Medical Excursions of The Occidental Tourist.

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My 2006 edition of Frommer’s China provides a small section of advice to the unfortunate traveler who needs to seek medical help, but little did we expect that we would be turning to that page on the very first day of our China tour!

On the last weekend before leaving Canada, we heard that SS injured herself in a spectacular tumble off her moped.  When we were at the Toronto airport lounge, waiting for our flight to Beijing, SS pulled back her large gauze and duct tape bandage to reveal the oval shaped gash across her knee.  At the time it was developing a nice crusty surface.  Unfortunately, after the rigour of the long journey, and our first morning of sightseeing in Beijing in 34°C weather and 98% humidity, the wound became infected and swollen.  Sage was limping painfully and she needed a doctor.

At about 1:30 pm, while the rest of the musicians were having their first rehearsal at the hotel, our guide Ping went out to hail a cab to take SS and I (one of the four parent chaperones), to the nearest hospital.  One after the other, the taxis refused to stop, even when empty.  This was perplexing. When at last we grabbed a taxi that was unloading passengers at the hotel door, the driver explained to Ping that taxis were no longer allowed to stop on that particular street (the fine was $300 CDN).

After we arrived at the main hospital entrance, reception told Ping that we needed to go to another part of the hospital.  This is when we discovered that the Beijing hospital covers an impressive number of city blocks.  We followed Ping to the other building, with SS bravely hobbling along, obviously in pain but without a word of complaint.  Inside that building we followed Ping along a long dark corridor, to another reception desk.  At that reception desk we were sent to a third building.  We followed Ping to that building, where, on the fifth floor, we met a concerned nurse who asked how old SS was.  This was very promising progress and SS and I answered eagerly, in unison, with the single required word, but our contribution to the discussion ended there, rather abruptly, due to the arrival of a second nurse who appeared to have different opinions about where we belonged.  A vigorous and loud debate ensued, in rapid-fire Chinese, with SS and I watching back and forth like on-lookers at a tennis tournament.  All we understood was that Ping was strenuously advocating for treatment for SS, for which I was deeply grateful.  Then a third nurse appeared, who looked at SS and nodded while she was being briefed.  Suddenly the matter was decided. Ping told us we had an appointment with the doctor. Hooray for Ping!  He explained that the doctor was back in the first building, and before we went there, first we had to go to the bottom floor in the present building to pay the cashier.

Eventually we met with Dr. Chen in Clinic Number 15, and this time the consultation actively involved all four participants—the thirteen-year-old musician, the parent chaperone, the guide, and the doctor. At the end, SS was prescribed a dressing, antibiotics, Chinese traditional medicine for pain and swelling, and an x-ray. For the doctor, writing each prescription seemed to be an arduous task—every time he wrote out SS’s name at the top he chuckled, shaking his head, and commenting to Ping. Then Ping explained to us what the doctor was finding so funny. SS’s name involves seven syllables, each of which would require a separate icon in Chinese, and the hospital computer system accepts only 3 or 4 icons at the most. The doctor had never seen anything like it. Our trio then tackled the arduous task of carrying out the steps required by each prescription, which meant more cashiers, long corridors, and waiting rooms. When we finally completed our hospital visit, the humidity had reached 100%, and SS and I sheltered ourselves from the torrential rain while Ping walked blocks to find us a cab. He received a text message that there was a hailstorm in parts of Beijing.

SS and I arrived back at the hotel at 5:30, with half an hour to spare before dinner. Ping had another hour’s subway ride before he got home that night. I will never forget the kindness and understanding of Ping while he was helping us that afternoon.

PR

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