A Pain in My Ass

Since graduating high school, it seems I’ve been intent on collecting as many stamps in my passport as it will hold. Much to her dismay, I’ve taken one of my mother’s sayings, “the world is your oyster,” entirely too literally, and am always confused as to why more people don’t take the opportunity to travel. When I moved to France for college, people looked at me like I was insane – but four years later, everyone I talked to was bitter they hadn’t thought of doing the same thing. I often think people invent countless excuses not to travel more: not enough money, no time off, they’re convinced their plane with drop out of the sky, etc. And while some of these might be valid, they don’t hold water for long – if you’re determined to get up and see the world, it’s out there waiting for you.

I still don’t think my family and close friends completely understand my latest move to Korea. I had a fine job in New York, a great apartment and a group of unbelievable friends. After finally getting comfortable in my finances, I was able to make frequent visits back to Chicago to see my family, and in the meantime found time to make trips up and down the East Coast, getting to see a part of my own country I hadn’t explored. Why leave a good thing?

I can’t really explain the itch that have, other than to call it as such. I have an itch to see everything I possibly can while I’m still around, and every couple of years I guess it has to be scratched. As I’ve said before, I think that people are fascinating, and the more different kinds of nations and cultures I get to observe, I think the more I can learn about myself.

However, this all comes to a screeching halt when I get sick in a foreign country. My mother often accosts asks me when it is that I get homesick – what I miss most about the States and why the hell I have to move halfway around the world to teach people English when there are people in Chicago that need to learn English!?! In response I usually just hem and haw – because for the most part, I’m too busy enjoying everything I come across to spend time yearning for what’s at home. This is not to say I don’t miss my family and friends – I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought the only thing that could make this experience better is if I was surrounded by everyone I love. Yet as the standard response from those people when asked when they’re planning a trip over here varies from “probably never” to “over my dead body,” I’m not exactly holding my breath.

No matter how much I love traveling, as soon as my body gets even the slightest ailment, all I want is my mom’s couch, 192 channels and some home cooking. Which is why on Sunday when I woke up with the beginnings of a sore throat, I braced myself for the oncoming waves of missing suburban Chicago. When the slight soreness started to turn into full-blown strep throat accompanied by a raging fever, I decided that my attempts at gargling warm salt water, sleeping and hot tea were not going to do it this time. I needed some medication.

As it was already Monday afternoon and too late to find a sub for my classes, I headed to the pharmacy, where after a lot of pointing at my throat and grimacing I was given a bag of ibuprofen and five bags of indiscriminate brown sludge. Carrying the bags into class, I explained to my kids that because Teacher’s throat hurt, I wouldn’t be screaming and dancing around the class like usual – but if anyone could describe what I was supposed to do with the brown substance in complete English sentences, they would get extra credit. The kids told me that I was given a Chinese herbal remedy for colds and sore throats – a liquid derived from ginseng root and a deer’s antlers. I couldn’t get a clear answer on what exactly they did with the antlers (ground? boiled?), but it explained the illustration of the proud deer on the front of the bag. They told me that while it was effective, it was also disgusting. During my break, I choked down one packet and almost threw up; it tasted like a combination of dirt and tree bark, with a hint of cinnamon. I suffered through the next five hours of class and as soon as the night was over, retreated to my apartment to hopefully sleep this thing off.

As my fever rose that night and I alternated between sweating through my sheets and shivering, I knew that the antler juice wasn’t cutting it and I needed to see a doctor. In the morning, I called my head instructor and told him I had gotten worse and found out there was a medical center down the street from my apartment. The only problem? I still didn’t have my Alien Registration Card. Or my passport. Or my medical insurance card. When I called my Korean branch manager and told him the situation, he told me it wasn’t a problem and that I could just borrow one of my co-teacher’s insurance cards and it would be accepted.

Coming from a country where I’m nervous to even look at a doctor’s office for fear of accruing debt, I couldn’t imagine that they would take someone else’s insurance card, and figured something was getting lost in translation. Regardless, my throat was on fire and it was worth a shot; I called the Texan, borrowed his card and headed down the street to the medical center.

After living in France, I’m not a complete stranger to universal health care and think it’s a tragedy the U.S. hasn’t decided to make this issue a priority yet. But living in the only industrialized country in the world that doesn’t offer coverage to all of its citizens for the past two years, I quickly forgot that in the rest of the world, treating the patient is the main concern of doctors. So when I nervously handed over my fraudulent insurance card, I fully expected to be told that I couldn’t be helped and escorted to the door. As I held my breath, the receptionist looked from my New York driver’s license to the insurance card and back to the license.

    Receptionist: (Pointing to license) This you?
    Me: Yes.
    Receptionist: (Pointing to insurance card) This not you?
    Me: No, it’s my co-worker’s. But my throat really hurts.
    Receptionist: Your friend?
    Me: Yes. My card is coming soon.
    Receptionist: Ok, it’s good.

And with that, she began processing my paperwork. I would have kissed her if it wouldn’t have gotten her sick.

I would like to report that I was then passed through to the doctor’s office quickly and efficiently, examined, and released with a prescription thirty minutes later. But things don’t happen like that for me – this was going to take most of the day. I’m not sure if this is routine for everyone, or if this particular receptionist simply wanted to practice her English, but she proceeded to interrogate me using an online Korean-to-English dictionary which would produce questions ranging from “You get sick always?” to “Maybe you are tonsillitis?”

Halfway through trying to explain my condition and that the bacteria lodged in the back of my throat made talking pretty painful, she said something that made absolutely no sense to me: colonoscopy. She was referring to the doctor, at which point I again pointed at my throat and said, “Not my colon – my throat. Can the doctor please look at my throat?”

Twenty minutes later, apparently bored with the same answers I kept giving her, she had me write my symptoms down in English and proceed to the near-empty waiting room where I watched a cooking show for the next ten minutes. As I hadn’t eaten anything in the past 48 hours, this was pure torture. Finally a nurse retrieved me, and took me in to the doctor’s office, which to my horror was covered in illustrations of gastrointestinal tracts, colons, and the various positions one should be in whilst getting a colonoscopy. I wanted to cry.

The doctor came in and cheerfully explained that his English was the best in the building, and so he would be helping me. The fear of my impending rectal exam must have been all over my face, because he reassured me that he was going to look at my throat. After a quick “aaaaah,” he told me that it was indeed very swollen, and I needed medication and a shot. While his English was better, it still had some holes missing, and I told him that I had never before received a shot for a sore throat.

    Doctor: In Korea, very common. Very good.
    Me: In my throat?
    Doctor: (Laughing) No. (Pointing to my butt) Behind.

Colonoscopy or not, he was going to have me drop my pants. I told him that I needed to be teaching again in a day, so whatever he thought would be the quickest medication is what I would take. A nurse then came and took me into a small room with a bed, which she instructed me to lie on while she retrieved various items from the cabinet. When I saw an IV bag on her tray, I jumped off the bed and ran back to the doctor’s office.

    Me: I need an IV?!
    Doctor: Very good. Fluid.
    Me: But I’ve never had an IV before. This is for my sore throat?
    Doctor: Yes. Very good. Don’t worry.

I’m not sure if it was the lack of food in my stomach or the burning pain in my throat, but I just sighed, shrugged my shoulders and figured the man was a medical professional – he must know what he’s doing. After apologizing to the nurse for my erratic behavior, I let her start the drip in my forearm, which apparently was the hairiest thing this woman had ever seen, because she called a colleague in to check out the forest of arm hair she had to navigate through. When she finally finished (so many hairs...goodness...so many hairs), the doctor came in with another needle which he inserted into the IV, saying it would help but might make me feel a bit dizzy.

Two hours later I woke up to a knock at the door. At that point I wasn’t sure if my organs had been harvested for the black market, but my headache had disappeared and someone had kindly put CNN on the television. The nurse came in, brandishing another needle and telling me to roll over. Figuring I had little to lose at this point, I let her jab my ass with whatever “good fluid” that needle contained and promptly passed out for another hour.

I woke up to the doctor handing me a prescription and telling me I should feel much better in a day or so. As the nurse busied herself untangling the IV from the jungle on my arm, I thanked the doctor and gathered my things. Thankfully, he didn’t prescribe any more antler residue, and I left the pharmacy five minutes later with a bag full of pills. The bill for a day at the medical center and the accompanying prescription? $10.

After sleeping for most of the day today, I can happily report that while my ass is still a bit sore, I think my throat is on the mend. I’m just grateful I’m in a country where health care is so easy and (relatively) painless. By the end of the week I’m sure I’ll be back to making a fool of myself in my various attempts at understanding the Korean culture. While I still would love some American home cooking, my Korean branch manager stopped by unexpectedly tonight with Korean porridge his wife had made, which was amazing. And as for the mindless television, I’ve found some reality shows that are broadcast over the internet and have kept me busy being appalled at the various inane personalities we insist on collectively gaping at. Though I'm far from suburban Chicago, the combination of porridge and pointless television always helps me feel better. Even in Korea.