Most of you know about my ongoing stomach woes for the past couple years and the various 'treatments' I have tried; food journal to record reactions, minimizing the quantity and variety of my food and various medications, one of which I've been using faithfully for the past year and a half. While not ideal, what I was doing was working for me. Well, kind of. Enter Dr. Peter.
Dr. Peter is one of two foreign doctors that rotate through the Expat clinic here in Mongolia; in country for two or three months at a time, back home to his country of origin, then back again. Peter is Bulgarian an amazingly frank, down to Earth and director doctor and absolutely hilarious to boot. Every time I see Peter, he has a funny anecdote about living and working in Mongolia and the various third world places he's been. Peter enjoys his food, vodka and has a zest for life not expressed by most. We've talked about what living a healthy life means; Peter's outlook is a bit more laissez-faire then the typical western doctor. "If you want to drink wine, drink wine. Friday night, Monday night, it doesn't matter; we must live the life. Only you know what is best for you."
When Peter found out I had been taking a prescription for an undiagnosed ailment he went nuts. He went on to point out the absurdity of the American medical system, that I was young and healthy and shouldn't be taking a pill every day. I explained that I had had an upper endoscopy in the States but that it hadn't revealed anything and that I was tired of being poked and prodded and had basically given up."In Bulgaria, if I prescribe medication without proper diagnoses of the patient, my license would be finished!" This conversation occurred right before we left for summer break so I was able to avoid the inevitable rash of blood tests, procedures and personal indignities for the moment. However, as my medication supply dwindled I knew that I would have to face the unavoidable; a return visit to Dr. Peter.
So off we went to Dr. Peter after school on Thursday. It was decided that I would go to the Korean-Mongolian hospital here in UB for an upper endoscopy. I again protested that I had this done less than two years prior, but Peter would have none of that. "Two years ago was two years ago. You are not the same person." A valid point I have to admit. (As an aside, I also discussed an ongoing shoulder issue with Peter who pointed out that I could exercise it and try to strengthen it but that in ten years is would be worse. End of conversation.) I asked about having general anesthesia for the procedure since this is what happened in the States, so Peter had the nurse request this.
Friday morning we showed up at the clinic to sign paperwork and go to the hospital with an English-speaking Mongolian nurse to move us through the system and translate. The Korean hospital was crowded, somewhat chaotic and nearly clean. Greg and I waited in the chairs; he read a sailing book, I people-watched. There was the full spectrum of Mongolians in the room; young mothers, entire families with multiple generations, people obviously in from the countryside in their best clothes and ladies sporting the latest fashions.
After a while we squished into the micro-elevator with three other people which took us up to the fourth floor. On the way up, our nurse informed me that they didn't do general anesthesia at this hospital but that they would give me a local. "What!" Was my response. "Don't worry, they do it all the time. They will spray something in your mouth to make it numb." I looked at Greg and said, "No way, I'm not doing it. There is no way they're showing a tube down my throat while I'm awake." Greg calmly said, "okay" and left it at that. Our nurse told me that I would be fine, I wouldn't feel a thing and that they did it all the time, even to little kids. After feeling sufficiently shamed and against my better judgement, I acquiesced.
We made it to the fourth floor. Our nurse started to walk through a set of double doors but was barked at by the nurses inside. We were then directed to a desk with a no-nonsense Mongolian nurse who handed me a plastic cup of viscous liquid. I looked at it with skepticism asking, "Umm, what is this?" I was told it would soothe my stomach for the procedure. I duly drank it down. I was led to a waiting room, told to change my shoes (to keep the floors clean) then was deposited at a table with a few ancient Mongolian women wearing their traditional Deels and drinking milk-tea while Greg and the nurse went downstairs. I waited about fifteen minutes, our nurse came back up then we were led into the procedure room.
The endoscopy room consisted of a wide open space with about four or five curtain-partitioned areas for individual procedures. I was taken to the curtain on the far left and told to sit on the table. The nurse sprayed some numbing spray into my mouth, made me to lie on my side, then shoved a plastic 'bit' in my mouth for the tube to go through. This all took about twenty seconds. Out came the tube and they started shoving it down my throat with no instructions other than, "Please, don't vomit." Since I hadn't eaten in about sixteen hours there was no chance of that. I did my best to lie still but as the tube scratched and snaked its' way down my throat I started gagging and coughing. They began yelling, "no vomit!" at me, holding my shoulder and head down to the table. I felt the tube reach the bottom of my stomach and emitted a colorful expletive as the nurse whipped it around taking pictures of my stomach. I gagged and coughed some more, much to their chagrin, exercising every bit of will power not to rip the tube out of my mouth.
After a few minutes of photo opportunities the tube was pulled out. I coughed and gagged some more then set about focusing on my breathing. By this time the numbing action of the throat spray had actually taken hold so I was trying not to drool as well. I mustered what little bit of dignity I had left, wiped the tears from my eyes and drool from my mouth and walked to the waiting room. About five minutes later they brought my results; gastritis with erosions in the antrum. After a return visit to Dr. Peter, who informed me that in fifty years we would all be dead anyway, it was decided to see a specialist in Thailand over our winter break.
And the costs for my endoscopic procedure? About seventy-seven dollars. IF and that's a big IF, I ever consent to having another procedure done in a Mongolian hospital I will request an elephant-size dose of valium.
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