, bone-cold fun of watching the IV drip into my arm palled, and I inquired about heading home. (My kids come into class all the time toting IV bags that we then have to attach to a hook on the wall, so I know these things are portable). The taxi ride was a bit a tricky (did you know that if you don't keep the bag at the proper height, the tube actually starts sucking blood out of your body, instead of pushing medicine in?), but once home we hung it from the ceiling in my bedroom and all went swimmingly - until it was time to switch medicine bags.
So then, what seemed to me to be a whole bunch of air got into the tubes, and anyone who has ever seen a medical show on TV knows that air bubbles in an IV mean instant death. The electricity was still off, so I couldn't consult my usual medical expert (Google), and my phone was dead, so I couldn't call for help. All I could do was lay there and watch the bubbles inch down the tube and into my hand. My hand started to burn like a flock of bees had gotten loose in my arteries, and my lungs felt heavy like they were filling with water ...
Long story short, that seems to be somewhat of a TV myth. So I'm all good.
My only problem now is how to properly dispose of the IV bag, which is still hanging from my ceiling, given that the kids in this apartment complex have a tendency to dig such things out of the garbage and use them for play. (No really, I had to take one away from a six-year-old once. And the needle was still attached.)
Kisses to all who care!
