I woke up in the middle of the night with horrible pains. I thought they were cramps, but they continued and the next morning I had a dull pain in the right side of my stomach. I decided to go to the hospital to make sure it wasn’t appendicitis.
They told me it was appendicitis. And they would have to operate that day.
LBJ Hospital is a series of metal buildings that look like they were set up as a temporary service after some major disaster. Or perhaps a service to the locals by colonialists that don’t plan on keeping a permanent presence, which is exactly what it is. The floors are concrete, and to go from one ward to the other often requires going outside. Many of the wards, such as the maternity ward, have no air conditioning. In a place where the normal noon time temperature fluctuates between 87 and 92, throughout the year, that is a serious problem. Plus, I had heard nothing but terrible things about LBJ. More importantly, I had heard terrible things about getting appendicitis here. The governor had to take a life flight to Hawaii after the surgeons here messed up his appendectomy. My friend Matt had an appendectomy here, and now has a six inch scar, and nearly died. The general rule is – don’t go. If you’re that sick, take a plane to Hawaii. Unfortunately, I got sick on a Monday, and the next flight wasn’t until Thursday. Needless to say, I was not excited about the prospect of getting an operation here. So, as I was getting gassed, I just kind of hoped I would wake up.
And wake up I did, in a hospital bed with people trying to explain the complex procedures that had just occurred, while I had the cognitive abilities of a half dead sewer rat. I can remember waking up for mere seconds while people put needles in me, or asking me if I needed pain meds. I was awake enough to say yes, and then passed out when they gave them to me.
I also remember waking up needing to pee. They left me a water bottle looking thing, and I had to pee into that. I couldn’t get up to use the restroom. So I’d lean over and try to pee, but it’s surprisingly difficult to put pressure on the bladder when all those muscles have just been shredded by surgery.
The next day, I did wake up enough to get bored. I went into the hospital with nothing. I didn’t expect to stay. There was nothing to read, no TV, no change of clothes (I wore a hospital gown anyway, but still), no tooth brush or shampoo, nothing, nothing, nothing. Fortunately, I did get lots of visitors. People came in to see me and always brought something. For some reason, the typical hospital gift here is juice. Everyone brought juice. Everything from Poweraid, to mixed tropical blends, to Big Bird’s apple drink boxes. It was very nice of them, even if my fascist doctor and nurses wouldn’t let me drink it.
They didn’t let me ingest anything the first few days. The rule was that I couldn’t put anything in my mouth until gas came out my rear. I must have been health as an ox though, as that was the one thing I couldn’t stop doing. On Tuesday they allowed me to eat ice chips. This is not a meal. I was starving. It wasn’t until Wednesday lunch that the doctor said I could eat “soft” foods. So the hospital brought up a barbequed turkey leg, soup, pineapples, juice, milk, and a dessert. It was delicious.
There aren’t a lot of great places to eat on the island, and the hospital is actually considered one of the best. You can get a solid, tasty meal fore mere dollars. Many a palagi who dated a Samoan has lamented their dates to the hospital canteen, but they never complained about the food.
My room was nice, if bland, in a surgical ward kind of way. The surgical ward was air conditioned, but always kept at about 60 degrees…Kelvin. I had a roommate in the bed next to me. He was some Samoan guy who didn’t speak much English. I still don’t know what he was in for. But he spoke enough to bum cigarettes, and borrow my shoes. For some reason he didn’t have any shoes. So he borrowed mine. He borrowed my shoes, regularly. It’s still a funny thing to say. The nurses laughed and said it was “ghetto.”
For the most part, my healthcare was fine. I got one of the “good” surgeons. He was one of two who received actual medical training. The others were just trained as butchers. Or so I say. Most of the nurses were nice and knew what they were doing, except for the one who flushed a blood clot stuck in my IV into my arm. It is still in my wrist. You can see the vein sticking up. It’s hard and painful. I’m assured it’s no big deal. Also, they didn’t have any antacids. The American Samoa hospital didn’t have something that comes in a basic travel first aid kit.
They released me on Thursday, after I heckled them to get me out of there. I was so bored I was going to claw my eyes out. I had read, literally, 11 magazines, two newspapers (one of them was a Sunday New York Times), finished one book and read half of another, that was 700 pages long. I had pancakes for breakfast.
However, being released from surgical isn’t the same as being released from the hospital. I still had to pay the bill. Health care on the island is subsidized. It’s kind of surprising considering America’s disdain of subsidized medicine. And some of the fears are well founded. I came back a week later for a check up to the surgical clinic. I had to wait two hours to see the doctor. That’s like 30 minutes longer than I would have waited to see a doctor in America.
I should note, however, than while the surgical clinic was crazy, I never had to wait to get surgery. They were on the ball for that.
But the payment process was ridiculous. My contract hadn’t been completed, so I was considered a non-resident, which means my healthcare isn’t subsidized, so they gave me a quote in the thousands. However, while I was in the hospital, my contract was finalized. I told them this and they asked for a copy. Here is the Catch-22: I couldn’t leave until I paid my bill. I couldn’t pay my bill unless I left to get my contract.
I did get it worked out, but it reminds me of another Catch-22 related to the hospital. In order to get a contract, you have to get a medical check-up. But you can’t get a medical check-up until you are a resident. You can’t be a resident unless you have a contract. The ways around these problems are complex and require numerous phone calls and yelling. For some reason, everyone involved recognizes the ridiculousness of the situation, but nobody ever does anything about it.
All these problems made me want to give up the dream of universal healthcare, until I worked them out. My entire bill, including three nights and four days in the room, meals, the initial doctor’s visit, a blood test, a CT scan, a prescription, and two follow-ups, totaled $280. Try doing that, even with the best insurance.
I’m doing better now. I worked the next week, which probably wasn’t the best idea. Some people get the idea that the work world stops when they’re not around, and I assured myself that wasn’t the case. Until I got back, and the whole house of cards had fallen in on itself. That’s the problem with only have one person work hundreds of cases. If that person is gone, nobody knows what the hell is going on.
Since they took the stitches (staples) out, I’ve been moving around just fine. Stairs are still an obstacle, but that’s only a problem when the elevator is out (all the fucking time). At this point, my only goal is to be well enough to play slosh ball next weekend for the Pilagi Olympics.
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