No, my husband did not get shot. He got a shot. By a doctor. A Chinese doctor. In China. Because apparently we have a thing for visiting medical facilities in emerging countries. Not as visitors, but as patients. That’s what we do, and we do it well. And often.
E. got a booboo on his arm a few weeks back while in Houston. Muscle tear or tennis elbow. Or bone cancer if you believe WebMD. It got from bad to worse and his pain was becoming so intense that it was turning him into a person I do not like. He probably didn’t like himself much either.
We do not have Sathya, our beloved trusted advisor, to guide us through the medical world of Beijing. We have the Internet. And Mr. Tony, one of the managers of the apartment complex where we stay. He wrote in Chinese characters the name of a hospital close by where the staff speaks English, and, as a bonus, is open 24/7.
I did not take details notes as I had after E.’s first Vespa accident (note the “first”, as there were several!) but all went very smoothly. The nurses wore paper face masks and were dressed in white with lavender cardigans. E. got a shot of steroids I think (“you would not have liked it” he said leaving the room) and after paying about $40, we left with a baggie of medicines and cream.
The western medicine doctor, a young man from South West China (“close to Tibet” he said) suggested acupuncture as an additional form of treatment. I like the seamless combination of all forms of healing that you find outside the Western world.
This afternoon, my husband will get to be a pin cushion!