A Delivery and a Hospital Visit, and the Weekend I Want to Move Beyond
It could have turned out differently. The knock could have been for a different reason. I talked to a friend this weekend who got a knock, too, but her knock, it was less pleasant. She had to write an apology for speaking in the elevator. Talking in elevators is no longer allowed in the time of Covid-19. Her apology is now taped up in that elevator. At least the first part of my weekend story is not one of shaming or blaming or the shadow side of my host country.
On Friday afternoon, I was in the middle of a Zoom call with my seniors when I heard the rapping on my door. Confused, I muted the microphone on my computer and turned my door handle. When the man on the other side offered a smile while holding two large boxes, I shook my head in response. "Oh, no. No, that's not for me," I offered in haste, trying to return to my students. He put his hand out to stop me from shutting the door. "Yes, it's for you. To thank you," he kindly returned. "We want to thank you for your cooperation during this time," he continued in English.
A bit flustered and a bit embarrassed for what might have been a bit rude, I reached out to take the boxes and a large envelope. I smiled back and thanked the man profusely, setting the boxes on the floor and briskly returned to my students.
When I had time to further examine the delivery, I found a box of oranges and a box of apples.
Patacon does have to inspect everything that arrives in a box.
And this letter:
This letter is a keeper. My favorite line is about the "small home" and "big family." I do, I like the spirit of the letter, the sense of solidarity it inspires.
Friday, unfortunately, gave way to an experience which has led my warm feelings to dissipate, or really, to dissolve and give rise to feelings much darker in hue.
I have had a nagging health-related issue for the past week. My symptoms -- swollen glands, a sore body, and some notable tenderness -- have slowly gotten worse over the course of the last few days. Yesterday, I called a woman in HR at school to let her know I would need to see a doctor as soon as possible. I also knew that while I know my issue is unrelated to Covid-19, my context was going to make doctoring difficult. Difficult feels like an understatement now.
My only option was to go to Shekou People's Hospital as I am within my 14-day quarantine. I found this news unfavorable because I was aware enough that this community hospital was unlikely to have doctors who speak English. I pushed for someone to accompany me, to act as a translator and someone who could navigate a system that I knew from others' experiences was complex to a foreigner. At first, I was told to see if I could just call a friend to translate for me. And then I was told to quickly go outside as the ambulance was coming to pick me up.
Well, I can check ambulance ride in China off my bucket list now.
When I got to the hospital, there were a number of hoops to jump through. In the midst of my confusion and frustration and physical discomfort, I did eventually get a call saying that a nurse from my normal clinic would come to meet me. Catherine, a nurse somewhere around my age who spent many years working in Singapore, arrived about 30 minutes later. Without her, I would not have been able to even have made it to step 3 of 17.
After over an hour of waiting, we stepped into the "doctor's office."
These temporary rooms have been set up in the time of Covid-19.
I was not allowed in the regular interior of the hospital, again, because I have not completed the 14-day quarantine yet. The doctor informed us that I would have to take a swab test, blood test and have a CT scan to prove that I was clear of the virus.
Hour 4 at the hospital. Results: I have good lungs.
After spending all afternoon at the hospital, I was then told that while my blood test had already come back negative for the virus, I would still not be able to see an actual doctor until Sunday when all of the results were in.
I went home exhausted and defeated. I did not know that Saturday was simply a warm-up for the Battle of Sunday During the Time of Covid-19.
Catherine messaged me when I was home Saturday night to let me know that she would meet me back at the hospital on Sunday morning. I was so relieved that it would be her rather than someone new.
When I woke up this morning, I was at first told that I would not be able to leave my house yet because the results had not yet been reported. After a bit more time passed, I was then told I could get a taxi and meet Catherine at the entrance to the hospital. She had the results -- negative, of course -- when I arrived.
Catherine and I then got to wait for another hour for a doctor to dress in a hazmat suit and come down from inside the hospital to see me in the temporary space set up outside the hospital. While all of my results were negative for the virus, again, I am still within the 14-day quarantine period, and so I still was not allowed inside the actual hospital.
When the doctor finally arrived, she did not know where she could even see me as there were no beds set up in the rudimentary rooms. She did not have the equipment she needed to examine me. She did not even want to come within a meter of me.
After a make-shift bed was placed inside one of these rooms, I realized that the doctor expected me to disrobe with a large window open to the corridor right outside.
The windows of the room I was placed in opened right up to this space.
I insisted some kind of covering be put on the window. This took real negotiation. Eventually, a thin blue medical paper was put up on the window. By this point, I was shaky and feeling vulnerable and just so tired.
Catherine trying to negotiate with Dr. Hazmat.
The doctor would not touch me with her gloved hands. She used an ultrasound machine to tell me that I had swollen glands, and when I said that I knew that, but that was not my main concern, she simply said she didn't have the right medical tools to investigate further. I tried to show her where I was feeling pain and discomfort. She said she couldn't help further.
I erupted into sobs on that damn bed. Seven exhausting hours had led to a simple, "go home and return after your 14-days are done."
Catherine gently put her hand on me and said that we would get me to see a doctor at my normal clinic as soon as my quarantine period was over. This means I will wait until Thursday to see the doctor that I need.
After another hour of waiting, antibiotics were placed in my hand, and I left the hospital exponentially more upset than the day before.
Defeat, rage, disempowerment.
I am currently sitting in my living room in silence. When I arrived home, I lit incense and just watched the smoke rise while I focused on breathing.
I am reflecting on my anger and frustration. I am thinking about the shadows behind the rugged individualism which is part of the DNA of the American psyche, and I am thinking about the shadows behind the rule of absolutes which is part of Chinese governance. The passport I hold comes from a country where the rights of the individual arguably often trump those of the collective. My host country is the opposite: the collective bars individuals from getting their personal needs met at times. What does this all mean right now? I'm not even entirely sure, but it seems something needs to give in both contexts.
After a lot of deep breaths and some lunch, I have been sitting here looking back at photos I took two weeks ago. I was one happy woman.
Thailand, how I miss you.
I am remembering the words from my favorite poem, the one whose lines adorn my arm: "No feeling is final. Just keep going."
At the end of writing this post, my dear friend Katie and her daughter Lana stopped by to drop off cookies. I went to my balcony to find her below as she was not allowed into the building. She blew kisses. She danced. And I am feeling a little bit better.
I love you, friend.
Community is everything. I just cannot wait for actual physical embraces when these 14 days are done.
Now excuse me while I eat some homemade cookies.