Surgery and Even MORE Shenanigans... with the surgery, this time!

We finished off the first installment with the trip to the hospital late Sunday afternoon to check in. Connie Kim had volunteered to come with us, as things would just be more straightforward with a Korean speaker along. As usual, Connie is a hero. She was a little taken aback by the amount of luggage we had with us, having no real clear idea about what would be required, and informed me knowledgeably that there would be no need of a suitcase for me, as I would be wearing whatever the hospital told me to, actually.

Dropping us on the curb, Connie supervised the unloading of the (evidently excessive) baggage, and drove off to park. The trip had been the first daylight journey for Mum and Bert, who were especially interested in his first round of the 'Spot the strange translation' game'; always fun around the 'Fine is Fine' factory. There was the usual press of traffic, over-crowded apartment blocks thrust into the side of hills, impossible buildings (restaurant shaped like a Georgian-era British warship, Taj Mahal replica, etc) and taxi drivers asserting their own special passive aggressive kind of authority on the roads. The bustle of the hospital in this first encounter was no less unsettling for my easy-going Maritime family. Annie, in contrast, strode around with the purpose and flippancy of youth; however, I remember what home is like, and know well that this building may be among the largest my mother has ever been in, let alone had to negotiate her way around while under duress- and it is all in Korea.

There was a minor dispute at the check-in counter over the amount we were going to have to pay for a single room (The insurance company would cover the cost of a double- I knew that a single would be better for Mum especially, so intended to make up the difference in price myself- well worth it, too, as long as it was the $40 Hyungji had told me, and not the $200 the clerk was informing me from the other side of the desk) Connie helped iron out the wrinkles of the encounter, and accompanied us up to the twelfth floor.

The room was basic, considering what I would have been paying without insurance. A small washroom, a few cupboards, a sofa and a bed. It had a good view of the parking lot behind the Korean Air building, which would prove to be a source of great interest to Mum, and was comfortable enough. People would come and go through it at all hours, only occasionally knocking.

We had been there only a few minutes when the onslaught of health care professionals began to arrive. Blood pressure and temperature were taken first- these would be monitored closely throughout my stay. A 'Save Lt arm' (sic) sign was put over my bed, giving warning that all procedures were to be done to my right arm only- I needed to draw this sign to someone's attention at least once a day. Other nurses and technicians came and went, drawing (a simply ridiculous amount of) blood, and dropping off a set of hospital pyjamas. Very cottony and very comfortable, as it happens. A twelve-year old doctor came in and began to describe the lumpectomy preparation. I would be given dinner, and then should eat nothing after nine o'clock. Water only, then, until midnight.

An early aside about dinner. The answer to the question 'Do you want the Korean menu or the Western one?' is ALWAYS and emphatically 'Korean!' This was wise advice from my friend Maggie, who after her hospital stay last year let me know that there were few illnesses as bad as the hospital's take on a grilled cheese sandwich. Even if you think you can't stomach stewed pork and squash for breakfast, resist the urge to try the scrambled eggs. Breakfast food is a wholly Western convention, remember, and most parts of the world believe- quite correctly, as it happens- that food is basically food, and does not need to be limited to certain times of the day.) In my experience, we usually only remember this in the West when there are leftover ribs and pizza from the takeaway of the night before.

Back to the topic: shortly after the departure of the first health-care Middle Schooler, dinner arrived. I picked at it; nothing wrong there, but I don't tend to eat alot of rice. I planned to walk downstairs with the family to show them the workings of some of the restaurants in the basement, where they would likely be needing to buy food while I was incarcerated... errrr... incapacitated. I had just pushed the half-cleared tray to one side when another Seventh Grader walked in, all be-labcoated and purposeful. This one, in grim and slightly panicked tones, notified me that there was a problem with the surgery.

P: Again??
SG: (Clearly anxious) Yes, I am sorry. You have rare blood type.
P: (Long, tense pause) I have a rare blood type?
SG: Yes. Very rare in Korea. We do not have blood. Need to get blood from blood bank.
P: (Volume rising slightly) Hang on. I have been coming to the hospital every three weeks since June. Every single time I come, my blood is taken. You are telling me that you are only NOW realising that I have a rare blood type???

Connie was still there, helpfully transmitting a bit of my (deep and increasing) frustration.

SG: (Via Connie) The blood is needed for hysterectomy, not for the operation on the breast. Therefore, the gynecologist did not realise that you had a rare blood type.
P: And it never occurred to anyone to check??
SG: Blood bank does not have Rhesus O Negative blood.
P: (Pointing at mother, who had been sitting dumbfounded throughout this exchange) This woman has my blood type. My brother is here, and so is my daughter. THEY both have my blood type; (which  may suddenly be sounding slightly less rare, I'm sure you will agree) I'm pretty sure that they'll let you have a few pints!
SG: (Aghast) No, no, we can't use their blood!
P: But why? They are here, they are able to solve the problem-
(Mother is already reaching for her blood donor card- she regularly donates at home)
SG: (And I may have imagined her tone, here, the one that made it sound like I was a moron for suggesting something so outrageous as getting THREE family members to make a quick donation to the Patti cause) The blood cannot just go from one person straight to another.

I sputtered a bit here- absolutely not what I was suggesting to the condescending little... eeerrr... highly trained and skilled professional.

SG:  It must go through treatment...

I let the child trail off at this point, because it was clear that I had encountered one of those nonsensical moments when I knew that the system is totally unaccustomed to change or side-ways thought. It would have made PERFECT sense to me to have my three willing donors willingly donate - just so that there is some extra blood in the bank for the next poor Rhesus Negative sod who happened to happen along, even if I wasn't able to use it myself. There are bound to be a thousand different sets of screening in place anyway before they will use it in the operating room, so what difference does it really REALLY make whether or not the donors have just flown in? Furthermore, within minutes of hearing that the O Neg situation had reared its bloody head, I had a flurry of emails from people at work who ALSO had this astonishingly rare blood type, arms extended and sleeves rolled up; these colleagues had also, of course, gone through the same extensive screening programme that everyone who comes to work in Korea undergoes, including full HIV and STD tests. Why, if the hospital is catering so much for internationals (And they are, and honestly, I think that there has been a simply FABULOUS job done in so many ways) WHY are they not regularly lining up at schools like mine, pestering the faculty for a pint of the Best? And finally, if it comes down to it, how the hell long does it take for a few pints of blood to go through the filters and processes necessary to be fit for human consumption? When one of those pints belongs to my MOTHER? Ghandi was more prone to wild living than my mother- if she's got anything funky in her blood, I should probably try to get it in mine as well.

These are questions that remain unanswered. My frustration may have been evident.

The Seventh Grader left with a tiny flea in her ear and the hint that there was still a mad hunt afoot to track down some blood in time for the surgery. This implication may have been geared to placate me somewhat.

Connie, bless her, made her excuses shortly after this extraordinary exchange, and headed home to her boys. She had not been out of the room more than fifteen minutes when we were interrupted yet again by a slip of a thing with a box and a drinking bottle in her hand.  As with the others, she was nervous and a little apologetic about using her English. She indicated the leftovers on the tray behind her and told me that the kitchen was officially closed, so to speak- that I was not permitted to eat anything else. This was several hours before the deadline that I had been given earlier, which was baffling. She also said that I needed to consume the contents of the packages in the box before nine o'clock, and then could have nothing at all. This was so dramatically different from my earlier instructions, that we called Connie, who confirmed that I had not misunderstood through the haze of my rare blood type. (!!) She also explained the contents of the packages. In short- and please, realise that we are entering henceforth the realm of hospitalese, when some of the descriptions of processes and procedures may come uncomfortably close to a few boundaries- this was to flush me out.
I was to mix each package, along with its accompanying sachet of electrolytes, with 500 millilitres of water, and drink it before nine pm. It was about 6:30. Two litres of fluid with the sole function of ensuring that anything inside my innards was... well... out.

And gentle reader, it was awful. At the risk of causing a copyright war with Ms Rowling, remember the scene in the Half Blood Prince where Dumbledore needed to retrieve a Horcrux by emptying out a receptacle of fluid that stole his wits and burned his insides?

I think I know what that stuff was.

It was thick and foul-smelling, the cheery lemon logos on the front of the box only serving to point out how LITTLE the contents resembled anything remotely citrus-flavoured. I am fairly sure that I was supposed to sip it: impossible. The only way I could get it down was to hold my nose and chug half a container at a time, then spend the next twenty minutes working up the wherewithal to do it again. Every once in a while I would peek into the box, incredulous that there were still remaining packages. The hours I spent consuming that vile viscosity rank amongst the worst experiences of this whole episode, and believe me, I have had some pretty unpleasant procedures over the last few months. I shall describe more of them soon. That liquid, though- shudder. And not the good kind.

Believe me on this, too: no one here wants to know what drinking that liquid did to me.

Next installment:
Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?