Anne has told her hospital story, and I freely admit that it's more eventful than mine. I offer this in the hope that it may be marginally interesting and may serve as a basis for comparison with similar procedures in the USA. I have written before that I had a small spot on my forehead that would not heal and that a Beijing hospital had cut out some skin for a biopsy. After returning home to Xiangtan I called the hospital and asked for the results. I was connected to a lady who spoke some English. "Carcinoma," she said, advising me to get it treated at the "cancer hospital" in Changsha, our provincial capital, and promising to fax a copy of the results to my school. Mr. Zhu, our school's waiban, offered to go with me to Changsha and help make arrangements to have the problem treated.
The most constant characteristic of our experiences with medical and dental care in China is that the diagnoses and the treatment plans seem to change on a daily, or even hourly, basis. Mr. Zhu, in his inscrutable way, took me to a different hospital -- the name had something to do with cadre or comrade. Apparently it was used mainly by officials and military veterans. We registered, paid, and were directed upstairs. We wandered down several halls and eventually found, I trusted, the appropriate doctors. We talked and they consulted. The consultation grew in numbers. They announced that the most reliable procedure was to have a small, very minor operation and that they wanted me to stay in the hospital for five days for proper follow-up care.
Mr. Zhu seemed to think this was acceptable and normal, so I agreed. "We will give you the freshman students to teach," he said, "so you won't miss any classes." We were still in the first week of the fall semester, and the freshmen hadn't yet arrived. When they did come, they would enjoy two weeks of military training before starting classes.
We made an appointment for the operation early in the next week. On the agreed day, I filled my day-pack with books and a change of clothes, hefted my guitar case, bid a cheerful goodbye to wife and kids, and headed off with Mr. Zhu for what I thought would be a week of mostly rest and relaxation. We made our way to the hospital, found the same upstairs office, and announced we were ready for the operation. It seemed they were not ready, however. We were directed to another building where we could check in and wait, apparently, until the next day. We walked over to the other building, registered, and went upstairs to get myself checked into a room. They tried to give me a private room, despite my protests that I didn't need one. We were sent downstairs to pay a deposit of 1,000 yuan; I paid and pocketed the receipt.
Back upstairs we were ushered into a room down the hall, where a few people who may have been doctors began asking me questions, such as "Why are you here? How do you know what the problem is? Why do you want an operation?" I replied that I had been told by the doctors in the same hospital that it was the best treatment. "No, no, no," said the lady who spoke the most English. "You should go downtown for laser treatment." We talked a while longer; they called the hospital downtown. The doctors downtown suggested a freezing treatment, instead. In the end, I decided on the freezing method because it was supposedly quite effective and only required a single treatment, instead of five times by laser.
We went downstairs, showed the receipt -- never throw away a receipt or used ticket in China, by the way -- retrieved the deposit money, and exited the hospital. All this time, I had been carrying my guitar case resolutely around with me from room to room. Perhaps everyone thought I was a great, dedicated, and reclusive guitarist from America. More likely, I reckoned, they thought I was simply another crazy foreigner. Armed with a scribbled address, Mr. Zhu flagged down a taxi and we found the other hospital. He asked directions, and we found what seemed to be the right office. Then we had to go to the main entrance, pay and register, and return to the office with our receipt. Eventually we were introduced to a middle-aged, friendly, confident doctor who asked me all the same questions again. He examined my forehead with a magnifying lens that he kept on a loop around his neck. He looked closely at a few other skin spots in various places. His English was serviceable, and he enjoyed asking me questions and talking about America. He said to come back on Thursday for the treatment, that I would be able to go home immediately, that I didn't need anyone to accompany me, and that the cost of the treatment would be 60 yuan -- less than 8 dollars. Hoisting the guitar case, I thanked him. We left the hospital, found a place to eat lunch, and returned home on the bus.
On Thursday I returned to Changsha. It was early September and the weather was warm if not sunny, so I took the boat instead of a bus. Xiangtan and Changsha are both on the Xiang River, the largest in Hunan and a major tributary of the Yangtze. A ferry service runs every hour or so, and on a good day it is quite pleasant to make the trip. The ferry is built a little like an oversized speedboat with a big cabin, holds about 30 people, and is quite fast. I caught a taxi from the dock in Changsha to the hospital, and found the office.
The doctor was in. A large container of liquid nitrogen stood in one corner of the office. His assistant selected a tip, fitted it to a short aluminum shaft, and immersed it in the liquid, checking the temperature. After a minute or two, she took out the instrument and, with absolutely no warning, put the tip onto the spot on my forehead and pressed hard. It did not seem to me like a typical treatment situation. I was sitting on a flimsy chair, with my back leaning casually against a flimsy wall. She pressed very hard; I wondered whether my skull or the wall would fail first under the pressure. She was timing her procedure; I think she kept contact for 60 seconds, but perhaps my sense of time was distorted by the unique and exquisite feelings of being simultaneously skewered and frozen. She broke contact and returned the instrument to the container.
I chatted a bit with the doctor, then the assistant gave me "the treatment" a second time. If anything, the feelings were more intense as I wondered idly whether the slight crackling sounds were caused by freezing skin or imminent bone failure. Then it was over; the doctor said I could go. He predicted that I would quickly develop a large swollen bump that would last a few days. He gave me some iodine solution and some swabs, then bid me goodbye. I stood up and looked in the mirror. I had a small area of white in the center, surrounded by a growing patch of red. I asked about a bandage. The assistant plopped a huge wad of gauze on and taped it down with an 8- inch strip of tape, as if to say, "Real men don't ask for bandages, so I'll really make you look silly." Luckily I had a cap in my daypack; I put it on and pulled it low over my forehead. I paid the 60 yuan, plus 3 for the iodine, at the cashier's window, took a taxi back to the dock, and cruised home on the fast ferry.
By the time I got home, I did indeed have a swollen area, over 2 inches in diameter. I used the iodine, some of Anne's magic brown healing goop, and a box of standard Band-Aids (imported, of course). The swelling did go down in a few days and within a couple weeks the wound had completely healed over. For the first time in two years, I didn't have a scab on my forehead. Perhaps you think I was too carefree in handling my case, but I disagree. This was China, you see; also, I placed my life completely in God’s hands when I moved here. My Chinese name does mean "happy go lucky" and, after all, it was just another hole in my head. ;>)
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