Day 1
On the day of our
hospital trip, Dan and I chose a hospital using a Chengdu expat forum
since we were unfamiliar with the hospitals in Chengdu. Then after
lunch, we made our merry way with stool samples (placed in a very
Asian-looking cookie box with cute little raccoons and bunnies
decorating it which we then put inside an oversized H&M paper
bag—I know, I know) to Huaxi Hospital, Chengdu’s biggest and most
well-known hospital. In retrospect, choosing the largest and most
popular hospital wasn't the brightest idea, but hey, it's all part of
the adventure, right? All the while I was hoping the process would be
direct and simple. In and out.
We walked into Huaxi, and I thought
for a second I was at Penn Station at 5:30 PM. Except instead of
businessmen in crisp dress pants with glossy briefcases, Tibetans
with elaborate, colorful patterned vests, dark brown skin, and messy
hair were walking with purpose to their respective destinations. The
part of Chengdu we were in, the Tibetan Quarter (or Little Lhasa), is
populated by many Tibetans. The area is filled with monks and shops
boasting Tibetan handicraft, furniture, and jewelry. Many backpackers
pass through Little Lhasa as the last city on the mainland before
they head into Tibet. The floor was unmistakably crowded, but
not so packed I was constantly rubbing shoulders with people. I felt
like a captured sand crab after being released back onto the
sand—scuttling back and forth as I tried to orient myself and
recover in a new world.
At the same time I
was mesmerized by the whole damn thing and wanted to find out as much
as I could about Chinese hospitals and the provision of health care.
I've learned a little about Chinese medicine since I've been here.
Chinese traditional is based on the idea that sickness is caused by a
disruption to your 'chi'. 'Chi' translates to energy flow or life
force, and when that flow moving through your body is disrupted you
become ill. Chinese traditional medicine revolves around this idea
that good health is achieved by maintaining harmony in your body. Ensuring harmony among the 5 bodily elements is another way to stay healthy. The Chinese believe your body represents 5 elements (water,
fire, earth, metal, and wood) and if these components are not in
equilibrium, then your body becomes sick like when your 'chi' is
disrupted. The medicine you take is supposed to correct these
imbalances, and help you overcome your illness. I was only scratching
the surface though.
I
absorbed the people, the limps, the crowded elevators and waiting
people, the shuffle of feet, and the Tibetans. I couldn’t help
notice how different the Tibetans look from the Han. Tibetans have
darker skin-- even if they are from Chengdu where the sun is a rare
sight-- and darker, thicker, and much more unkempt hair than the Han.
Tibetan eyes also affect me differently from the Han's. Tibetan eyes
are pure, piercing, and a striking coal black. The Han's Coca-Cola
black eyes seem muddled and less penetrating.
There are distinct
differences beyond physical appearance though. I observed this a
month ago when I went to the Tibetan Quarter with my cousin, Carolyn,
and Dan. Since that visit I have become fascinated with Tibetan art
and its meaning and use in Tibetan life. The interior and exterior of
the places they live, and the handicrafts that adorn their bodies and
homes are all gorgeous. Their homes are decorated with delicately
carved, painted wooden tables, ceramic bowls with heavy flowery
patterns, and thangka paintings with ridiculous amount of
detail. Everything from their lamps to the architecture of their
homes is intricate in pattern and design, as well as energetic and
bold in color. Art is an integral part of their culture; it's neither
a separate entity nor a messy collision of the beautiful and the
living. To the Tibetans art is more than a painting on a wall only
appreciated when guests are over. Tibetans themselves
are art.
Once I had dinner
with friends and colleagues at a Tibetan restaurant in the Tibetan
Quarter where I met the most stunning woman. She was the owner of the
restaurant, and although her face wasn't particularly beautiful or
refined, she made me stop and stare. When she smiled I could see that
a golden cap was fixed over one of her front teeth. Her necklace was
clunky, fiery orange and red, and impressive in size and color. Her
wrists were adorned with bracelets of Tibetan silver (apparently
high-quality silver); I saw jade, turquoise, copper, silver, and a
veiny red. Her silver earrings played soft music whenever she walked,
and her butt-length thick black hair, tied in a simple ponytail at
the nape of her neck, swayed with each step. Her body radiated the
warmth of a rainbow. She was wearing a dark red long sleeved shirt
with silver threading and an ankle-length skirt of mixed colors
covered with gold spiraling designs. I marveled at her use of jewelry
as art; the composition was stunning. She was a walking Dali (think
Les Elephants).
The
utility and pleasure Tibetans pursue and find in art is remarkable,
but I know I digress. I bring up my fascination because
most of the people in the hospital were Tibetans, adding another
interesting element to the novelty of the experience.
The
first floor was filled solely with windows-- hospital workers behind
and lines of people waiting in front. The scene reminded me of the
end of a day in a factory when everybody is punching out. The windows
had various lettering on each, signifying the type of service that
could be found at the window. Even knowing what the windows read, we
were still unsure what our first step should be. We sought help from
a nurse in white chatting happily with another fellow nurse. She
instructed us to go to the 3rd
floor in rapid Chinese, but then suddenly decided to accompany us.
Thankful, we parted ways on the 3rd
floor where there were several information service desks, people
seated on plastic chairs, and one very long line leading to a closed
double door. Dan could read from a sign that this was indeed the
infection department. We chose an information desk and filled the
receptionist in on our situation. She smiled in her tiny white paper
hat and said we needed a number and that she couldn't give us one
because she had run out of them. We didn't ask what the number was
for; we figured it was a number for a queue like at the bank. After
she told us where we could get tickets, we obediently took the
escalator down to the 2nd
floor in search of them.
On the 2nd floor we found ourselves among a crowd of Chinese people elbowing their way to the front of a black marble countertop separating three hospital workers sitting at computers from a swarm of Chinese people (no line in true Chinese fashion). It was a fierce competition among the Chinese as they talked over one another in an attempt to get a worker to take care of them first. Other than this desk area, the rest of the floor was occupied by people walking to wherever they were supposed to be-- maternity ward, operation room, blood test site.
There was a regular
exchange occurring at the countertop-- a person would hand over a
plastic card to a worker who would swipe it and then entertain her
computer. We were close to the countertop when I heard a familiar
voice yelling directly in front of me, recognition and dread filled
me almost instantly. Other than his voice, I could recognize my
landlord from his oddly shaped head (think of a basketball with the
top and bottom cut off). My landlord speaks in only one volume: LOUD.
Dan and I exchanged knowing glances and silently moved to the other
end of the countertop.
Once we had captured the attention of
a hospital worker wearing a blue face mask and sitting at a computer,
we asked for a ticket, but once again we were sent away and
instructed to go to a different floor. On the
1st
floor, we finally found several windows with green lettering that
said “TICKETS”. We got on the shortest line. You'd think I
was scouting for Willy Wonka's last golden ticket because of how
difficult it was to find these tickets. Well, I didn't get the
ticket, and I didn't get to see the inside of the chocolate factory
because the woman behind the window told us we couldn’t see anyone
today and that we’d have to come back tomorrow.
There
we were in front of the hospital, holding a bag of poop, still
infected, and confused. We decided to try a different hospital and
after a quick call to my co-worker we left for the No. 363 Hospital.
She recommended the hospital because it was a military hospital,
which meant it had better health care than other hospitals, and
because it wouldn’t be busy. Renewed hope filled me as I clutched
the H&M bag on my lap and as the cab hurtled down the
street, weaving in and out of cautious Chinese pedestrians. After a
short cab ride, the driver pulled up in front of a hospital complex
consisting of several numbered buildings (1 to 6). All the buildings
were concentrated in an area roughly half the size of a football
field, and I could see several trees peeking out from behind the scattered
buildings.
There were only two
windows in the entry building’s lobby. A man seated behind one told
us to go to the main building to get a ticket. The walk to the main
building took a minute; the inside looked like a mini-version of
Huaxi with fewer people (still mostly Tibetan). There weren't many
lines and some windows were completely open for service. At an empty
window, a woman handed us two plastic cards (our tickets) and asked
us to pay 18 yuan in total (less than $3). We
forked over the colorful big money, and with our cards in hand,
retraced our steps back to the previous building. We handed
the man we had talked to before our plastic cards, prompting him to
ask us what was wrong. Dan explained that we thought we had
a parasitic infection which provoked a look of confusion on his face.
He insisted that the
hospital wasn't capable of treating our infection.
I didn't believe hiim because I knew our type of infection was fairly
common here, but we didn't argue, and instead we reluctantly left the
main building. I didn’t want to give up just yet though.
I spotted a
small building with glass walls next door that looked like the
hospital's pharmacy, and convinced Dan to find out what the
pharmacists knew. Inside the pharmacy, a pleasant, young female
pharmacist told us that there was a 'laoshi' (teacher) who could help
us on the 2nd
floor of the main building in Room 9. She added that today was the
teacher's day off, but we could come back tomorrow when the teacher
would be in. I had no idea why she kept using the word 'laoshi'
instead of the word for doctor 'yisheng'. I found out later that you
call a doctor a teacher if the doctor is also a professor. Regardless
of what the man said, I was still skeptical of any information given
to us because of what experience had taught me that day. We persisted
and went to go see if she was indeed out today.
Dan and I walked to
the 2nd floor to look for Room 9, and when we found it we
came face-to-face with the teacher’s smiling portrait next to a
closed office door. A curious receptionist who
had been eyeing us came up to us and informed us the teacher would be
in tomorrow (finally coinciding information!). She
suggested we talk to another doctor at the hospital in the meantime.
She waltzed us right in a room where a doctor heard us out and told
us that the teacher was better suited for diagnosing and treating our
infection. She even mentioned seeds and nuts as a treatment, but we
figured something had gotten lost in translation. We thanked her and
left. Dan and I
immediately cabbed to a Starbucks near our apartment
where I stuffed my face with a walnut muffin and hazelnut hot
chocolate. Parasite and all.
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