Hospital Stay

The five hour bus ride to Bangalore feels like an eternity. David is now holding his backpack limply and resting his head on it. He looks more and more pale. While I feel the breeze cool my sweat soaked face and body I touch David's dry forehead with worry. The situation is made comic as the baby next to me pours milk on me and my purse. As the mother and father stand to leave the bus I ask the lady's husband with furrowed brow how to get to Wockhardt Hospital, the hospital that a calm and detached voice on the other end of the phone told me to go to. I hate and love SOS international, a phone service for sick students in study abroad programs.

We make it to the bus stand. I help David into his bags and then put on my own. We walk to the prepaid rickshaw stand. I load the little rickshaw with our large bags--I hold David's bag in place with my neck and head. In the back of the rickshaw I see as far as change I only have 4 tens--always the change game in India. I put the 4 tens in one pocket, but hope the driver will break my 100. The driver takes us to the hospital. 42 rupees. I hand him 100 rupee bill and a 2 rupee coin. He says, "I want 10 extra" and points to the large bags. Rage surges within me. I snatch the bill out of his hand, then hand over the 40 rupees from my pocket. He retracts his hand. and says, "10 extra for baggage."

I say, "Fine if you don't want it, I'll keep it." and start handing Dave's bag to him as he stands outside of the rickshaw looking both pale and sun burnt (from the rash he’s had). Again the driver says, "Ten extra for the baggage." I say no. I'm out of the rickshaw bags in hand now. He finally puts our his hand to receive payment and I throw the 4 bills in his direction. David raises an eyebrow and I roll my eyes and motion towards the hospital, which looks more like a five star hotel--damn SOS! This is going to be expensive, but I don't have the time to get him somewhere else.

We check in at the reception lobby. A nice man with a trimmed moustache works the desk tonight. His English is good and his smile genuine and calming, not greasy like most Indian men who look at me like I'm the new stripper in town. We get into a room and a female doctor in a lab coat asks lots of questions. She comes back 10 minutes later and encourages David to be admitted. David is hesitant, by the cleanliness of the room and status of the lobby we know this will be pricey. I run back to the lobby and get a pricing list--just to see how much this pretty little room will cost us. It's 2100 a night for a semi-private room (a shared bathroom down the hall but a room with an extra couch made into bed for me to sleep on). That's 50 bucks a night. We go ahead and pay the down payment.

That first night involved running back and forth to the mall getting food, filling out paperwork, going through an orientation, and getting keys, a remote control for the TV, and an "attendee" badge. David gets poked and prodded all night long. We both wake every time a nurse comes in. By 6:00 they bring David his morning tea and at 7 they want him to step out of bed so they can change the sheets. We both roll our eyes and try to sleep a little more after they leave him with a fresh pair of pajamas.

The doctor comes in at 10:00am while I'm out getting breakfast for me and trying to put more minutes on my emergency cell phone. He tells David, "We'll know by Wednesday." He doesn't explain what tests he's running, what treatment he's planning to give, or why he hasn't given David any medication yet. Nothing. Which then becomes a pattern. Each time the nurses come in they never explain what they're doing or why or even what David's vitals are. I finally stop asking because each time we ask the nurse something she just repeats the word in English with some blank stare and says, "yeah, yeah." Sometimes the nurses use gloves and sometimes not. When they don't I shake my fist at SOS!!

Three days like this. 6:00 milk is brought in by the kitchen staff who wear a tuxedos minus the dinner jackets. 7:00 the nurse and one of the cleaning staff to change the sheets. You can tell the nurses by the caps they wear, their white shoes, and light blue uniforms while the cleaning staff wear a dark blue with black shoes. The nurses are all female the cleaning staff all male. 8:00 the cleaning staff wet down the sink and the floor with soapy water and squeegee the floor dry then use a dry mop to finish it off. I am always amazed at how dirty the water gets and how much it smells like a hospital after they leave. 9:00 a guy comes and sprays the room with pest control. 10:00 the doctor makes a formal visit, says very little and pats David on his knee. I run errands in the afternoon--giving David and I some alone time. By dark I come back to the hospital. I make one ice cream run for the two of us after dinner and we spend the night watching some more TV--mostly movies on HBO. We crack a few jokes about Indian hospitals or lame films on HBO and by 11 or 11:30 we turn out the lights. I try to sleep on the uneven couch-made-bed they've provided. The staff at night usually come in once or twice which makes me wake with a start to do who knows what. I sit up and wait until they leave to go back to sleep.

By Tuesday we have a diagnosis, Dengue fever. We've talked about David going home, but nothing was set until we found he had more than just your everyday "Viral Fever." We make more expensive calls home and to the office. They want to keep David at the hospital because his blood platelets are low. I bring the nice night receptionist an ice cream on my Tuesday night ice cream run. And Wednesday morning we are told we can leave today. By 3 in the afternoon we finally get released and try to catch a rickshaw to the hotel I've made reservations for. What a week. I've enjoyed getting to know Bangalore a bit better, India's New York City. But I'll be ready for this to be over--Sunday we fly to Delhi and that night David is going to head home.