I, Maxine Lee Builder, a proud citizen of the United States of America who is currently spending the semester in New Delhi, India is currently suffering from a bad case of intestinal infection caused by the ingestion of contaminated food or drink. (This is a fancy way of saying that I have a parasite or bacteria living in my GI tract, and I'm pooping a lot. I'm not ashamed because, as we learned on Friday, everyone poops. [Everyone. Even Beyonce.])
I went to the East West Clinic in New Delhi this afternoon with one of the SIT staff, who is the most maternal figure I have ever met. I told her this morning that I had been suffering this weekend from a fever, the chills, lots of digestion issues, and she was the most kind and understanding. She handed me two packets of Electral, which are the W.H.O.-approved rehydration salts, and let me take a nap in the library rather than talk in Hindi for an hour. That was a welcome break.
At 2PM, after a rather bland lunch of bananas and plain yogurt and white rice, I hopped into a car and strolled into this clinic. We went there on the first day of orientation, and I sort of figured that I wouldn't have to go back again. I went into an examination room and a nurse checked my pulse and my temperature and my blood pressure. (All normal. Duh.) Then the doctor, who had a killer mustache, came in and asked what was the problem.
Although I'm attempting to be cavalier about my intestinal troubles here, it's still quite embarrassing to look a strange doctor in the eyes and say, "Well, sir. I've been been suffering from what we in the business like to call, 'diarrhea.'" Nobody wants to have to be that girl, but I had to do it. I walked him through the roller-coaster of emotions that have plagued me and my internal organs all weekend. The initial distress at feeling ill, the tossing and turning all night. The feverish, delirious stage in which I could do little more than writhe under the covers, which turned into a great euphoria once I realized that my fever was gone. The following disdain at realizing that my intestines had, in fact, failed me yet again.
The doctor wasn't exactly as intrigued with my drama as I had hoped, and clinically asked me to sit on the examining bench. He then started poking at my stomach and told me to tell him if it hurt. Well, of course it hurt. He was poking my sore stomach. He then listened to my intestines (and I like to imagine that he was having a conversation with the little buggers who are infecting me). I'd also like to take this moment to note the fact that all of this touching happened above my kurta, or tunic, not below as I think most American doctors would have done. That made me wonder if he would have touched my stomach directly if I was a man, which made me consider the issue of gender in delivery of care in the Indian system.
But in any case, he told me that I had a routine case of intestinal infection. He would need a stool sample, if I could muster one up at the time, and then based on the laboratory results, he could figure out whether it was a parasite or bacteria and what I would need to take.
I stopped listening at, "stool sample."
I've never given a stool sample before. I've never had to give a stool sample before. The doctor handed me a slip of paper and told me to go give the stool sample. As I walked down the hallway, I felt like I was walking toward my doom. A man - presumably a nurse or a lab tech or something - handed me a plastic cup and guided me to a nearby bathroom. At that point, I was hoping for some instruction. But no. All I had to go on was this plastic cup. I kept trying to find a polite way to ask this man, "So...do I just poop into this cup? Or is there something more that I need to do?" Unfortunately, the right words were just escaping me. The conversation followed as such:
Dude: "The bathroom is in here, Miss."
Me: "So, like...Um...How exactly...What do I.....I'm not.....entirely....I'veneverdonethisbefore."
He then looked at me, and I looked back, trying to telepathically communicate my fear and my need for more information. His eyes then lit up. I thought, "He's got it! I'm telepathic! He knows that I have no clue what I'm doing and is going to give me some direction!"
But then he walked away.
When he came back, he had a tongue depressor in his hand.
"Here," he said, handing it to me. "You might need this."
That only confused me more. What was I supposed to do with this thin piece of sanitized wood? I decided to ignore it and hope that my gut instincts were right. That's when I just went into the bathroom and pooped in the plastic cup. I dropped off the stool sample at the nurses' station and got out of that clinic as soon as I could. I've been at home, lying in bed, ever since.
I have to call the doctor's office tonight to see if I have a parasite or bacteria and get a prescription. But I use the word "prescription" loosely. Apparently, you just call and they tell you what you need and you can just roll up to the chemist shop (which is what they call pharmacists here) and tell them and you can buy them directly. Hopefully my parasite or bacteria or whatever it is will be resolved by the time we go to Aligar, Uttar Pradesh on Wednesday. If not, it's going to be a wildly uncomfortable week.
Sorry if this was a gross post, but I like to think that my experience will help others in the future who need to give stool samples in foreign clinics. You just have to poop in the plastic cup they give you. It's really as simple as that because -- and everyone say it with me now --
I went to the East West Clinic in New Delhi this afternoon with one of the SIT staff, who is the most maternal figure I have ever met. I told her this morning that I had been suffering this weekend from a fever, the chills, lots of digestion issues, and she was the most kind and understanding. She handed me two packets of Electral, which are the W.H.O.-approved rehydration salts, and let me take a nap in the library rather than talk in Hindi for an hour. That was a welcome break.
At 2PM, after a rather bland lunch of bananas and plain yogurt and white rice, I hopped into a car and strolled into this clinic. We went there on the first day of orientation, and I sort of figured that I wouldn't have to go back again. I went into an examination room and a nurse checked my pulse and my temperature and my blood pressure. (All normal. Duh.) Then the doctor, who had a killer mustache, came in and asked what was the problem.
Although I'm attempting to be cavalier about my intestinal troubles here, it's still quite embarrassing to look a strange doctor in the eyes and say, "Well, sir. I've been been suffering from what we in the business like to call, 'diarrhea.'" Nobody wants to have to be that girl, but I had to do it. I walked him through the roller-coaster of emotions that have plagued me and my internal organs all weekend. The initial distress at feeling ill, the tossing and turning all night. The feverish, delirious stage in which I could do little more than writhe under the covers, which turned into a great euphoria once I realized that my fever was gone. The following disdain at realizing that my intestines had, in fact, failed me yet again.
The doctor wasn't exactly as intrigued with my drama as I had hoped, and clinically asked me to sit on the examining bench. He then started poking at my stomach and told me to tell him if it hurt. Well, of course it hurt. He was poking my sore stomach. He then listened to my intestines (and I like to imagine that he was having a conversation with the little buggers who are infecting me). I'd also like to take this moment to note the fact that all of this touching happened above my kurta, or tunic, not below as I think most American doctors would have done. That made me wonder if he would have touched my stomach directly if I was a man, which made me consider the issue of gender in delivery of care in the Indian system.
But in any case, he told me that I had a routine case of intestinal infection. He would need a stool sample, if I could muster one up at the time, and then based on the laboratory results, he could figure out whether it was a parasite or bacteria and what I would need to take.
I stopped listening at, "stool sample."
I've never given a stool sample before. I've never had to give a stool sample before. The doctor handed me a slip of paper and told me to go give the stool sample. As I walked down the hallway, I felt like I was walking toward my doom. A man - presumably a nurse or a lab tech or something - handed me a plastic cup and guided me to a nearby bathroom. At that point, I was hoping for some instruction. But no. All I had to go on was this plastic cup. I kept trying to find a polite way to ask this man, "So...do I just poop into this cup? Or is there something more that I need to do?" Unfortunately, the right words were just escaping me. The conversation followed as such:
Dude: "The bathroom is in here, Miss."
Me: "So, like...Um...How exactly...What do I.....I'm not.....entirely....I'veneverdonethisbefore."
He then looked at me, and I looked back, trying to telepathically communicate my fear and my need for more information. His eyes then lit up. I thought, "He's got it! I'm telepathic! He knows that I have no clue what I'm doing and is going to give me some direction!"
But then he walked away.
When he came back, he had a tongue depressor in his hand.
"Here," he said, handing it to me. "You might need this."
That only confused me more. What was I supposed to do with this thin piece of sanitized wood? I decided to ignore it and hope that my gut instincts were right. That's when I just went into the bathroom and pooped in the plastic cup. I dropped off the stool sample at the nurses' station and got out of that clinic as soon as I could. I've been at home, lying in bed, ever since.
I have to call the doctor's office tonight to see if I have a parasite or bacteria and get a prescription. But I use the word "prescription" loosely. Apparently, you just call and they tell you what you need and you can just roll up to the chemist shop (which is what they call pharmacists here) and tell them and you can buy them directly. Hopefully my parasite or bacteria or whatever it is will be resolved by the time we go to Aligar, Uttar Pradesh on Wednesday. If not, it's going to be a wildly uncomfortable week.
Sorry if this was a gross post, but I like to think that my experience will help others in the future who need to give stool samples in foreign clinics. You just have to poop in the plastic cup they give you. It's really as simple as that because -- and everyone say it with me now --
No comments:
Post a Comment