H and I have been ranking a lot of things lately. Food, flights, hostels, and now we can add emergency rooms.
Our first go at an emergency room was in Indonesia post motor bike crash. (If I’m being 100% truthful our *first* emergency room visit was in Prague, but we were sent there through a series of language barrier errors when we just needed to pick up a prescription, still an experience though!)
We were on Nusa Penida, a smaller island in the Provence of Bali and were heading home post beach to watch the sunset when we came into contact with a pile of gravel, skidded our bike, and crashed.
We met a kind doctor who diligently scrubbed all of the dirt and sand out of a series of cuts across our bodies. I have since fully healed and H has a few scabs that are nearly gone.
Our second emergency room visit came in the Philippines. We decided to live out some surfer bum dreams and took a bus 5 hours north of Manila to San Juan, La Union—a very hip and crowded surfer town.
Day 3 of our surfer journey and after wiping out, a wave took my board and flung it back into my mouth.
The pain was unreal and I managed to get to shore before spitting blood out over the sand. We ended up at a medic tent where they gave me gauze, water, ice, and called an ambulance.
Did I need an ambulance? In the US I would never have agreed to one. The bills! But the other option seemed to be a tuk tuk-type tricycle so I agreed. The ambulance ride was chaotic. Traffic was endless and nobody seemed to stop or pull over for the sirens. The driver just jumped lanes and drove into oncoming traffic.
The hospital was crowded but we stood out. I was still wearing a bathing suit, soaking wet, and covered in sand. I had white zinc all over my face and was dripping blood. And everyone else was Filipino.
I got pushed up a few stories to the surgery and cancer wing. Yes, I was in a wheelchair at this point. Like the ambulance this seemed excessive but I’m more comfortable and didn’t fight it.
I’m seen by two smiling women. They numb my face giggling about how I should just pretend it’s lip fillers. H can’t watch and holds my hand while staring at the corner of the room.
(In Berlin a few months ago we went to a club that was projecting a video on a loop. Lots of nudity, lots of Princess Diana’s best looks, and a whole bit on lip filler injections. I understand why H can’t watch.)
When I’m numb they clean the sand out of the wound. A delightful experience! And then they realize its pretty bad.
I refuse to look when they offer me a mirror. I have H take photos so I can see it later—much later.
The women get to work and tell me how usually all the face trauma patients they see are “drunkards” that try to grope them. I groan at the injustice—and the pain.
10 stitches later—mostly in my mouth but some on my lips—and I’m done. I wait to cry until it’s over so I don’t move while they are stitching me up. Then I do. And I cry a lot.
We’re sent to billing and the pharmacy for two types of antibiotics. The entire experience, 10 stitches, medication, and an ambulance ride costs $27.
The same guys that drove us in the ambulance pick us up in a patient transfer vehicle. They brave even more traffic as we head back. We pass a few graveyards filled with people and remember it’s All Saint’s Day. The guy in the back of the van looks longingly out the window at the families walking into the cemeteries together.
They drop us back where we’re staying and we ask what the cost is. Again the service is free. We insist on “donating” and give them some money before heading inside.
To rank the two, the Philippines emergency room wins. Hard to beat $27.
Regarding how I’m doing, I’m getting better everyday. We’re taking this as an opportunity to slow the travel down. Watch TV, eat as many soft foods as possible, and sleep.
Also, I’m inhaling the news. And hoping that more and more politicians push for a ceasefire in Gaza. If you’d like to join us in donating to some orgs we’ve donated to MAP (Medical Aid for Palestinians) and PCRF (Palestine Children’s Relief Fund).
