Hospital hopping: From Mcleod Ganj to Bangalore

I thought I was in the clear. With just a few more days until my departure from India, I assumed I had outsmarted any more sneaky illnesses.  No more parasites for me, home-free at last.

Or not. I woke up Sunday morning but never really woke up, and within an hour of leaving my bed I was racing back to pass out in it. I suppose making it out healthy would have been too easy, and that’s no fun at all, right?

The universe must have been planning this final illness, because our guesthouse was right across the street from St. Martha’s Hospital. After risking life and limb to jay-walk through an unending stampede of rickshaws, cars, bicycles and buses, Ashley and I made it into the hospital quarters. When we first entered my eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, and then I saw that the place was packed with sick Indian patients. Once again, we were the only foreigners in sight, and people unabashedly stared in our direction.

We walked to an inquiry counter and a snappy woman directed us around the corner to register. When we rounded the turn, we came upon a new space with several long lines going in different directions. We found our line and took our place—or at least we tried to. People were pushing up behind us, and it was loud and everyone was talking. A woman was suddenly cutting in front of us, and I could feel somebody breathing on the back of my neck.  I knew I had to sit down or I’d faint. If Ashley wasn’t there to save my spot, I’m not sure what I would have done.

Thirty to 40 minutes later, the registration process was over and we headed upstairs to see a doctor. We found more lines, more people, more yelling, and lots of benches. A screen with numbers changed slowly, counting up higher and higher. I was number 94. I collapsed on a seat and tried to pretend I was somewhere else.

When my number finally rang, I went to see the doctor. I expected to go into a closed room and chat, but there’s no such thing as privacy at St. Martha’s Hospital. I was ushered to a table with four chairs. Doctors sat at two, I sat in one, and another patient sat right beside me. A nurse pushed Ashley inside so she was standing a few feet away. The door into the main hall was open, and more patients were waiting outside. Another open door to another room with even more people was also nearby. My doctor raised her eyes from paperwork to me.

“So, tell me (and the world), what’s the problem?” I started sharing my health history and answering questions. How much have I been eating? How often have I been going to the bathroom? What does it look like when I do go to the bathroom? Can I describe the texture? You know, information that I love sharing with lots and lots of strangers.

My doctor pulled out a little tin medical box and began to take my blood pressure. When she saw how low it was, she wasn’t quite sure what to do (she didn’t strike me as the most competent doctor in the world). Still, I was happy because she eventually wrote me a prescription for medicine. (Later I was not so pleased, because she failed to mention that this medicine would make me much more sick before it could make me feel better. I suppose I should have known to ask).

With prescription in hand, I returned to the chaotic waiting room to find the pharmacy section (and an even longer, even pushier line). Again, I thought I was going to pass out if I didn’t sit down, so Ashley saved the day and fought for my pills instead. After what seemed like hours, she called my name and I stood to leave. I needed to escape the hospital pandemonium. I dragged my feet downstairs, through the registration section and outside into honking and traffic. Hallelujah.

Back in bed, I got to thinking about the difference between my American and Indian hospital experiences. In Bangalore, if you want to be seen you’ve got to be aggressive. You’ve got to stand in line and stand your guard, pushing up against the sick person in front of you. That’s just how the system works. But if you’re so sick you can hardly see straight, let alone stand straight, how are you supposed to get help? Had Ashley not been by my side, I don’t think I could have even registered.

In the United States, we take our nice hospitals for granted. Once you’re through the doors, there are nurses to guide you from chair to examining table and back. It’s clean and usually quiet. You basically just have to sit, because there are staff members around to take care of you. But (and there’s always a but), you’ve also got to have good insurance or a steep pocket.  My trip to St. Martha’s Hospital in Bangalore cost me about $3—including the cost of two medicines. I got in, I got out, I kept my wallet. What’s the better system?

At the time of my illness, I would have opted for the American experience in a second. A sick person does not want to go through torture in order to get better, especially when she’s already in so much pain. Still, maybe it’s not necessary to be as pampered as we are in the United States, because comfort costs money and money is not in unlimited supply. I’m not really sure what the solution is. The only moral I can draw from my story is this: While it’s never fun to share bathroom details with strangers, $3 medical visits are a pretty good deal. To be honest, though, if I ever fall sick in Bangalore again, I’m splurging and looking for help outside of St. Martha’s.

I’m also reserving the right to shoot spitballs at any tone-deaf choir child who has the audacity to sing outside of my bedroom. The world has been warned.

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