Well, a
fully equipped ambulance showed up! The attendant (equivalent to an EMT) asked
who the patient was, despite the large gauze bandage smack in the middle of my
forehead. I indicated that it was I. As I sat in the ambulance he presented me
with a seat belt. I looked around me to find the buckle and then asked,
"Where's the buckle?" The attendant responded, "No, no, just
hold it in your hands." Ha! Safety first!
We
arrived at the hospital and within 20 minutes I was examined and the doctor on
call determined that I should see a plastic surgeon to minimize what could be a
facial scar. We were told to come back at 9am.
In true
Indian fashion, everything ran late. When we arrived at the hospital at 9am, we
were told that the doctors wouldn’t be in until 10:30 or 11:00am. Around
11, the doctor finally saw me and indicated that he wanted to do "a
micro-something something" (medical jargon) reconstructive stitching which
would require me to be admitted to the hospital. Once admitted, I was to wait
until 3pm before they could do the procedure. (Why we couldn't just wait
in a coffee shop until the surgery, I have no idea.) So I was given a bed
in the general ward to wait....
In India,
we were reminded, women (it's hard to generalize in India because it's very
diverse country but women at times are) are invisible. While waiting, one of the physician's
assistants looked right over my head. "What's her name?" he asked,
pointing to me and directing his question at Chris in Hindi! Chris found the
urge to reply a cheeky, "Ask her yourself!" but since we needed to stay
on their good side he kept it to himself. Ironically, I had just spoken to him a mere five
minutes before! (I guess I lost my ability to speak for myself once they
realized my husband was there.)
Just as I
got to my bed in the General Ward, I heard a man to my right (behind a curtain)
yell, "Just because she's dying doesn't mean the rest of have to,
too!" and a female response through sobs, "How can you be so
cruel?" Then a series of insults back and forth before two nurses came in
to mediate what seemed to be an argument between a father and daughter while
the wife/mother was lying in the bed. Needless to say, I wanted teleport
myself to New Jersey to give my mom a hug!
Shortly
thereafter, the two nurses came to take my blood pressure and check my pulse.
They had just seen Chris leave so the typical series of questioning ensued:
"Who is that?" "How'd you two get married?" "Where are the
kids?" "What are your qualifications?" "So, are you really
American? Your Hindi is quite good!" Um, are all these diagnostic
questions?!
On my
left hand side, there was an older lady who had several family members
visiting. They also became very interested in me and Chris and a similar series
of questioning took place. Shortly after our conversation ended, one of the
family members slapped their little boy (about 4 years old) three times across
the face for wanting sweets. I opened my mouth to say something. But when one
of the other male family members saw the horrified expression on my face, he
quickly took the boy out of the room. The nurse came in, saw the boys’
tear-stained face, and rattled off, "Oh, what mischief have you been into? You probably deserved that slapping!" I did a double take. In
the US, the nurse might have called child services for physical
abuse, not taken the mom's side!
Chris had
gone home to scoop up my laptop, thankfully upon his return, Downton Abbey and
my Bose headphones kept me in my own little world.
At
2:30pm, hospital transport came to pick me up to take me down to the Operation
Theatre (OT) and the head nurse came in to have me sign consent forms. I looked
down at the forms and noticed a lot of blank spaces where informative things
like "Possible side effects" should have been listed. When I
inquired, she said, "No need to bother with all that, just sign here and
here." Two minutes later she came back and said, "I need your
husband's consent too." I said "But why, I'm over 18 and I just
signed for you." Her response, "We always need your husband or
father's consent."
After
signing the consent forms, the hospital transport guys asked me why I was still
in my own clothes. I responded by saying that I wasn't given any other clothes.
So they call another attendant in, she looks at me and at them and says,
"Where are your hospital clothes?" I told her that I wasn't given
any. They both stared at each other and then back at me for another minute or
so while I, for the third time, explained that I wasn't given any hospital
clothes. Still, a pause. Finally, the one woman said, "Oh, so do you need
me to get some for you?" I responded, "Well I don't know where you
keep them!" I thought I would get a hospital gown... but she handed
me a Georgia peach silky-polyester-y skirt and matching T.
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So off to
the OT I went. It was quite intimidating seeing that most of the people in the
'pre-op' room were about to undergo some major operation while I was merely
getting a set of super-fancy stitches. I walk into the OT, where I was
connected to a heart monitor and my forehead was prepped. (Why a heart monitor
is necessary for stitches, I have no idea!) Cell phones rang during
surgery and the surgeons answered, "OK, yes, ok, well, wait, though. I'm
in the OT let me call you back." Huh?! Taping up my laceration after
stitches, one attendant said to the other, "No! Tape straight
across!" The other replied, "Why? I'm trying to make a cool design on
her forehead." "Forget the design; tape it straight."
I forgot
to mention, I hate hospitals. It's hard for me to see people in pain or see
lots of blood and guts. I tend to get very sick and either throw up or pass
out. I would have much rather this whole experience be as an outpatient. I have never
been in admitted (knock on wood) to a hospital in the US so I'm not sure how
this experience compares.
After 2.5
hours, I come back up to my bed and Chris asked me, "What the hell
happened, why were you down there so long?!" I had no idea I had been gone
for 2.5 hours! Before I could be discharged, the nurse came in and told me that
we need to go down to billing. As I started to get up she says, "No, no,
not you. Him." (Pointing to Chris). Obviously. The husband deals with the
money... I am really having trouble getting used to this
severely patriarchal society.
Additional points of interest:
- All the nurses, doctors, and other hospital personnel wear flip-flops or sandals to work and many were in the OT barefoot! Cleanliness in India means not wearing shoes (such as in temples and mosques), when in the US, bare feet are typically considered gross!
- Bathrooms were shared between female and male wards.
- The waiting room included rows and rows of straw mats, no chairs.
- As I was wheeled back to my bed post surgery, no one gave me the right of way. I obviously just had a bandage on my forehead but I was pretty surprised that the Indian way of knocking elbows went all the way to a hospital elevator.
- The doctors were awesome, super nice people. I trust I was in very good hands.
Although I feel like a total idiot for this
accident, it was quite an adventurous day! 18 hours after the incident, I was
finally home in sweats with a five-pepper pizza from Dominos (only real
non-Indian food in Lucknow is fast food).
Hope to write about the excellent holiday I had
with my ma and pa in-law in my next post! My love-hate relationship with India
continues! Stay tuned...
