Posted under Nepal
A few days passed before we received a call from the white water rafting shop, informing us that a trip was going on the weekend. It was an overnight camping trip and before booking it, Aaron wanted to get another ultrasound to make sure that everything was okay with the bean. I had been experiencing some questionable symptoms but nothing definitive. We had inquired that morning of the Canadian raft shop owner which hospital was the best for foreigners. She recommended Manipal Teaching Hospital, which was also listed in our guide book. As we stood in the lobby of our hotel seeking help from the front desk clerk to arrange an ultrasound by phone, Aaron happened to spy an article on the front page of that day’s local newspaper reporting a strike of the entire Nepal Medical Association. The article stated that throughout Nepal, all non-emergency medical facilities were shut down until after the weekend. Hospitals were seeing patients on an emergency only basis. Well, this ridiculous situation called for a little emergency then. Determined to get our ultrasound, we exaggerated my symptoms a bit and the front desk clerk confirmed by phone that we could be seen at the hospital.
Anxiously we walked outside and hired a taxi for the thirty minute drive to Manipal Teaching Hospital. We arrived at the front entrance and slowly found our way to the Emergency area. I was almost immediately shown to a room with three beds – one was occupied by a young local girl and the two others were empty. The room was spacious but old with stains on the ceiling and faded paint on the walls. One of our first observations was that all of the windows were wide open, something you’d never see in an American hospital. Aaron completed the paperwork and we explained my symptoms with only slight exaggeration, to the young nurse as she checked my vitals. Then we waited an inordinate length of time for the ultrasound until my bladder was literally about to burst.
The ultrasound tech was a very serious middle-aged man with thick-framed glasses. The procedure was tedious and inconclusive; the tech’s most worrying utterance being, “Did you take a positive pregnancy test?” With his abdominal ultrasound he was not able to detect a discernable heartbeat, though both he and Aaron noticed a flickering on the ultrasound which could have been the minute beating heart. The good news was that a fetal pole had developed and the bean had increased in size at the appropriate rate since the last ultrasound. That was something. When you’re holding on by a thread, when your sanity is fragile, you grasp hard onto the slightest glimmer of hope. We later learned that the hospital did have a transvaginal ultrasound machine, but of course, that tech was on strike with the masses.
Back in the room, I grabbed a packet of tissues and made my way to the restroom. Yes, here we go again. And what, you may be wondering, were the findings of the Cootie Police this time? A bowlful of inexplicably vile bodily waste, droplets of blood on the floor, and the expected absence of paper and soap. I really cannot find the words to describe the magnitude of my revulsion, my natural instinct to run out screaming bloody murder and demanding to speak to the person in charge, and channeling all of my pent up germophobic frustration into a lengthy diatribe on the need for sterility and cleanliness, especially in a hospital, but in all the world as well. I had to put the lid on that madness and screw it on tight. God forbid a genuine emergency could bring me back here, my life in the hands of these filthmongers. Better to keep quiet and get out of here as quickly as possible.
After some time, a young medical understudy came in and reported that we should be admitted to the hospital for observation. At first, her words didn’t quite register and she continued talking about the recommended treatment. When suddenly it occurred to me that she had used the word “admittance”, I stopped her cold.
“Excuse me, when you say admittance, do you mean that you want me to stay here? Like overnight?”
“Yes. We have private rooms.”
“Oh no, I don’t think that’s necessary. If the situation worsens, we can just come back.”
Visions of the vile restroom ran through my brain like a film strip.
“In this situation, we usually keep pregnant women here for observation for a day or two. We can give you some shots.”
“No, I don’t want to stay here. We can do the shots or whatever you think is necessary but I’ll be fine in our hotel.”
To Aaron: “You’ll have to sign a medical release, saying that you are checking her out of the hospital against our advice.” Because I can’t sign the release for myself, apparently. Ugggh!
Aaron: “Fine.”
There was never any point in the conversation when either of us entertained the idea of leaving me overnight in that germ zone. For one thing, we had exaggerated my symptoms to create an “emergency” simply so that we could get the ultrasound. In reality, I was feeling fine and the ultrasound had given us some hope. We left the hospital and returned to our hotel. Aaron signed on for his rafting trip and we retired early, mentally preparing ourselves for our first night apart on the road.
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