Not Your Average "Theatre"

Originally, I thought my weeks in Sri Lanka would inspire me to write a lengthy, boring, holier-than-thou note about how much volunteering in a developing country had opened my eyes & dramatically altered my world-view and blah blah blah... Those days are long gone, and now that I'm here, I really just want to tell you all about my visit to a Kandyan hospital. So here goes... (side note: this note contains WAAAY TMI, and is not recommended for the weak of stomach)

A few days ago a mosquito bit me in a location that will not be disclosed, and after relentlessly itching the bite, I paid the price of my wrongdoings when it became infected. I couldn't sit or lay down (oh, there's the location for ya) without subjecting myself to excruciating pain...of course, I'm being overdramatic, but it REALLY hurt, all right?

Anyway, after about 2 days of nonstop throbbing (and not to mention the acquisition of a further abundance of mosquito bites, blisters, and zits that were pulling on my last nerves), I decided to tread into No Man's Land and check myself into a 3rd world hospital. It's the place your mother, doctor, ...or common sense warned you about: where many may enter, but few return unharmed (or at least in improved condition). Sri Lanka has both public and private hospitals, and after seeing the public hospital's morose line of over 200 people, I decided a private hospital would better suit my immediate needs...and future health.

As I cautiously approached the waiting room counter, I attracted the usual white-skinned girl stares, accompanied by the fierce, inquiring glares of 3 intimidating receptionists. I aimed for the most human-looking one and immediately began explaining my problem. Initially, she returned a bored, expressionless stare, but as I continued in my best broken English, her look turned into that of disgust as she realized I had just told her I had a huge infected mosquito bite on my ass. Class-less Americans!! After a few too many seconds of awkward silence, another clerk showed me to a small room furnished with a desk and patient bed that was in dire need of fresh paint, a fan, and a cheap-looking pastel-coloured painting of cats. I was told to wait for the doctor, who, after giving my ass a good rub down (feel up?), along with 3 of his other pervy "colleagues", informed me that my infection had become an abscess, and they would need to drain it. Sorry if this is TMI, but A) I warned you and B) Imagine how I felt, with student nurses giggling behind every (what they thought were) closed door, and the words "right buttocks girl" following me around everywhere I went like a black rain cloud.

One $75 deposit (do I get my money back if you accidentally kill me?) later, I was admitted to a pleasant room with a comfortable bed and adequate space. Nurses took my blood pressue and urine sample (I was hoping at least a hospital would have toilet paper, but was gravely disappointed), and injected an IV full of antibiotics into my wrist...the usual shabang. But by far the most interesting moment came when a nurse I hadn't seen before (and who I cannot think to describe as anything but a curious lesbian) came into the room and began to unnecessarily shave my down belows, an area that I had worked so hard at making as Sri Lankan as possible.
After CL had cleaned and smoothed me up, like a satisfied, glowing customer after a barbershop visit, I was wheeled into the (dun dun dun) "Operating Theatre". And theatre it was. The doctor and his brigade of nurses proved their incredible acting skills by assuring me I would feel "no pain", a line they probably use on everyone from chemo patients to expectant mothers. Sharp utensils and strips of gauze began flying every which way as I lay on my stomach and situated my IV just so in preparation for the "show". Presumably, as soon as the curtains were drawn, and the doctor began his act, I was in tears, clenching my hand around and pulling on my ponytail as forcibly as possible without going bald. At one point, the pain was so excruciating (yes, I can rightfully use that term now) I cried out in pain, creating a harmonic duet with the newborn baby next door. The doctor politely requested, "No yell, ok? I have job to do". Ok doc, I'll be sure to get right on that, when you get your SCISSORS out of my BUTT CHEEK!!! Thankfully, the operation (show? Performance?) was over before my voicebox was, and my tears of pain quickly transitioned into those of sheer loneliness. Being in a foreign hospital alone was by far the most depressing experience of my trip, if not my entire life.

After I finished drenching my pillowcase with salty droplets (and after the nurses finally gave up on their somewhat consoling attempts to sequester them), I was wheeled back to my home-for-the-night to rest (a hard thing to do at 2 pm on a full night of sleep).

A few uneventful hours passed until I was allowed to eat. The crowd of inquisitive nurses that regularly checked on me kindly offered me sandwiches, and after 3 failed attempts to discover "WHAT'S IN THEM???" (their repeated answers: "orange juice?"), I was delightfully surprised to find solo egg whites pressed in between the numerous slices of bread. After polishing off all but 2 of my "sandwiches", I lay my head down and slowly drifted off to the incessant buzzing of the AC and the lovely sight of my blood-stained IV bandage.

And now, here I am...
$250, a brazilian shave, and a 1" deep cut-in-ma-butt later, healthy as can be!!!

As we say in Sinhala, stoo-thi (thanks) to all the staff who made my one and only (let's hope) appearance at the Suwasevana Hospital's Operating "Theatre" a success!!