The Golden Ticket

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 3^rd floor in rapid Chinese, but then suddenly decided to accompany us. Thankful, we parted ways on the 3^rd 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 2^nd floor in search of them.

          On the 2^nd 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 1^st 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 2^nd 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 2^nd 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.

Invasion of the Parasite!!!

Day 0

        Dan and I’ve got problems. There's no need for alarm though (ahem, family members!). I'll be fine. It’s a common, but unusual (for me) health problem that could be fixed with a one-time pill.  I discovered a symptom that seemed all too familiar (won't say where) while I was at work, and called Dan in a panic. We shared each other's disgusted sentiments, promised we'd go to the hospital, and hung up the phone. Dan called me back later that day after making a similar discovery. I felt slightly better knowing my friend had a little friend too. We made a plan to go to the hospital the next week. After the call, I opened up Google and immediately typed in "____________", looking over my shoulder to make sure I could be horrified and in awe in solitude.

        I'm not going to tell you straight out what kind of infection I have because I'm half mortified and I half want to leave you guessing (the writer needs to have some fun too).

        All I’ll say is that I have a parasitic infection.

This End is Just a Beginning

Day 2

I handed the pharmacist the white slip of paper with the medicines and instructions the teacher had prescribed me. She had outlined the process in 4 easy steps:

1. Eat 100 grams of pumpkin seeds.
2. After 2 hours (once the pumpkin seeds are digested), add 60 grams of betel nut (a mild stimulant the Sanya locals often chewed) to water. Boil water, let cool, and drink.
3. Pour 20 grams of white crystal (I forget the Chinese name) into a cup of hot water. Drink.
4. Shit.

The pharmacist rummaged briefly in several plastic compartments that made up an entire wall until she found what she was looking for. She handed Dan and me 24 bags of Chinese sorcery and potions. I touched them gingerly in wonder and awe. I felt uncertain and nervous, but I was curious more than anything. I was practically a Chinese-traditional-medicine virgin (other than my bout with the cold), but regardless my teacher decided my journey would be Chinese traditional. Since we weren't opposed to the idea, we consented to taking the scenic route. We were in for the ride. There was no denying it though, the entire process, including the medicine, was so foreign and unusual, like a bizarre aquatic creature. I was accustomed to the simple Western solutions: take 1 tablet every 4 hours. But Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore. That’s for sure. When in China do as the Chinese do.

The pharmacist was completely unaware of my slight anxiety in seeing weird white crystals and dried nuts as the answer to my health problem. She was interested more in the fact we were foreigners, and that the white one could speak decent Chinese. She casually tossed all 24 bags in two small plastic bags, tied them, and placed them on top of the glass display case containing more Chinese medicine. She explained each medicine, and the directions more thoroughly-- patiently responding to our questions. She ended the entire affair by praising Dan’s Chinese, an appropriate ending to our two-day ordeal. After all, it was his Chinese that maneuvered us through the affair, bringing us to the tiny pharmacy at the No. 363 hospital, and to the end of our trek through China's hospitals.