#144. In Korean hospitals, medical gloves seem to be optional. Masks are all the rage, but in my experience the part of the body that actual comes into direct contact with the sick is generally not covered. Glove those hands Korea.
#145. American ER vs. Korean ER. In America, when visiting an ER you are given your own private room (or at the very least a curtained off area), forms to fill out and have your basic vitals taken. In Korea, you are thrown onto a gurney in a large room where those around you are in various states of emergency. Someone with a common cold is placed next to someone that is being resuscitated by a team of frantic nurses. Here the word "emergency" is used rather literally.
#146. The level of pain is ascertained by poking the area in question repeatedly and waiting for the appropriate response. You motion that the right side of your stomach is in pain. Clearly the next logical step is to poke it as hard as humanly possible until the patient cries out in pain. Again and again. And again. One poke is enough. The cry of pain is a clue that maybe that IS the spot that it hurts.
So you may be sensing a theme from my "Korean-isms." YES, I was in the hospital and YES I am fine. Here is the story in all it's Korea-infused glory.
This past Tuesday began as a very routine, boring day. Taught the kids some English. Ate some kimchi for lunch. Had the usual 1:00 coffee. Routine with a capital R. What was NOT so routine about my day was the ridiculous stomach pain that started and continued well into the afternoon and evening. What began as an annoying and slightly uncomfortable stitch in the side, quickly escalated into unimagnable pain. After assesing the situtation with the help of WebMD, self medicating with a little handy, dandy western medicine and trying to just relax it away, it was apparent that additional help would be necessary. Thankfully my co-teacher, Heather, was able to accompany me on what would prove to be a very interesting evening.
Off we went to the first (yes, first) hospital. The first floor looked dark, but with the doors unlocked we took a chance. After finding the elevator and figuring out that the emergency room was on the THIRD floor (clearly it's there for easy access) we attempt to find anyone who looks important to tell me what is wrong. After finding a Korean and having her talk to my Korean supervisor for five minutes, we figure out the hospital is closed. Wait just a second. The doors are open. The lights are on. There are nurses and patients but it's closed?! Apparently they are overwhelmed with patients but have no doctors staffed at night, just nurses. Well, wouldn't that just make me feel super comfortable if I was a patient there. What happens if I go into cardiac arrest in the middle of the night. Need emergency surgery. Need any emergency anything that a nurse isn't equipped to do. So screwed.
Off to hospital #2 and it just so happens to be an old friend of mine: Sun Lin. This happens to be the hospital that took such special (sarcasm) care of me when I broke my leg. Once again I went to the dingy Emergency Room. Once again I was waved over to a 1945 steel gurney and told to wait. Once again there were the mysterious brown smears on the walls and floors. Super duper. After changing into the o so flattering hospital gown (with buttons that don't QUITE close) they begin to ascertain exactly what is wrong with me. Five minutes of intensive poking and proding later they figure out that I have abdominal pain. No shit Sherlock. I have been clutching my stomach and wincing in pain. That is universal. They proceed to start an IV, give me a plastic cup to pee in and walk away. Without any instructions.
So, now that you have the basic layout of what is happening you now need to know what's going on around me during this whole endeavor. Now like I said in #145, in Korean Emergency Rooms, you are not special or sectioned off. You are right in the middle of a triage center, makeshift intensive care unit, last rites site and daycare center. Bloody bandages are strewn about, fresh and dried blood is on the floor, gloves are rare to see and a general sense of chaos is felt. Around me are two hysterically crying children, an old woman who looks like she was just recently in a fire, an old man moaning in pain and another indisernible person underneath bloody bandages and tubes galore.
After eventually strapping my IV to a cart, I go and give them a urine sample. Now in America, one would go to the bathroom and do what needs to be done, put the lid on the already labeled container and deposit it into the hands/or tray of a gloved professional. Not in Korea. Here you pee into a plastic cup with no lid or label and give to an ungloved nurse who puts it on the desk. Puts it on a desk that has papers, computers and important documents in very close proximity. Very hygenic. Very hospital-like.
So eventually after the unhygenic transfer, multiple xrays and the mysterious medicine pushed into my IV, I am told that I do not have appendicitis like they previously thought. Thank you Jesus. Surgery in Korea is just not something that is on my to do list. I am told I have an infection and that the medicine they will give me will take care of it.
Sorry Korea. Though it only took about 1 hour from beginning to end, I still prefer the Emergency Rooms of the good old US of A. At least there I know my doc will be gloved, know my allergies and speak my native language so that the pantomiming of symptoms won't be necessary.
