Surgery in Korea

Momma, stop reading and get a box of tissues. I know you. Grab some tissues now.

He looked down at me, and all I could see were his eyes over the surgical mask.
"Are you nervous?"
"Yes, very."

Three hours before I had been asked to get naked. That should have been the first sign.
"Jennypah? You get naked ok?"
"Um..."
"Here. Put this on."

I sat in my oversized surgical top and too short pants and waited for three hours in an open emergency ward, where patient lie next to patient and nurses sat in chairs waiting for doctors to direct them. My contact from LG had to leave and return to work. When I asked if he would be here when I finished he said no, I would have to take the hour bus ride back to Naju, alone. It was here I became a little undone. I was going to be alone? No translator, no familiar face. Just me. I texted friends, read a book, and prayed that my anxiety would abate. Ha.

In Korean hospitals, it is the families' job to provide emotional care to a patient. Unlike America where I can rely on nurses to make sure I'm holding up ok, ask if I need anything, reassure me and talk to me, these Korean nurses stayed on the opposite side of the room and administered shots (four that day) and told me to get naked. It isn't because of a language barrier. It's just how things work. Hospital beds are accompanied with a small cot for the family member to sleep on. And so there I was, alone, looking at the nurses, trying to get a reassuring smile out of one of them. I needed them to know I was scared and needed a friendly gesture. Nothing.

Then two intern nurses told me (hand gestures) that it was time and to follow them. I wheeled my IV stand using my good hand, and tried to get around everything without jostling the IV in one arm, the open needle cone thingy on the other, and not use my broken finger. As I entered the elevator, the stand got stuck and I looked to the TWO nurses to help. Nope. They watched as I had to maneuver the stand out of a hole and pick it up with hands covered in splints and wires. Nice-uh. Turns out we had gone the wrong way, had to go through the elevator fiasco again without help, and we went back to my bed, where I was wheeled out by an orderly.

He left me in a hallway outside of a room where they were performing a surgery, and the nerves took hold. A friend I met when I first arrived had surgery to remove a cyst before I came to Korea, and he recounted his tale about how his local anesthesia wore off quickly and the doctor told him to endure. It was all I could think about as I waited in that hallway. They were only going to numb my arm, and I was terrified that I would be able to feel as they drilled two pins in my bone. Surgery was going to last an hour, and I would just lie there listening as they slowly made me into a robot.

After the doctor heard that I was nervous, he simply smiled and wheeled me into surgery. They put straps across my legs and waist, and then strapped both arms down crucifix style. I was going no where. They strung a sheet between my arm and my face, and turned my head so that I was looking directly at the anesthesiologist.
"If you feel pain, you tell me."
"Absolutely yes."

My upper arm started to tingle as they began to numb me, but I could still feel my hand, and that, my friends, is when shit got real.  They picked up my hand and squeezed my fingers together to shove on a compression sleeve. I felt the pain of my broken bone being squished by this doctor's hand and gasped. The doctor looked at me with wide eyes, and as a few tears of fear ran sideways, I whispered,

아파요. It hurts.

He shouted at the other doctors and the last thing I saw was that blissful, beautiful needle full of the good stuff. I woke up two hours later groggy and disappointed at myself. I was wheeled back to where I started and asked to change into a much smaller Korean sized shirt. The nurses turned their backs and walked away as I struggled to change shirts with an IV, a heavily bandaged finger with blood still splattered on my hand, and still groggy from meds. I was disappointed that I had cried in front of the doctors, that I hadn't been able to endure the pain, and so in need of a hug that I started to sob a bit. An ahjumma visiting a relative in the bed next to me looked over and made a beeline for me. She took the sheet I was trying to wrap around me to hide what the too small shirt could not, draped it over my shoulders, talked to me gently, and then hugged me. I said a small prayer thanking God for that small gesture that was such an extreme blessing to me.

God taught me a few things through this. 1. Be grateful and thank your nurses back home. 2. Have someone go with you to a hospital. Always. 3. That my independence can be my downfall. I am so proud to be independent, and happy that I am, but there are times when you just have to have help. As much as I would like to say I'm tough and strong, can endure much, at the end of the day, I still need a hug.

Korean medicine is great. I don't live in a third world country. My finger is healing beautifully and my medicine is wonderful. The whole procedure cost about $150, and I don't regret having the surgery (even though it was necessary anyway), but it would be nice if the nurses and staff acted like they cared, especially to a foreign white girl who's having trouble putting on clothes.

Injured and the Hospital

An innocent game of volleyball turned into tragedy this past weekend. Yes, I've broken my first bone. I've knocked a piece of my bone clean off from it's family, and it's just floating around, inside my finger. Oh come on, the fingers are mighty important. 

On Monday I talked with my assistant and he took me to the hospital, and God bless Korean hospitals. Back home, with a broken finger you're looking at a 6 hour wait at least, but here I was in and out in an hour with x-rays and everything. I thought for sure that I would be splinted and taped and sent on my way. No. Of course not. Nothing is ever that simple. That wee little piece of bone has to pinned back into place. Surgery. In Korea. 

So goes my life. More details after the whole ordeal is over on Friday. 

Until then...

I just want to understand.

The best advice I could give anyone who moves to a foreign country with a new language that you should probably learn that language. I have learned enough Korean to hold a small conversation, and I understand much more Korean than I can speak, but sadly, it's no where near enough to help me in some situations. Situations like going to the bank to wire money to a bank in Malaysia for your upcoming holiday. For your entertainment and my humility, I present to you said situation at the bank.

Me:안녕하세요
Bank Manager (had a guy at LG call ahead and I got to deal with the manager):안녕하세요
Me: um,와이어 돈?
Manager: ah 내.어디에?
Me:말레이시아
Manager: Bank book?
Me: 내
(The following is not real Korean, so don't bother typing it into google translate.)
Manager: 비니ㄴㅎ꺁.퍄?
Me: ...
Manager:니ㅏㅇ럼브쟈비모노주?
Me: ...
Manager: account number in Malaysia?
Me: OH! Yes, I have it.
Manager: 퍄미렄틏ㅍ?
Me: I...uh...um...sorry.
Manager: 프캬미ㅑㅈㅜㄴㅃ?...(sigh) uh...wait a moment
Me: ok (ohgodohgodohgod what did he say?)
Manager hands me a phone. "Here"
Me: Hello?
Stranger: He say that you have to have address of bank in Malaysia. You don't have address then it will be difficult.
Me: (It isn't already!?) oh ok thank you.
Manager: Understand, yes?
Me: 내,감사합니다. 죄송합니다.
Manager: 내, 내.

And that people, is everyday life.

Things I Learned on Vacation

Malaysia was...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamazing. Period. Done. No questions asked. I visited this little hidden away gem of a tropical country for ten days during the month of Ramadan, which made it even more interesting and adventerous for me as I haven't experienced Islamic culture enough.

Throughout those ten days, I learned quite a bit. Allow me to indulge your starved brains. I mean, it has been quite a while since CAC has had some new material.

1. Bravery has nothing to do with a picture posted on facebook.

As you can see, I was certainly "very brave" when I held this boa constrictor. Even more so when his wee little head started moving upwards towards my own. That sick little forked tongue slithering in and out, tasting my shirt. I held it together people. But the picture you don't see is at night when bats, of all sizes, would come out, darting in and out of sight, screeching with their little high pitched squeals. No wait. That squeal was my own. I would run from cabin to resturant and back waving my arms wildly and squealing because surely, that scares the bats away and protects me from any fluttering winged creature.


2. I have stopped asking, "What's in this?" or "What is this?" I just eat.
What part of the chicken is this? Is this chicken? Is it even a bird? Nope, just give it a sniff, a little lick, and pop it in. Questions and doutbts are for the weak.
Although, I'm still not sure what that piece of meat is on the right.

*By the way, food in Malaysia is scrumptious. Fruits spilling off trays, fresh squeezed juice by the litre, mango vegetable curry that will make you call out for your momma, and all of it Ramadan friendly.

3. I am SO SO happy I know how to use one of these. You have certainly passed into another level of "well seasoned traveler" when you see one of these and assume the position without grimacing. Happy squatting.

4. Rudeness is something that evokes a pleathora of emotions. On initial encounter, I'm disgusted. When it continues for twenty minutes, I'm amazed. When it's over, I'm laughing so hard my sides hurt and tears are streaming down my eyes.
On a forty minute taxi drive from the airport to the jetty, our taxi drive started burping ten minutes into the journey. I was sitting up front (of course) and hid my distaste as best as possible. My friends in the back got quiet and listened. We waited for it to abate. No. It didn't. For thirty minutes, this taxi driver would burp then breathe then burp then breathe. When the taxi stopped and we got out, we screamed with laughter. As he drove away we all wondered how that is even possible, and how can one person have that much gas in them.


5. A shanty restaurant on the side of the road probably has the best food. Forgo the fancy table clothes and trade it for the side of the road place that only has two options.

6. An elephant is not a comfortable mode of transportation. The hair is coarse and their ears sting your legs when they slap you.

7. Try everything. Even if you don't really want to. You'll regret it if you don't. Hold the snake, jump in with the sharks, visit that part of town or that island, and walk away from your trip thinking only about how fantastic everything was. And maybe perhaps that you should have taken more photos.

s

I need a vacation

America is a very dangerous country.

How could he buy many guns?

How did he buy bombs?

Everyone has guns in America.

I heard on news, 30 people die a day in America from guns.

That was my Monday morning class. My response was to snap at my loveliest of students and say that I don't know, people are crazy, no I don't own a gun, dear God let's just talk about something else like prepositions of time.

Then my air con stopped working in the classroom and the eight men in the class are all trying to figure out what's wrong, pressing buttons, standing in front of the thing waving their arms (because that helps), and when I finally asked, after being ignored for ten minutes, "Is it out of coolant?" Ahhhh, yes. You are genius Jennifer.

My air con in my apartment isn't working so I'm surviving the 98-100 degree weather with two fans. Now, my internet in the apartment doesn't work either. 

I need a vacation. And I'm going on one. In two days. So bring it on Korea. Bring on your heat, your faulty electronics, and your men who can't fix nothing (I just need air con!) because in two days, I'll be on a beach in Malaysia. I'll be swinging in a hammock strung up between two palm trees, drinking from a coconut, phone turned off, with no sounds but the waves and tropical birds. I'll have good friends beside, and we'll be lazy from the heat, and drunk off the jungle breeze. My biggest worry will be if I should go snorkeling or kayaking in the afternoon. 

Reality, thou art an evil shrew, and I bid you adieu. 

Cruel, Cruel Summer

I fumble for my keys, sweat rolls into my eyes, coating my contacts and blinding me with a burning, flashing pain. I stumble into the apartment, drop every bag and kick off every shoe, run to the bathroom in a clumsy race against the sweat that is most likely destroying my retinas, and dip my head under a rush of blissfully glacial water. Then I drip to the bed where I collapse and pray that the two fans posted at my bed will lower my body temperature.

It's summer. It's hot, and I'm from the south. I'm used to hot and humidity. A humidity so disgustingly thick you can see the haze of the sauna like moisture hanging in the air. A humidity you know will curl your always straight hair and fill your lungs like a dehumidifier. I played volleyball in an un-airconditioned gym in high school, and grew up mowing a two acre yard in the middle of July, where I dodged bugs the size of my head and air so thick I didn't want to breathe. So, needless to say I fare better than some here. Those poor poor souls who wail and beat their chests crying to the sky, complaining to the heavens and asking why hell has come to earth.

I can take the heat, but my body shows that I'm disgusted with the heat. My hair poofs up into a wee little fro, curls that didn't exist in winter, spring up like unsightly weeds around my head. I sweat and try to wear clothes that can camouflage the appearance of such an offensive bodily function (i.e. dark clothes). It seems to be a waste though. I'm nothing compared to the natives. They are an unmovable force, a rock that the sun beats against and cannot wear down. Women wear their thick, long hair down, and there is no frizz or unwanted curl. They simply glow, not even glisten as us southern women supposedly do in our southern summers that come from Satan himself. Men wear jeans and there are no pit stains or sweat dripping around their brow or down their faces to betray how hot it really is. They buy cheap plastic hand held fans and stir the thick air around them, faining to be disturbed by the heat, while the poor foreigner on the bus collapses into a seat and hurriedly adjust the air con vents above them, swearing that they're not going to make it. They will, perhaps, die on the bus, and people will believe them to be asleep, but all the while their corpse just rots in the heat. We stare at these Korean beauties and wonder how they can maintain such looks, such un-waverable control of themselves.

It's a cruel summer, but what is crueler are the Koreans that seem to make a mockery of our misery, what with their cool looks of a dry forehead and silky maintained hair. They wave their little fans, while the rest of us flock to Baskin Robbins for that ice cream that promises to cool us off, a coffee shop for something, anything, iced. We shuffle around town zombie like, seeking some sweet oasis from the anguish of the stifling atmosphere that promises to suffocate us all. So cruel this summer land that offers a slow death. So cruel, this land of sweat.

Look Momma, I'm a rockstar

It's no joke Momma, I'm a rockstar. I told you when I was four that I wanted to be famous. I packed my Raggedy Ann bag with my belongings, grasped the front door knob with my tiny toddler fist, and told you and Dad that I was running away. I was going to be famous and since my parents obviously didn't recognize my talent, I was taking off. You and Dad looked up from your books, asked if I had clean underwear, and wished me luck.

23 years later and I'm a rockstar...in Korea. Being a foreigner has it's perks (sometimes not). I've talked about staring before, and it still annoys me. Some days I'll opt not go to the grocery store or run an errand because I don't want to be gawked at. But I'm not just talking about the staring; this is more about the interactions I have had in this country that make me feel super rockstarish. I'm a celeb. I'm famous. I'm a hot mess really. Everything from the crazy fanatic fans to the Koreans who are disturbed by my presence, we all know it's going to cause a disturbance. 

The Crazy Fanatic: akin to the paparazzi 

Those teenagers who are superexcitedtospeakenglish. They shout, no wait, they scream "HELLO NICE TO MEET YOU!" when you're two feet in front of them. Jesus. The first few times this happened I smiled politely and said hello back. Now I just scream back "HELLO NICE TO MEET YOU TOO!" Now, I don't know if the teenagers are just being jerks or if they believe that if they scream then I'll understand, but you gotta go with it. It's a part of the life of a superstar. 

The Shy Ones: 

These are mostly little kids, but can include Korean guys who are famous for being "shy guys". The wee ones will see me, do a double take, break into a huge smile, or look at us as if they can't quite figure out what is so different. Moms usually prod their little angels into saying hello, waving, or bowing. The Korean shy guy does a double take and isn't shy about taking in a good look before moving on. He would probably be completely embarrassed if he knew we see how much he stares, but it's also a big reason I love Korea, so you keep on looking K-boy. My poor guy friends who happen to be with me when I get said attention from kboys. I go all girly and giggly. They slap their hands to their foreheads and shove me down the sidewalk. Poor foreign boys don't get the same attention that the girls do. 

So Sweet:

This group is my favorite. They're the sweet little kids who come up to you on their own and ask you questions, "Where are you from? Do you speak Korean? What's your name?", the guys who say "wow" when you walk by, but then clamp their hands over their mouths when they realize they've spoken out loud, or the sweet ahjummas telling you how beautiful you are and making room for you on the subway. When they speak to you, whether they are four or a college student telling you they like your shirt, it takes a lot of guts. I have the most patience and appreciation for this wee little group. 

You So Nasty: (WARNING: This one is for girls. Sorry boys.) 

Oh the nasties. I have no use for you. Much like the stalkers for the real celebs, this group just creeps you out. I get this group the most here in my little town. You So Nasty is made up of the old men and the horny guys. The old men who stop talking, grunt, and start adjusting their pants when we walk by. It gives me the heebie jeebies just describing it. This group doesn't really care if they're with their girlfriends. While sitting with friends one night at a bar, I had a guy grab my arm and tell me I was beautiful all while his girlfriend held his hand. I appreciate the sentiment, but man have some respect for the girl you're with. This group is most likely to ask to join your group at the bar so they can "practice my English?". I applaud your effort to learn another language and your boldness to approach a group of English speaking strangers, but a restaurant, a small group of friends obviously celebrating something, or a date, is not appropriate place to butt in. 

Something that's really important for me to remember is that, for the most part, if I'm approached then the other person is most likely really nervous and has worked up the courage to talk to me. Learning another language is scary and practicing it with a stranger is even worse. I love having random conversations with strangers. I adore little kids waving at me and smiling at me just because my eyes are blue and I'm two feet taller than their moms. It's not conceited or lack of humbleness. It's me accepting the way a society looks at me (both good and bad) and handling it. Talking slowly with the high schooler who stops me at the MiniStop, bowing my head with respect at the old men and women, and not knocking some guy on his ass because he made some inappropriate gesture or comment. 

'Cause I'm a rockstar Momma.