General Hospital Never Had a Doctor Feelgood

So so so… My life is TOO interesting and I mean that in the most honest tone I can vocally present! Now, I know several people who have lived in various nations around the world and their stories and tales are fascinating. But, they don’t involve any epic levels of tragedy, chaos and misfortune like mine! 

Why you may ask, why Tory Cook, are your experience in Korea on such a unique and utterly monumental scale. Why are your tribulations on a scale that would make the filming of ‘Troy’ or ‘Gone With The Wind’ look like low-budget grade school productions of long dead Broadway musicals? ‘Perhaps you seek psychotic scenarios and schizophrenic situations. Or maybe it’s your infatuation with the dysfunctional that leads to these mishaps?’

Chance has to stick to certain perimeters, you think? Why, then why am I constantly in and out of the hospital!?! I do nothing to get there, really (well… most of the time.), yet I have frequented most of the major hospitals and medical centers in the Seoul Metro area and more to come! Let me run down these twisted situations and I’ll let you decide. Am I being shat on by fate? Did dear old Daddy do something malicious to someone when he was here back in the 1980′s and now they’re working some dark magic to pay HIM back, yet I’m catching the brunt of their wrath?

AT SOME DENTIST IN CHUNGSAN VILLAGE, ILSAN-GU, GOYANG CITY, KOREA

In a failed attempt to find out why I had a freakin’ lump on my neck, I made a trip to hang out with a ‘sadist with a dental degree’. Recalling upon an earlier experience in my childhood, where I refused to have a rotten molar removed, hence causing the tooth to abscess and my entire neck and half my face to swell, I thought to myself, ‘Hey, this chipped molar in the back of my mouth now might be the cause of more neck swelling now!’ (Oh boy, how little did I know about medicine!)?

So, following the referral and advice of our school’s lovely ‘somo-nim’, I let some ‘dentist’ have a whack at fixing my dental woes. He gave me a very liberal drop of Novocain and preceded to pull that fucking tooth with what I swear was a pair of grandpa’s rusty pliers from the ‘shed out back’, in turn crushing the tooth (while still ‘in root’). I don’t think there have been movies or hidden surveillance cameras filming an actual murder to produce the mind blowing cries I let out that day!…… and no one in the office or on the dental staff blinked an eye.

That unforgettable experience left laid up in bed for about a week, with a swollen noggin for about just as long. Naturally, the bloody bump on my neck remained, leaving me relieved to have taken care of the tooth, but still nervous as to what was going on with my body. Had I only know what kinds of inhumane pain and
suffering was to come, all at the hands of people working in what some people call ‘medicine’, I think I would have been on the first jet out of Asia. But then, that would’ve been logical….

YONSEI UNIVERSITY SEVERANCE HOSPITAL

It was here where I underwent almost $500.00 (out of my pocket) worth of testing to find out what the hell was going on with my neck. My journey to this seemingly civilized educational medical facility actually began at my local doctor (whose son I was teaching at the time and I have to say (sorry doc), was the fattest doctor’s child I personally have ever seen in my life!) She spoke no English, which is probably good because I had no idea what information she’d gathered from the ultrasound she took of my neck. So soon after would I get to place the missing piece to that sinister puzzle. Through several notes and translators, she referred me to the ‘International Clinic’ at Yonsei University Severance Hospital, which was supposed to be the best in Korea.

So, I went to this center and had my neck twisted, prodded, extracted and mutilated by a bunch of medical residents, carrying only about $100 US in my pocket (hey, Korea is cheap, I only paid $20 to have my tooth ripped from my skeleton!). Well, with no comprehensive health insurance because I was working in a babysitting slavery circle under the cover of a private English academy and the amazing procedure of hospitals to not disclose cost until after they’ve raped you with needles and plastic gloves, I realized I was short of cash… really short!

After a marathon of phone calls and short of signing my soul over to some jerk American doctor who thought he was the bee’s knees because he got his MD from Yonsei University (sorry Korea but Yonsei Med School doesn’t strike much in my mind for international prestige!). My head teacher finally came through with a credit card call; of course, that loan would later blossom into serious debt, a confrontation with an old man probably decomposing at the bottom of the Han River now and accusations of being a heroin addict (Couldn’t make it all up if I really tried and made three wishes on a star!).

Two weeks later some 미친연 calling herself a doctor answers the phone after about ten phone calls made by yours truly to try and figure out what all those tests had proven and tells me, ‘You need to make plans to go back to the US. I could provide you with some professionals here in Seoul to take on your medical case, but you probably can’t afford it, so why should I bother.’ (AKA: ‘get the fuck out of my country you dirty American scum, we ain’t givin’ no financial aid this year, see you next time if you live that long, 씨발놈아!’). Two hours of chaotic anxiety and confusion would follow before I finally realized just exactly what Hodgkin’s’ Disease was and what I would need to do to get rid of it!

THE NATIONAL MEDICAL CENTER
After lots of discomfort in this long journey to figure out what was wrong with me and how to get rid of the lump in my neck; I had gotten my answer… AND BOY WAS I PISSED!!!! See, I immediately started to think of all the late night partying and various methods of cellular destruction I’d participated in during college and all I could say was, ‘You reap what you sow’. But I can honestly say I don’t think I sowed this one! Damn genetics played the trick of a lifetime on me and there was nothing I could do to stop it from coming to fruition. I made plans to return home to the US that same day, but the penny pincher of a boss of mine decided that I was too big an investment to just let me fly off and never return (for whatever reason). How was I to know that I’d be back teaching five weeks later!

As gruesome and challenging going through cancer diagnostic treatment was, my three weeks in that hospital, the National Medical Center, were and will always be some of the most amazing times I’ve ever had. This place was a damn mess to start. First built as a US Army hospital during the Korean War, the Korean government took over operations after the cease fire (mind you the Korean War has never ended. They are still technically still at war!). Only problem with that was that they never bothered to renovate, rebuild or update anything in the building since! Oh the imagery here! Think of the show ‘MASH’; mid-July heat, no air conditioning, one fan in a ward with eight beds (seven of them filled with Korean men, 45 years of age and older and then me, a 24 year American black guy!).

My neighbor for about two weeks was this awesome old dude, Mr. Kwan, who took it upon himself to be my personal translator, ethnographic guide and he even once took me to Catholic Mass (only God knows how he knew just what I was saying since he never once spoke a word of English to me and I had never known what to do with those damn ‘eggs in the shell’ at breakfast time without him; a few months in Korea had not acclimated me to eating everyday Korean food, especially everyday Korean hospital food!). One thing about Mr. Kwan that I had to dig thought was that when he would come back to the room from his smoke break in the stairwell, he smelled strongly of the Mean Green, the wacky tobaccy, mountain trees…. He never offered or shared.

My nurses were very nice and very understanding of my rather awkward place. One was actually a very cute nursing student who couldn’t speak much English, but had amazing handwriting and made it a point to bring a dry erase board for us to communicate. The Head Ward nurse spoke amazing English and although she was said she was Korean spoke with a very strong Filipino accent. And how could I forget the lovely ‘natural redhead’ who caught me sneaking back into my bed one night after I snuck out of the hospital to go see a DJ in Itaewon and proceeded to give me a tongue lashing on the severity of my situation, as she made me kneel and hold my head down in shame (typical Korean way to say, ‘I’m sorry.’).

It was in that hotbox of hell hospital that I had two drills put into my back and bone marrow pulled out of my pelvic bone. This was the most pain I have ever felt in my life and I could imagine one of the worst pains humans could feel… especially when the local anesthetic wears off before the needles even go in! I clinched my teeth and damned the soul of the nurse who was holding out on me with the drugs as she turned her head when I growled and cut my eyes back at her in disdain. It was in this place that I was not allowed to properly bathe for seven days due to the gigantic, gaping wounds on my back and hence produced a bodily stench that I WILL NOT smell again (I’ll cut my own nose off).

Ahh, I sound rather negative, but I did learn a lot of Korean language, finished some good books and got a month and eight days a month for the next six months paid leave off of work! That reminds me of my chemo nurse; I affectionately called her ‘Tweety’ (she had a cute resemblance to Tweety the cartoon character). Why this chick was assigned my chemo a nurse who knows, she couldn’t speak, read, write or understand any variation of English (and many of the medicine labels were printed in English). But, she was serious trooper and we somehow made it work (and she put up with a lot more than most dealing with me!).

Our first ‘shit show’ session was my third treatment, the second with Tweety (our first went quite well, even though I threw up all over the backseats of two different taxis on the way home). Taking the advice of my nutritionist (who also spoke no English), I made the mistake of eating a Kimbab roll (what you may know as a California roll) for breakfast before the session. Bad biz. After about 2 hours of the scheduled 5-hour ‘Drip of Death’, I threw up. Everywhere! There was so much rice and stomach ‘stuff’ all over the bed, floor, walls, sink, that I hated the sight of it for several months after.

I’m not one to recount my vomits, no matter how grand and gushing they might be, but this was a true exception. As I spewed chunks all over this badly furnished, yet clean clinical office and consequently covered Tweety’s left leg, this chick, petrified and seemingly at a loss for how to make the situation right, starts to yell, ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! What the hell am I supposed to do now?’… all with a perfect American accent!

ILSAN HOSPITAL AND THE SHINGLES SCARE OF 2004

All passed well at the Medical Center with my treatments and eight months later I had a new job teaching at a public high school, with sick days, medical leave and full Ministry of Education sponsored health insurance (my best friend!). But oh no, life would be too easy if things like health insurance were just there for, I don’t
know, peace of mind! Silly boy I am!

May 2004: I wake up to a burning pain behind my left ear and an itch I was able to relieve by intense scratching that drew blood! Two days later, the rash, pain and itching has quickly spread down my left arm, across the left side of my upper back and chest. Did I forget the almost immediate onset of nausea, dementia and migraine headaches? Can’t forget those! At school on Monday, I tell my mentor teacher that I’ve been through this craziness of weird bumps and rashes once, ‘You and I are going to the closest hospital, now!’

He cancels all my classes for the day and we frantically zoom the quarter mile to the Ilsan Hospital. I explain to the intake nurse what’s happening, he translates. I am swiftly taken into the emergency area. Lots of blood is taken, several tests are done (none, I might add, as painful as those I experienced before, thank God!) None of the medical residents know what Hodgkin’s’ Disease is I give them my medical history (translations can really be lazy; in Korean, Hodgkin’s’ Disease is pronounced ‘had-juh-keens dee-jee-zuh’, get it?). They figure since they don’t know what the condition is, it probably isn’t important and we move on with the tests.

I meet with the Head Dermatologist (a women who most likely attended medical school in the US, probably wanted to stay there but her parents dragged her home and knew she was too good a doctor to be working in that hospital.), and she in perfect, understandable English told me it was Herpes Zoster, or in the colloquial, SHINGLES! What the #@^! Did I do in a past life that would deem it necessary that a 25 year old man have to deal with having Shingles? Neither of my grandparents or anyone else I knew 65 years of age or older had been diagnosed with such! The doctor, however, was swift and efficient in explaining how I’d possibly acquired such a strange condition, as she was truly a good doctor who knew her craft.

Shingles is a disease of the nervous system associated with the Chicken Pox virus that tends to become active when your immune system has been somehow extensively compromised (like the side effects of 6 months of chemotherapy!). It can kill you pretty fast if you don’t catch it because it spreads and eventually causes brain death. Lucky for me, I was in Korea! Although she was professionally very cosmopolitan and worldly, she was still Korean. With that known, she gave me a typical Korean response to how to remedy my situation (which I’m sure you’ll like):

               Normally, we hospitalize Shingles patients for several days 

               as we administer the medicines, but you’re a young man. 

               You’re strong. Don’t worry about it. Just take these pills 

               and you can start back at work in a day.’

To hell with that! I took the week off, with 119 on speed dial (911 in Korea). I’d made a dignified plea (alright, I kind of begged) to be admitted in the hospital for the week, partially because the hospital was brand new and had ‘hotel comparable amenities’, but school and the doctor didn’t feel it ‘necessary’.

So, in an attempt to save my life, the chemo ended up gave me shingles, which also almost took my life (and only God knows what else I got from the National Medical Center!). Modern medicine really is inhumane; it nearly killed me, twice (for second occurrence, see BONE MARROW TRANSPLANT AT WAKE FOREST BAPTIST HOSPITAL)!

PLASTIC SURGERY AND THE SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL

Well, this leads me to the most eventful St. Patrick’s Day I have ever had (and the one Korean medical trauma I think I am solely responsible for!). Now, with my knowledge of hospitals, that night I was prepared to receive the best service and treatment without the pain and bullshit from before and I was going to get it!

It was St. Patty’s Day, 2006. The crew and I were watching a crappy expat band play at a crappy club and I was not impressed (It should be noted though, that the cover was $20, all you can drink, all night… even Jack Daniel’s!). A friend known for complicating the most docile of situations starts hitting on some butt ugly chick dancing by herself. Her boyfriend shows up, gets pissed off and starts yelling at the crew because we’re responsible for my friend and his stupidity… somehow! We have a standoff between wanna be Ken and Barbie and myself and three of the craziest Korean guys I’ve ever met (the ‘crew’). The situation calms, partially because we’ve all drank so much that we forget why we’re yelling and four of the seven participants finish their drinks and naturally need a refill.

After I get my refill of Jack on the rocks with a splash of Chilsung cider, I go to the bathroom. I don’t remember using the bathroom, but I do remember opening the bathroom door, taking a step and then… blank! I “wake up” standing outside the club on the street holding my face as blood drips endlessly from my hand. I bend over as to not get any on the new Emerald green shirt I’d just bought the day before. My friends, the ‘crew’ ask, ‘who?’ I respond, ‘who what?’ After much confusion and everyone’s realization that I’d just been sucker punched by someone too afraid to go head to head with a drunk traveling with a posse of even drunker socio-paths, we hop in a cab and make our way to Seoul National University Hospital.

Like I said, I wanted the best treatment and service possible at 3am in the morning (It was only one block from my apartment, they had some of the best facilities in East Asia and a 24-hour on-call plastic surgeon). I may have been drunk and delirious, yes! But illogical and irrational… never! I wish we had a video camera that night because I would easily win a best actor award for how I behaved in that hospital! I walked in throwing commands in English and Korean (the poor nurse didn’t know if to listen to me or attending doctor!). My crowning moment, of course, occurred with the realization that I must have been hit with something sharp, like a ring or jagged metal, because that’s when I started to demand for the plastic surgeon.

‘I have the fucking money! You get the best person in this damn city on my face now! My face! My face! What the fuck did some fucker do to my face! One of you bastards are gonna die if I have another damn scar on my fucking face!’ (All amidst a deluge of tears and 80-proof drool running from the corners of my mouth)

Okay… maybe sometimes my intoxicated melodrama is too much, sometimes. They finally get me stitched up and the hell out of their hospital, reminding me that I have to go back to get the stitches taken out on the next Friday, but if I want I can go to another hospital and they can take them out too. I stand by my demands for medical excellence and decide I’ll go back next Friday. Besides, they won’t recognize me (to many Koreans, all Americans, black, white, Latino, native American, look the same… go figure).

Once at home, I rant and rave for another hour to the crew about having another scar, explaining the bandage across half my face to school (I’m now teaching elementary school, happy happy fun fun!) and trying to convince them to go back to the club, find someone with a bloody ring and ‘bring them back to me’!)

I returned to the hospital and had the stitches removed. Upon leaving, I stopped by the cashier and submitted my insurance, to be reimbursed the $300 I paid that night and had a very nice conversation in Korean with the cashier about how much better life in the countryside is compared to living in a large city. At least this medical visit was somewhat normal.

There was one more trip to the hospital in Korea, another physical injury, another situation I really didn’t have much control over (kind of). But, I think I already told you about that one and since my foot starts to hurt when I talk about that experience, you’ll have to reread it if you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about (see PENTAPORT ROCK for medical experiences in the city of Incheon, Korea!).

So, what’s next? No more hospitals, I hope. If you came up with an answer to my little dilemma with hospitals and fucking Korea, let me know, please! I got about $20,000 worth of procedures, treatments and medication tied up somewhere between my ears and my anus! At least I can say it was money well spent, right?

Seoul, Korea (Summer, 2006)