Hour 49: 9:00a - "You're paroled? Congrats! Time to find yourself a woman and get into trouble." - Text message from Chris, hours after I was discharged.
I eventually fell asleep but spent most of the night tossing and turning. Hospital beds are not comfortable. For places that are supposed to aid in convalescence, hospitals sure are uncomfortable, drab, boring, tasteless places. I would have felt a lot better with some sun, some decent food, and a colour scheme other than "neutral."
My wound hurt less than it had the day before. Where before I could walk but only slowly, today I was able to walk at full stride. When I took my breakfast tray down the hall to drop it off, I bumped into the nurse who was with me the first night and she was shocked to see me up and mobile only two days after being unable to even sleep. I smiled and thanked her for the other night and then waltzed off down the hall, leaving another confused nurse in my wake.
The doctor was quite pleased with the speed of my recovery and after poking me some more, asked me when I'd like to go home. I smiled and said, "Now." She laughed and said that if my blood test tomorrow morning was good then I could go home tomorrow morning. I was ecstatic. If she had told me I'd have to stay a few more days I would have tried to bribe her. I'm sitting here on a Saturday writing this and according to the original estimation I'd still be in the hospital right now -- possibly till Sunday. I would have gone insane.
Aimee came for lunch and I told her the good news. Neither of us wanted to get our hopes up, but it was difficult since I was no longer in pain and didn't appear to have developed an infection. We lounged around talking about how nice it would be once I was home, Aimee gagging down some unappetizing sushi from the grocery store, me gagging down rice gruel. Not exactly a good note for Aimee to go to work on, but someone had to earn the money while I was infirm.
I spent most of the day reading and working on a little Japanese. A couple of the nurses were pretty impressed that I was studying while recovering from surgery. Not impressed enough to slip me a little extra (or decent) food, but oh well. Aimee had brought me some pears, bananas, watermelon, and cashew nuts, so I was well stocked.
Our friend Chris came to visit me after he finished work and he brought me a sandwich -- a true friend. I stashed it in my refrigerator for breakfast and I walked him through the whole ordeal. I was no longer hooked up to various machinery (even my IV had been removed) so it was a little less dramatic. I also didn't have any pictures -- another regret from this experience. Neither Aimee nor I were thinking about posterity, apparently.
Chris left around 8:00 and I went to bed to read, hoping to outlast my laughing neighbour. No such luck though -- his movies were more entertaining than my book. I didn't have as much trouble falling asleep as I thought I would though. I guess my rage toward him was dissipated slightly by the likelihood that I'd be leaving the next day, so I slept a little better. No dreams though, which was surprising. I remember that I was having a dream while I was being operated on, but since that one I can't remember anything else. I would have thought that being doped up would produce some good ones, but alas...
I was woken up by a nurse roughly shaking me, which I took as a good sign: If I can be roused roughly then I must be good to go home, I thought. She took my blood and then what I hoped would be my last breakfast arrived.
Aimee snuck in 30 minutes before visiting hours started and we laid in bed relaxing. She had only been back in Japan for 10 days before I got sick, so we hadn't spent all that much time together between work and socializing. Laying in a hospital bed together wasn't exactly romantic, but it was nice.
My doctor, another doctor, and three nurses all showed up shortly after Aimee arrived and we weren't sure at first what to make of them. Either the news was dire, or they just wanted one last look at the foreigner. Luckily it was the latter. I was given my biopsy results (negative) and my doctor said my blood work was okay, so I was free to go. I thanked them for everything, we packed my bags, and I damn near skipped out of that hospital just after 10:00a Wednesday morning -- 73 hours after my operation started.
The sandwich Chris gave me was the first thing I ate when I got home and it was delicious. Does the penal system have a program in place where you can request a first meal after you're paroled, like you can request a last meal before you're executed? Because that meal would taste really, really good. Probably better than a last meal; I think if you knew that you were eating your last meal it would taste like ashes.
It's Sunday morning now and I've been out of the hospital since Wednesday. I'm totally mobile, I feel fine, and there's only the slightest bit of pain under my incision -- and only if I push hard. My vacation ends on Tuesday, when I start work again.
Somehow I forgot to mention that my doctor said I had the smallest appendix she'd ever seen -- about the size of my pinky finger. So if I've learned nothing else from this experience, at least I've learned this: Size does matter, but not how I originally imagined it, and possibly only to cute Japanese surgeons.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
18 September 2011
17 September 2011
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
Hour 25: 9:00a - "Boredom is rage spread thin." - Paul Tillich
I woke up in a tangle of IV tubes, heart monitor wires, blood pressure gauge hoses, and thrombosis prevention compression socks/boots. But I woke up in very little pain. Aimee came around 9:00 o'clock and I told her my harrowing tale. She wasn't impressed that more wasn't done to help me, but she was pleased to see me feeling much better. "You're my little invalid now," she cooed, clearly pleased with her attempt at humor.
The nurse from the night before was gone, so a different one came by and was shocked to see me not writhing in pain. I guess the report from the night before was pretty damning. I was sitting upright on the bed talking to Aimee, the only evidence of my ordeal the sweaty, disheveled sheets beneath me. The nurse took my blood, temperature, and blood pressure, and then left, no doubt confused that my smile wasn't a grimace.
My cute doctor came in next and she too was surprised by my rapid convalescence. She poked my stomach expecting me to pass out in pain, but I didn't feel much more than some slight discomfort. The only place that hurt was below the incision where my abdominal muscles were stitching themselves up. The doctor shrugged and said I could eat solids for lunch and drink tea and water, but no juice.
Meals in Japanese hospitals are as bland as their counterparts in Canada -- and likely the world over. However, they do serve a lot of vegetables. They're steamed and flavorless, but they're vegetables nevertheless. Where Japanese meals really differ is that they give you no utensils.
I thought they forgot to bring them so I rang the nurse and she asked me, quizzically, "You didn't bring your own?" Um, no, I didn't bring my own utensils when I came to the hospital in pain the other night. She left and brought me a spoon and then told me that I could buy one downstairs after my meal. When I finished my lunch I scratched the number off the back indicating what wing it was from and put it in my drawer. Buy my own spoon indeed.
Aimee left shortly after I gagged down lunch and boredom promptly set in. I had my Kindle with me (I anticipated having to provide my own entertainment, not my own utensils) with a bunch of books I wanted to read, but I was still bored. I think setting or environment must have a lot to do with boredom. Reading at home in a relaxing chair, or lounging outside next to a lake or river with a book -- reading in places like these is not boring. But reading on an uncomfortable hospital bed? Boredom defined, somehow. Maybe it was because that was the only option I had.
Dinner came around and I gagged down some more rice gruel and bland vegetables. Even the food was boring, as unstimulating to the palate as the environment was to the senses. Boredom inside my body and out. Surely sleep would entertain me; painless, deep sleep.
Meet my first neighbour. To my right, with his mouth aimed right at the thin partition dividing my "room" and his: the snorer. Light out, head hits the pillow, snoring begins. For 30 minutes. Straight. And then... silence? Strangely enough, yes. His snoring could be heard down the hall; it rattled the walls; it surely threw off the timing of pace makers. And it blew itself out after 30 minutes, the bass drum sound turning to the sweet sounds of a baby breathing. Peace.
Meet my second neighbour. Directly across from me, headphones on, laptop on, what must have been the funniest movie ever made playing on his computer because he would not. stop. laughing. Not a loud, obnoxious laugh, though. This could barely be described as a laugh. It was a gentle sucking in and expulsion of air; a polite noise to indicate that yes, what was said was funny; a Japanese, I'm-in-a-hospital-and-must-be-polite sort of laugh. The most irritating laugh I've ever had to suffer.
An obnoxious laugh could be stopped. Ring the nurse, point to the offender's area, and sleep. But how could I call a nurse for a little snicker, a soundless chortle? Call her over and have her wait? "You'll hear it, I promise! It's unbearable!" There was nothing to be done. The rage that had unfolded itself into boredom concentrated itself into an impotent wish that the man's computer would explode, ending my suffering.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
I woke up in a tangle of IV tubes, heart monitor wires, blood pressure gauge hoses, and thrombosis prevention compression socks/boots. But I woke up in very little pain. Aimee came around 9:00 o'clock and I told her my harrowing tale. She wasn't impressed that more wasn't done to help me, but she was pleased to see me feeling much better. "You're my little invalid now," she cooed, clearly pleased with her attempt at humor.
The nurse from the night before was gone, so a different one came by and was shocked to see me not writhing in pain. I guess the report from the night before was pretty damning. I was sitting upright on the bed talking to Aimee, the only evidence of my ordeal the sweaty, disheveled sheets beneath me. The nurse took my blood, temperature, and blood pressure, and then left, no doubt confused that my smile wasn't a grimace.
My cute doctor came in next and she too was surprised by my rapid convalescence. She poked my stomach expecting me to pass out in pain, but I didn't feel much more than some slight discomfort. The only place that hurt was below the incision where my abdominal muscles were stitching themselves up. The doctor shrugged and said I could eat solids for lunch and drink tea and water, but no juice.
Meals in Japanese hospitals are as bland as their counterparts in Canada -- and likely the world over. However, they do serve a lot of vegetables. They're steamed and flavorless, but they're vegetables nevertheless. Where Japanese meals really differ is that they give you no utensils.
I thought they forgot to bring them so I rang the nurse and she asked me, quizzically, "You didn't bring your own?" Um, no, I didn't bring my own utensils when I came to the hospital in pain the other night. She left and brought me a spoon and then told me that I could buy one downstairs after my meal. When I finished my lunch I scratched the number off the back indicating what wing it was from and put it in my drawer. Buy my own spoon indeed.
Aimee left shortly after I gagged down lunch and boredom promptly set in. I had my Kindle with me (I anticipated having to provide my own entertainment, not my own utensils) with a bunch of books I wanted to read, but I was still bored. I think setting or environment must have a lot to do with boredom. Reading at home in a relaxing chair, or lounging outside next to a lake or river with a book -- reading in places like these is not boring. But reading on an uncomfortable hospital bed? Boredom defined, somehow. Maybe it was because that was the only option I had.
Dinner came around and I gagged down some more rice gruel and bland vegetables. Even the food was boring, as unstimulating to the palate as the environment was to the senses. Boredom inside my body and out. Surely sleep would entertain me; painless, deep sleep.
Meet my first neighbour. To my right, with his mouth aimed right at the thin partition dividing my "room" and his: the snorer. Light out, head hits the pillow, snoring begins. For 30 minutes. Straight. And then... silence? Strangely enough, yes. His snoring could be heard down the hall; it rattled the walls; it surely threw off the timing of pace makers. And it blew itself out after 30 minutes, the bass drum sound turning to the sweet sounds of a baby breathing. Peace.
Meet my second neighbour. Directly across from me, headphones on, laptop on, what must have been the funniest movie ever made playing on his computer because he would not. stop. laughing. Not a loud, obnoxious laugh, though. This could barely be described as a laugh. It was a gentle sucking in and expulsion of air; a polite noise to indicate that yes, what was said was funny; a Japanese, I'm-in-a-hospital-and-must-be-polite sort of laugh. The most irritating laugh I've ever had to suffer.
An obnoxious laugh could be stopped. Ring the nurse, point to the offender's area, and sleep. But how could I call a nurse for a little snicker, a soundless chortle? Call her over and have her wait? "You'll hear it, I promise! It's unbearable!" There was nothing to be done. The rage that had unfolded itself into boredom concentrated itself into an impotent wish that the man's computer would explode, ending my suffering.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
16 September 2011
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
Zero Hour: 9:00a - "Don't Thank Me; Thank the Knife." - Dr. Hibbert
Minor surgeries like gall bladder removal and appendectomies are typically done by laparoscopic surgery. Unfortunately for me, I was in the city hospital -- as opposed to a private hospital -- and they lacked the equipment for laparoscopic surgery. So I had a good ol' fashioned laparotomy. For those of you uninterested in Wikipedia articles: in laparoscopic surgery, small holes are cut into you (3-4) for a camera, a knife, and a tweezer like apparatus to grab your diseased organ; in a laparotomy, your abdominal wall is sliced through to gain access to the diseased organ. Laparoscopic surgery has a significantly shorter recovery time since the damage to muscle is minimal. Laparotomy recovery time is longer (and more painful), but leaves you with a significantly cooler scar. And my dad always told me that chicks dig scars.
When I was wheeled out of the room where I changed into my surgery outfit (they're as bad here as they are back home), two of the guys from work had arrived and were standing with Aimee at the end of the hall. I opened my legs and flashed them, but being a modest country, the nurse had asked me to leave my boxers on while I was changing. Everyone laughed nonetheless. (Except for 10 excruciating hours of pain post-operation, I made light of this entire experience).
The cute doctor and her team of nurses were in the operating room and we greeted each other as if we were meeting for the first time -- it was very formal and not at all surprising. I jumped up onto the table and laid back and we practiced the things they would ask me after the operation was finished to make sure I was coherent: Open your mouth; Squeeze your hand; Open your eyes; Breathe. I know all these things regularly but we practiced them several times so they were familiar. I have no recollection of whether or not I said them.
After my Japanese lesson they put the gas mask on me. I started to feel drunk and I told them and everyone laughed. Then I asked if I was the first foreigner anyone had operated on, and that got a really good laugh. My greatest regret is that I cannot remember anyone's answer.
There's an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry tells George that the secret to being a comedian is going out on a laugh. George spends the episode leaving meetings and so forth after making everyone laugh. I followed this rule to a tee. Everyone was laughing and I felt pretty good and then I was out. The next thing I remember was someone saying "Stanton-sama" and I was being lifted from the operating table to a bed. After that I remember hearing my co-workers discussing Sex and the City (the male ones; Aimee and the female were discussing something else, I later found out).
The pain started promptly when I got to my room, and it was my own doing. I mentioned that we practiced some sentences earlier. The one I practiced more than any other was "Sore o nuite kudasai." Or, "Please pull that out."
The English speaking doctor told me I'd have a catheter for the operation; pretty standard procedure. He told me it would be removed around 6 hours after I woke up; not so standard procedure? "Um, what if I want you to take it out earlier?" I asked. He said to just tell the first person I spoke with that I wanted it removed. So I practiced that very simple sentence over and over because I wasn't sure how my Japanese would be right after surgery. Pretty good, apparently, because whomever I spoke to removed it promptly. Painful, but much less painful than waiting 6 hours till I was fully coherent.
I dozed on and off for the next couple of hours while Aimee sat next to me, alternatively upset because I was in pain, and enthralled by her book while I slept. I think she preferred it while I slept, and rightly so -- I'm orders of magnitude grumpier when I'm in pain than when I'm, let's say, hungry. In particular, I don't like to be touched. So I was writhing in pain on the bed and Aimee's (anyone's) first instinct was to touch me, but that just made me lash out.
When the pain became unbearable I asked for relief. The nurse came and hooked up this bag full of milk-looking fluid to my IV and told me it would take 30 minutes to empty into my bloodstream. It didn't help. The 30 minutes came and went, but 20 minutes after that the pain was worse. I asked for something stronger and they brought a bag of heavy-duty pain killer. I have no idea what it was but it worked wonders; I was in pain one moment and then blissful the next. It was 30 minutes before visiting hours ended so Aimee snuck in a kiss while I was high and left. I don't know how long I slept for.
When I woke up again I was in pain. But dull pain; pain waiting to be painful. I wanted to outsmart this pain so I called the nurse again and asked for more medication. But she said I couldn't have any. The stuff they had given me earlier was too strong to give regularly; I'd have to wait 3.5 hours before I could have something else. And the something else couldn't be the strong stuff -- it had to be the ineffectual milk. I was livid. The pain sensed weakness and launched its assault.
Slowly, I could feel the pain spreading from my incision into my lower abdomen, and then up into my stomach, stopping just below my ribs. My entire mid-section was screaming. It felt like I was being stabbed to death, but somehow gently enough that I wouldn't die. I pushed the buzzer repeatedly for the nurse but they kept telling me the same thing: they couldn't give me anything. I asked for a doctor and this took forever because there wasn't one in the wing I was staying in.
By the time the doctor arrived I was in tears, almost screaming. My legs were kicking back and forth and I was alternating between squeezing the sheets and pounding the mattress. The doctor must have been moved by my death throes as he authorized the nurse to sedate me -- but with the ineffective milk. I almost died. And later, I think the nurse thought I had.
I watched every drop drip into my IV for 30 agonizing minutes, and then lay there for another 10 building a hatred in my head so powerful it would have infected any remaining vestigial organs, had I had any -- good riddance, tonsils and appendix. The milk did my body no good. Then suddenly -- I have no idea how much time passed -- I found myself on my side, in rapture. I felt nothing. I didn't even respond when the nurse asked if I was alright. I didn't respond again when she asked more urgently. Nor did I flinch when she grabbed my wrist to check my pulse, presumably to make sure she hadn't just killed me.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
Minor surgeries like gall bladder removal and appendectomies are typically done by laparoscopic surgery. Unfortunately for me, I was in the city hospital -- as opposed to a private hospital -- and they lacked the equipment for laparoscopic surgery. So I had a good ol' fashioned laparotomy. For those of you uninterested in Wikipedia articles: in laparoscopic surgery, small holes are cut into you (3-4) for a camera, a knife, and a tweezer like apparatus to grab your diseased organ; in a laparotomy, your abdominal wall is sliced through to gain access to the diseased organ. Laparoscopic surgery has a significantly shorter recovery time since the damage to muscle is minimal. Laparotomy recovery time is longer (and more painful), but leaves you with a significantly cooler scar. And my dad always told me that chicks dig scars.
When I was wheeled out of the room where I changed into my surgery outfit (they're as bad here as they are back home), two of the guys from work had arrived and were standing with Aimee at the end of the hall. I opened my legs and flashed them, but being a modest country, the nurse had asked me to leave my boxers on while I was changing. Everyone laughed nonetheless. (Except for 10 excruciating hours of pain post-operation, I made light of this entire experience).
The cute doctor and her team of nurses were in the operating room and we greeted each other as if we were meeting for the first time -- it was very formal and not at all surprising. I jumped up onto the table and laid back and we practiced the things they would ask me after the operation was finished to make sure I was coherent: Open your mouth; Squeeze your hand; Open your eyes; Breathe. I know all these things regularly but we practiced them several times so they were familiar. I have no recollection of whether or not I said them.
After my Japanese lesson they put the gas mask on me. I started to feel drunk and I told them and everyone laughed. Then I asked if I was the first foreigner anyone had operated on, and that got a really good laugh. My greatest regret is that I cannot remember anyone's answer.
There's an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry tells George that the secret to being a comedian is going out on a laugh. George spends the episode leaving meetings and so forth after making everyone laugh. I followed this rule to a tee. Everyone was laughing and I felt pretty good and then I was out. The next thing I remember was someone saying "Stanton-sama" and I was being lifted from the operating table to a bed. After that I remember hearing my co-workers discussing Sex and the City (the male ones; Aimee and the female were discussing something else, I later found out).
The pain started promptly when I got to my room, and it was my own doing. I mentioned that we practiced some sentences earlier. The one I practiced more than any other was "Sore o nuite kudasai." Or, "Please pull that out."
The English speaking doctor told me I'd have a catheter for the operation; pretty standard procedure. He told me it would be removed around 6 hours after I woke up; not so standard procedure? "Um, what if I want you to take it out earlier?" I asked. He said to just tell the first person I spoke with that I wanted it removed. So I practiced that very simple sentence over and over because I wasn't sure how my Japanese would be right after surgery. Pretty good, apparently, because whomever I spoke to removed it promptly. Painful, but much less painful than waiting 6 hours till I was fully coherent.
I dozed on and off for the next couple of hours while Aimee sat next to me, alternatively upset because I was in pain, and enthralled by her book while I slept. I think she preferred it while I slept, and rightly so -- I'm orders of magnitude grumpier when I'm in pain than when I'm, let's say, hungry. In particular, I don't like to be touched. So I was writhing in pain on the bed and Aimee's (anyone's) first instinct was to touch me, but that just made me lash out.
When the pain became unbearable I asked for relief. The nurse came and hooked up this bag full of milk-looking fluid to my IV and told me it would take 30 minutes to empty into my bloodstream. It didn't help. The 30 minutes came and went, but 20 minutes after that the pain was worse. I asked for something stronger and they brought a bag of heavy-duty pain killer. I have no idea what it was but it worked wonders; I was in pain one moment and then blissful the next. It was 30 minutes before visiting hours ended so Aimee snuck in a kiss while I was high and left. I don't know how long I slept for.
When I woke up again I was in pain. But dull pain; pain waiting to be painful. I wanted to outsmart this pain so I called the nurse again and asked for more medication. But she said I couldn't have any. The stuff they had given me earlier was too strong to give regularly; I'd have to wait 3.5 hours before I could have something else. And the something else couldn't be the strong stuff -- it had to be the ineffectual milk. I was livid. The pain sensed weakness and launched its assault.
Slowly, I could feel the pain spreading from my incision into my lower abdomen, and then up into my stomach, stopping just below my ribs. My entire mid-section was screaming. It felt like I was being stabbed to death, but somehow gently enough that I wouldn't die. I pushed the buzzer repeatedly for the nurse but they kept telling me the same thing: they couldn't give me anything. I asked for a doctor and this took forever because there wasn't one in the wing I was staying in.
By the time the doctor arrived I was in tears, almost screaming. My legs were kicking back and forth and I was alternating between squeezing the sheets and pounding the mattress. The doctor must have been moved by my death throes as he authorized the nurse to sedate me -- but with the ineffective milk. I almost died. And later, I think the nurse thought I had.
I watched every drop drip into my IV for 30 agonizing minutes, and then lay there for another 10 building a hatred in my head so powerful it would have infected any remaining vestigial organs, had I had any -- good riddance, tonsils and appendix. The milk did my body no good. Then suddenly -- I have no idea how much time passed -- I found myself on my side, in rapture. I felt nothing. I didn't even respond when the nurse asked if I was alright. I didn't respond again when she asked more urgently. Nor did I flinch when she grabbed my wrist to check my pulse, presumably to make sure she hadn't just killed me.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
15 September 2011
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
Saturday, 10 September, I got up at 8:00a for work, as I usually do. My abdomen felt a little cramped, but I didn't think anything of it. I ate breakfast as usual, showered as usual, and went to teach my classes as usual. The irritation persisted throughout the day, and I thought maybe I slept funny. When I got home we went out to celebrate a friend's birthday and the irritation persisted throughout the night at about the same level. Neither of us thought much of it; we joked that maybe I had appendicitis.
At 4:30a Sunday morning (11 September), I woke up in a little bit of pain for the first time. It dawned on me that maybe I should feel around my abdomen to see if the pain was localized. And it was -- above my appendix. I got up to use the washroom and then laid back down in bed and felt around again. Yup, right above the appendix. I turned to Aimee and asked, "Are you awake?"
"Ugh," she groaned.
"I think I'm sick."
Some more poking by me and some groggy getting dressed by Aimee preceded our walk downstairs to the convenience store to find out where the closest hospital was. Just down the street, luckily. Rather, luckily if it was open.
We walked through the doors of the hospital and the place was dark. No lights. No noise. No people. We poked around and I called out once for someone behind the counter (the counter that had a bank of computers with their screens on. I knew I wasn't too far gone because I still raged about wasted energy.), but no one was around. On our way back out a patient came out of the elevator and he explained to us that the hospital wouldn't be open today because it was Sunday. This floored us. In Canada hospitals are open all day, every day (although apparently emergency care [24 hour hospitals] is a thing from 1950 onward). Furthermore, you have to call first in Japan; you can't just show up.
We went home and checked Google for hospitals in Nagoya that were open on Sunday and found a couple. We called one and they were closing in 15 minutes (so if I showed up with my guts in my hands...?). We called the second one and they were open, so we jumped in a cab before they could send me and my primed appendix elsewhere.
Once we finally got inside the hospital, things became normal. They smell as sterile as any North American hospital; they're bureaucratic; the tests are as routine; one of the doctors even spoke English. One important difference, though, was the wait time: nonexistent! We walked in the door, I handed them my card, and within 10 minutes I was being examined by two doctors and three nurses. I was in the examination room by around 6:30a and by 7:30 I had had bloodwork and a CT scan. By 7:35 we were waiting for a surgeon to consult with the other two doctors (and when a cute Japanese woman walked by I said to Aimee, "I bet that's my doctor," to which she rolled her eyes) and by 7:40 I was diagnosed with acute appendicitis.
The English speaking doctor asked if there was any Japanese person we could call to have them help translate, because some of the vocabulary is pretty technical, so I went through my phone and called everyone I knew. However, since we were all out late with most of them the night before, no one answered their phones. I finally got a hold of one of the three people who work in personnel at our company, but none of them were able to come before 9:00, which is when the doctors wanted to operate. "Do your best," I said to the English speaking doctor.
There's not a lot to know about appendectomies, surprisingly; they're pretty routine. He drew a map of my large intestine, appendix, and blockage, and explained what they would do. He told me the possible complications and the recovery times, and introduced me to my doctor: the cute Japanese woman who walked by earlier.
Mike: 1 Aimee: 0
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
At 4:30a Sunday morning (11 September), I woke up in a little bit of pain for the first time. It dawned on me that maybe I should feel around my abdomen to see if the pain was localized. And it was -- above my appendix. I got up to use the washroom and then laid back down in bed and felt around again. Yup, right above the appendix. I turned to Aimee and asked, "Are you awake?"
"Ugh," she groaned.
"I think I'm sick."
Some more poking by me and some groggy getting dressed by Aimee preceded our walk downstairs to the convenience store to find out where the closest hospital was. Just down the street, luckily. Rather, luckily if it was open.
We walked through the doors of the hospital and the place was dark. No lights. No noise. No people. We poked around and I called out once for someone behind the counter (the counter that had a bank of computers with their screens on. I knew I wasn't too far gone because I still raged about wasted energy.), but no one was around. On our way back out a patient came out of the elevator and he explained to us that the hospital wouldn't be open today because it was Sunday. This floored us. In Canada hospitals are open all day, every day (although apparently emergency care [24 hour hospitals] is a thing from 1950 onward). Furthermore, you have to call first in Japan; you can't just show up.
We went home and checked Google for hospitals in Nagoya that were open on Sunday and found a couple. We called one and they were closing in 15 minutes (so if I showed up with my guts in my hands...?). We called the second one and they were open, so we jumped in a cab before they could send me and my primed appendix elsewhere.
Once we finally got inside the hospital, things became normal. They smell as sterile as any North American hospital; they're bureaucratic; the tests are as routine; one of the doctors even spoke English. One important difference, though, was the wait time: nonexistent! We walked in the door, I handed them my card, and within 10 minutes I was being examined by two doctors and three nurses. I was in the examination room by around 6:30a and by 7:30 I had had bloodwork and a CT scan. By 7:35 we were waiting for a surgeon to consult with the other two doctors (and when a cute Japanese woman walked by I said to Aimee, "I bet that's my doctor," to which she rolled her eyes) and by 7:40 I was diagnosed with acute appendicitis.
The English speaking doctor asked if there was any Japanese person we could call to have them help translate, because some of the vocabulary is pretty technical, so I went through my phone and called everyone I knew. However, since we were all out late with most of them the night before, no one answered their phones. I finally got a hold of one of the three people who work in personnel at our company, but none of them were able to come before 9:00, which is when the doctors wanted to operate. "Do your best," I said to the English speaking doctor.
There's not a lot to know about appendectomies, surprisingly; they're pretty routine. He drew a map of my large intestine, appendix, and blockage, and explained what they would do. He told me the possible complications and the recovery times, and introduced me to my doctor: the cute Japanese woman who walked by earlier.
Mike: 1 Aimee: 0
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
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