At the end of the 11 lunar month (Jan 18), I was laid out with a 39C (102F) fever and body aches -- classic flu symptoms. I saw a Korean allopath (Western medicine doctor), he prescribed drugs to bring down the fever and temper the aches.A day later, I felt gripping abdominal pain that lasted throughout the evening, which then became repetitive rushes of cramping right around my stomach (it seemed). This was keeping me up through the night.
I went back to the Korean allopath, asked if the drugs might have provoked a reaction, asked if he did acupuncture (which I'd sought out in August for somewhat similar symptoms), and when he said "maybe," "no," and "here's a prescription for four more drugs for constipation," I went to an acupuncturist down the street.
He had some success in restoring order in my abdomen, but after two days, my tongue showed him that things were off again (He also saw that I've had digestive upset for some time, which I knew). He sent me home with a Korean traditional medicine mix. In spite of the tongue diagnosis, the cramping had subsided significantly, I felt less wound up, and I was able to sleep. This was Jan 23-26.
On the 28th the cramping had returned, and Abby and I talked about me seeing a German practitioner of Korean medicine in Seoul. He was the one who'd given us general exams and acupuncture (?) in August. I went to Seoul the next morning, but we couldn't do a sonogram because I'd eaten within six hours. So I went back on Wednesday, the 31st.
The sonogram showed inflammation of the intestine and fluid in the body cavity. Not blood, but something called "ascites." It was explained that this was quite uncommon in men, and it might be related to a few different causes, which could be discerned by blood tests or gastroscopy (a camera through the digestive canal). That was one of the few things their hospital didn't do, but it was suggested that I could probably have it done in Yeoju.
On the night of the 2nd, I had sharper pain under my bottom right rib and I began to think that it was my liver (one of the possible ascites-fluid producers), and that maybe it was TB. I'd already decided to go to Yeoju's main hospital the next morning, but this became more pressing when I had pain and pressure during the night.
Our school director, JJ, drove us to the hospital, we spoke with the doctor there, and he felt around my abdomen. He got a sharp rebounding reflex from the lower right abdomen, sat back down at his desk and said, "It's appendictis."
"Really?!" I blurted out.
They drew blood and then gave me another sonogram. When I told the sonogram tech that I'd had such a test on Wednesday, he was a bit flabbergasted. "Wednesday?! Where?" I told him about the hospital in Seoul, which he thought was another hospital in Bundang, but more importantly, he couldn't figure out how they didn't catch that it was my appendix, which he showed me was clearly enlarged and was "50/50" going to rupture. He made it quite clear that I needed to have surgery as soon as possible.
I shared this info with Abby and JJ, who were a little jarred. The first doctor conferred with JJ for a bit. The surgeon for "Yeoju General" was away at a conference, but they said for such a routine (and not yet critical) procedure, we could go anywhere.
And so back down the road we went to Dr. Cho's Surgical Clinic -- established 1885 -- which is almost equal distances from our apartment and the school (about three blocks). I was shuttled from the blood pressure monitor to the X-ray room to another blood draw -- during which time I heard that they'd operate at 2 p.m. (it was just after 1 p.m.), and that I'd be admitted for at least three days; make that a week.
Again: "Really?"
At that point, after having the result of the sonogram, I was just like, "OK, I'm going to have surgery today." Never thought about delaying it, as a few have asked, until after our return to America. Neither of us is insured in-country, but Korean Nat'l Insurance is a package benefit of our teaching jobs... and Korean medical care, 'scripts and the like tend to be inexpensive in comparison to American medical care.
As I sat in the lobby of Dr. Cho's, fairly calm and just waiting for the next instruction while the cool air blew in from the doors and the staff talked amongst themselves, my main concern was anaesthesia. I recalled some news report about people not being all the way under and such. [Abby told me later that had been on her mind, also]
But, you know, there was no point in focusing on that kind of dark speculation. These were capable people and they knew what to do, and I was going to be fine, with the influence of Spirit and an invocation of the benefactors and allies to work on behalf of all of us who needed medical aid.
Soon enough, I was led into the OR in my little ivory and brown, plaid pajamas. Off with the crystal medicine bag from Barbie, the Mani bone pendant from Abby, the moldavite chard from Michele; the silver adinkra cross on my right hand and my grandmother's robin's egg turquoise from my left. There was some kind of sunny hippie rock lilting out of a radio on a prep table to my left, which served as an amusing counterpoint as my arms and then legs were strapped down.
The anaesthesiologist came in, and I remember her scarf brushing past my eye as she checked the IV. The OR lamp array was like a five-petaled, orange daisy made of glass. I felt just the slightest bit dizzy...
And the next thing I recall was reeling around in the ward room: the lights were too bright, I couldn't talk, I was feeling indistinct (or rather, unlocatable) pain, and the smells were a bit too strong. I couldn't get comfortable, and I was being asked too many questions (to which I couldn't speak in response to). I felt nauseous and gestured to Abby with my hand coming from my mouth. Quickly, a pile of tissues were placed beside my face, but all I did was cough, which hurt at my waist (and then sort of burned with a secondary pain in my side).
JJ was there, as well as a couple of other teachers from the school. Abby told me later that she and JJ had gone to lunch and that the operation had taken about an hour. When it was done, they eagerly showed her the remains of the appendix -- which they say had ruptured, but I wonder if it was during the surgery -- and then eagerly prodded her into the OR to get me to wake up. "Touch him and say 'Look at me! Look at me!'" is what she recalled as the instructions, while she thought that it would be better for me to wake up on my own.
She said that she did stand over me, after first getting over the sight of me still tied down and apparently moving all over the place, and that she tried to get my attention but "you were not there." So I guess soon afterward they took me up to the room I'd share with two or three other people for the next week. And that's what I woke up to: long fluorescent bulbs, the news or some variety program on the TV, a draft, and a crowd of people at the bedside.
After -- some amount of time -- I was able to speak at a dull whisper. I'd asked for a couple of pain shots at that point, but those were the only ones I'd ask for for the rest of the week.* I thanked JJ for getting us around to the hospitals, and then she and the other teachers left. Abby stayed -- no, wait, did she leave and then come back to stay the night? While we were waiting for things to happen before 2 p.m., she asked me what I'd want during my stay and I wrote out a list of books and accessories, people to be emailed, a tea to be made, etc.
Abby was so attentive and caring through all of this. I really was touched by how much she loves me and the ways in which she wanted to help. I'm very fortunate that she's been here with me.
She stayed Saturday night (I think) and then visited on Sunday, as did Art. I tried to get used to the IV, the shuddering discomfort of coughing (to clear phlegm from the anaesthetic)... and I had to re-learn and talk myself through getting out of bed in order to go to the restroom, or be taken for dressing changes, or just to sit up. I felt (and had to have looked) like a turtle on its back, or an ambitious marionette what wanted to move without someone pulling the strings... all in an effort to avoid that wincing reaction to the sore spot above my pelvis (and hopefully not have that followed by an upshot of phlegm, which I'd catch my breath to avoid coughing out).
Muscles and vessels tightened and seared at odd times and late hours for the first few days. Somehow I did manage to turn onto my side, which brought a little (fleeting) comfort. Didn't really sleep the first night, which meant I was obliged to watch all that was on offer on the "babo box" until 11 p.m. (and then again from 8 a.m. onward each day).
I wasn't able to eat until I produced gas, but the internal process of producing that gas was sharply uncomfortable. But on Monday, it escaped and soon afterward I presented with a bowl of watery rice soup and a little dish of salt. And it was delicious. And so it was also at dinner, and again the next morning.
And then it was a bit played out. Dr. Cho said that I'd have liquid diet on the first day, and then soft diet on the second. So Abby brought some mung-bean-and-rice porridge along with paper-thin seaweed strips. The next day she prepared softened vegetables and mashed tofu, and I began to eat less and less of the rice juk... which was met with consternation and confusion from the food service staff and the nurses (who never saw me eating the other food). Of course, it's also Korea, so perhaps they also thought, "How can he not eat rice?! He needs to eat rice!"
Of course, since my in-hospital recovery included a regimen of antibiotics, and I was already enduring slow seas in the GI tract, "more rice" was not what I was going to have. But there was no way to effectively communicate this or any of my other Ayurvedic, food-combining logic to anyone responsible for giving me food. "Wonjangnim (the boss, Dr. Cho) said give you rice porridge, so you're supposed to eat it," was the gist of the message.
"OK, well, I'm fortunate that I have people who are giving me food and providing me care... but I am an adult, and if I'm not hungry, I'm not going to eat until I want to (and when I do, it'll be what I choose)."
* ...Anyhow, I soon learned that the difficulty and wincing pain from some motion was because of a plastic surgical drain that was still in my right side. During a dressing change on Tuesday, Dr. Cho told me to look at something, and for the first time I looked down at the area they'd operated on. And there was this baby-blue valve, about the width of a quarter (or baek won) under my rib.
He told me that he was going to take that out soon, and I thought "OK," and then I was sent back to the room.
By that time, I was more into the flow, such as it was: awake to the see the waning Moon around 5 or 6 or 7; one of the patients who'd been around for a couple days turned on the TV at 8 (or 6, to watch a recap of a Korea/Greece football match); a nurse came in to turn on the lights and to give antibio or pain shots; breakfast; dressing change at 10 or 11; lunch at noon, then sleep, reading The Sun, a visit from Abby (the first of at least two during the day, in addition to her sleeping in a nearby bed some nights); maybe a little video time with the laptop (the BBC's Blue Planet series from Janine and Roald); more variety shows, soap operas, food shows, midday and evening news, comedy shows, historical war dramas, and the "best" of American action cinema ("The Rock," some Steven Seagal thing, "Spy Kids"); dinner ("Bap! Bap!" the cook would exasperatedly indicate with a spoon-to-mouth gesture; I'd just eat the vegetables and maybe two spoonfuls of rice); then another visit from Abby, and then the slow, mind-chattering descent into and out of sleep... sometimes accented by the whiff of cigarette smoke, either from the alley below our windows, or the bathroom down the hall. Patients would smoke in the stairwell just off the ward, also, but apparently the glass doors and air pressure kept that smoke out there. Still, I had to bring this up with Dr. Cho...
Anyway, on Wednesday afternoon, Dr. Cho cleaned the sutures and then told me to take a deep breath. Then I swear he was prodding _into_ a hole in my side, and I reared up on the bed with a yelp. He'd tried to get the drain out and I looked down to see a few inches of what looked like the handle of light blue plastic bag protruding from my side.
He asked me if I was ambulating as he'd instructed, and I said sometimes. He and the nurse both shook their heads and replied, "Many, many." Apparently the walking he advised would help this thing to be extracted. I was sent back to the room. It hadn't hurt so much as just feeling _really_ odd, like, well, something being pulled from your body cavity. I was still catching my breath when I talked with Abby and Stephanie and Malachy (the Irish representatives of the Yeoju Foreign Teachers' Legion). They'd brought snacks and chess the day before, and Malachy and I set out to play a couple more games. And then I went to sleep, kind of brooding about what was yet to come with this drain removal.
This was taken to a whole new level the next day when, after dinner, I went to return my tray and found my right side and leg progressively cramping as I walked. I was stooped over and walking with my leg unable to straighten by the time I put the tray on the cart, and I went to restroom to try to compose myself, thinking it was a cramp I had to breath out.
Couldn't get a good breath though, and even after I got my leg to straighten, I was still feeling this persistent and wild twisting in my side. Felt a little bit of panic, and finally decided to go down to reception. I found Dr. Cho talking to the nurses and told him about this seizing going on, and he jovially informed me that it was the drain. "Are you sure that's it, because..." and then I'd pause because of a cramp "...it doesn't feel... right, and my leg won't go straight..."
"It's the drain. I'm going to take it out tomorrow (which he'd told me earlier that day)." And then he spoke to the nurses with a laugh that I took the wrong way, he offered me some tea, and then he walked out of the front doors. I stood there, circling around my IV walker, wondering what I was going to do, and what if this gets worse, and then I went back up to the room.
And it got worse. Grabbing the side of the bed and pushing into the footboard and winding around on my toes. Abby called shortly thereafter and I flatly said that I was not doing OK. I asked her to talk to JJ to make sure that the doctor understood what I was saying. She came over soon afterward and it was really difficult for me to look at her, because I was so barely in control of myself. I began to cry as she held my hand, but only for a moment because to go any further would have meant deeper breaths that would hurt more.
Another patient in the room helped translate the word for drain so that he or Abby could tell a nurse, and soon afterward, Dr. Cho was by the bed, looking a little more concerned as I writhed around, trying again to describe what was going on and wanting to know, for certain, that this was just about the drain. Abby busted out with a laugh at one point because I was holding my hand in the hair like some orator while my eyes were squeezed shut and there were no words coming out of my mouth, as I froze between spasms and trying to think of the next word.
One of my questions had been "Is this going to go on all night?" but Dr. Cho had quickly said no, which I had a hard time believing right then. I became very frustrated with the situation of having this heavy discomfort going on, but nothing was going to be done about it until then next day (at that point, at least 14 hours later). Abby made the point that, as hard as it might be at that time, putting the drain in had to have been done for a good reason, and the surgery probably saved my life. Which was a meaningful point... just hard to feel total appreciation for in the moment.
Within an hour, the spasms and internal twisting did abate, and then I pretty much froze and fell asleep from exhaustion. Dr. Cho had mentioned peristalsis (involuntary motion of the GI muscles), and apparently the renewed vigor of this process, and my walking up and down the stairs throughout the day, had sent the drain on its way. I didn't know it'd be like that, though...
And so: the next afternoon, after wondering for hours what in the hell this was going to feel like, and would I want Abby there to see me, Dr. Cho pulled out the drain in less than 30 seconds as I held my breath and gritted my teeth. And I almost immediately felt so much better. The surgical wound was almost negligible compared to what the drain had been doing, and I was bending over and stretching and walking around (a bit stiffly) throughout Friday night. Abby asked me to go outside -- my first time in a week -- and we walked across the street to a convenience store. Then I could see it wasn't going to be circuit training and World Cup qualifiers for me just yet.
But I am OK. And I'm very grateful for the benefits of healing and care that I received, as I am for the very small bit of training that I was able to implement in regard to pain, breathing, and sending-and-receiving meditation. As it was about five years ago, when I was attacked near my home in Columbus, I often thought about and asked for healing and release from pain not just for myself, but for all the beings in this world that need it. I also felt so much more unnerved and opposed to the violence that's beset so many -- soldiers and citizens in so many wars. Spending a week in the hospital for this procedure, and dealing with the really light order of pain and displeasure that resulted, often made me think of those who suffer so much more.