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.