Stabbed in the leg with a scissor = successful surgery
There is a nearly hypnotic quality to the nature of Hungarian health care. It is positively Ramboesque. Take the story of my leg. This was years ago, of course, yet the story retains its fresh, bloodthirsty edge. I drank a lot at the time. Madrases. A Madras is a cranberry-orange-vodka drink. For those of you who think I am gay, well, I am not.
So I drink. Drink some more. I drink again. This is an open bar, folks. I enjoy my drink. Suddenly, it begins to fog up a bit. I direct my stumbling feet towards the bathroom. The stalls inside this bathroom are very, very uncouth. When I say it is uncouth, I mean UNCOUTH. There are round holes in the wall. There is unidentifiable filth on the floor. There is the odor of ass sweat. It is very, very uncomfortable. I am here, however, and I am hugging that obscenely filthy toilet like she was my lover because there is no strength left in my legs and my soul wants to exit my corporeal body through my gullet. Upon finishing, there was no motivation left to operate my strangely empty body. I just sat there, crumpled up in the bathroom, on the floor. Could this possibly get any worse?
Knock knock. Who is there? It is I, says a familiar voice. Your GAY ENEMY. For those of you who assume that gay people are inevitably kind hearted interior decorator fashion plates who only get irate about wall hangings and white socks with loafers, let me give you a heavy dose of truth: You are so fucking wrong. Some gay people are perverted, evil crossdressing bastards who smuggle guns.
I inject strength into my legs with sheer willpower. When you spend willpower this way, you are really giving up your soul to satan. There is an instant exchange of goods and services involved when you get up ass-drunk from the floor of a filthy toilet to avoid being used for a cumrag. In essence, you (1) promise your virgin daughter, assuming you have one, as sacrifice to the Seth, the Donkey God of Egypt (2) and all your assets to go to the church of Scientology (which is really the same as (1), but I digress), in exchange for the ability to move 29 feet from the bathroom stall to some seat openly visible to the rest of the patrons, who would presumably scream if they saw obvious rape. Or not.
Maybe I am being uncharitable. Gay enemy shoves the door open. I assure you, at this point adrenaline is mixing with bile, cranberry, orange juice and the few leftover fumes of vodka in my stomach quite nicely. He gives me a triumphant, lazy stare down, mixed with equal part amusement. Let me tell you, this is not a cocktail you want served on your ass. In my desperate haste to stumble out of the stall, I hit my shin against some kind of THING jutting out of the floor. It was a part of the bathroom. The excruciating pain faded under the merciful haze of alcohol. I stumbled past ENEMY who looked at my leg with complete surprise and horror. I could see a terrible conflict occupy his entire face like a successful invasion of Russia: (1) Do I take advantage of this golden opportunity and annihilate the dignity of this troublesome being (2) or do I recognize the probability that there will come a time when I will be at his mercy, similarly drunk? (3) Am I satisfied with the probably fatal injury he chose to administer to HIMSELF? He chose (3). I will be eternally grateful. He helped me out of the bathroom and sat me down. A strange, surreal throb emanated from my left leg. I stared at it for a moment. That leg did not really belong to me, of course, it hurt so much the pain faded. Sometimes pain is so intense it fades. There was no blood on my pants, yet the cotton (I think it was cotton. It may have been wool. I don’t actually remember.) was ripped.
Weeks passed. The enormous purple bruise slowly turned brown. The enormous, brown bruise slowly turned BLACK. The pain was awful. I adopted the most effective remedy available to the uninsured: I CONSUMED ASPIRIN, in vast quantities. I am a devout believer in the healing power of Aspirin. I only refer to Aspirin in capital letters, such is my faith in Aspirin. I don’t even capitalize God on a consistent basis. Aspirin kept my pain bearable.
Slowly, the day of my departure to Hungary approached. I was looking forward to the annual visit to the family. First of all, I got to see my sister. Second of all, I got to see my Mom. Third of all, I got to see my Dad. Fourth of all, I got to see a Doctor. I communicated my need for a medical professional to my mother immediately upon arrival, as we extricate ourselves from the dinky-ass airport onto the dirt road with the hookers on it:
“Not that it’s a big deal, but it might be kind of cool if we could go and see a doctor.”
My mother looks at me with muted horror. She is fully aware that I only visit the Doctor when I am at death’s door. “Why?”
“I hit my leg.” I did not feel like talking to my birthgiver about (1) being catatonically drunk (2) at the mercy of a GAY ENEMY.
When we got home, she asked to see my leg. By this time, the limb looked like an ebony sculpture with accents of unhealthy looking ivory.
“What could you possibly do to your leg that could look like that?”
“I hit my leg.”
“Where?”
“At a club. I had a little bit too much to drink.”
My mother pulled her eyebrows together. I could her the wheels turning, grinding together like sandstone in a polishing machine. “That’s impossible.”
I shrugged. How do you respond to that? My mother called the neighbor, who was also a practicing surgeon at the local hospital. “Can you see my son please?” The unspoken qualifier: - ‘IDIOT’ son - was not spoken, but I heard it nonetheless.
If you want to get anything done in Hungary (or anywhere else, for that matter) you have to know people. This is really obvious in Hungary, though, because the place is really very very small. So when you are bumped to the head of the line because your mother knows the doctor, the hatred of the people in the waiting room is PERSONAL. It is not institutionalized hatred, like the hatred one has for the privileged boarding status of the handicapped or those with small children. No. It is hatred against YOU, a naked, panting desire to see you diagnosed with something completely horrible leading to death within TWO MINUTES. There are people in the waiting room who are BLEEDING all over themselves, yet my mother insists on shepherding you inside so the injury you suffered three months ago can be taken care of. Two fat peasant women mumbled to themselves and gave me the Evil Eye.
The surgeon looked at my leg.
“I know what this is.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You ruptured the membrane around your shin-bone (he used the Hungarian word for shin-bone. Sue me.) and the MASSIVE amount of internal bleeding filled up the space between the membrane and the bone. If this got infected I would have to amputate. If it SOLIDIFIED I WILL have to operate to scrape out the congealed blood. Let us hope it did not solidify.”
“So… So what is the procedure? When do we come back?”
My mother spoke. “Can we take care of this now?”
I gaped at her. What on earth was she suggesting?
“Sure. I can do this. Are you squeamish about blood, young man?”
“No. I am not squeamish.” I spoke in very clear, clipped tones.
“Good, then. We will give you a shot or two to dull the pain. Put your leg up on this table.”
Needless to say, this was not United States brand of healing. There were no x-rays, there was no consultation with important looking specialists, there was no gleaming MRI, antiseptic looking nurses in blue uniforms and countless forms demanding your social security number and signatures on releases. There was one old fat dude who stabbed my black leg with a needle twice until I felt nothing. He held out his hand to the nurse, an emaciated, withered crone with an angry scowl.
“Scalpel.”
She tossed him a knife. It looked like a razor sharp letter opener. He smiled at me and cut my leg open. He practically yawned. “Feel any pain, young man?”
“No, no problem.” I honestly felt no pain at all. I suspected if he really had to amputate, he would do it right here and now, with the letter opener.
Once he made the incision, he put down the knife on the table and picked up a pair of GIGANTIC SCISSORS. When I say GIGANTIC SCISSORS I mean GIGANTIC SCISSORS. He had the nurse hold my leg while he stabbed the scissors all the way into my leg until he hit bone. He slowly opened the scissors up with a hand on each (leg? Do scissors have legs?), smiling at me at the same time. Black oozing blood erupted from the opening like thick brackish lava from a new volcano. The surgeon pushed the flesh on my shin as if my entire leg was a gigantic zit and literally squeezed the black crap out of the wound until my leg turned a healing red. It was completely amazing.
“Now we sew you up and there you have it.”
My mother diplomatically gave the surgeon fifty bucks in Forints and there it was. I was healed. That was it. All thanks to Aspirin, which kept the goddamned blood from congealing, as it is a powerful anticoagulant, which is why my nose bleeds frequently when I consume Aspirin.
So I had to get my ears checked out. This requires the doctor to get a glance at your throat. I have no idea why this is. The doctor was very tall and incredibly thin with a dirty salt and pepper beard. His coat was white, the same way very old melting snow with dogpiss in it is white. He took his lab coat off as he began the examination.
“Good Lord. Look at my coat!” He gaped at the filthy stains. “It looks horrid!”
I smiled diplomatically. How do you respond to something like this? Did he think he was supposed to examine his coat? I nervously stood.
“Sit down, young man.” He pointed at the weather-beaten gray steel fold-out chair in front of him. I obeyed, terrified. He leaned very close to my face and pushed his knees in between my legs. He used his bony, withered legs to pry my knees apart. We were T HIS close. I chose to assume this was simply something he was used to doing with children that had to be examined. There was no separate pediatric department for audiology. The alternative was simply not something I was willing to contemplate. His fingers hovered over a tray full of metal implements, finally settling on one, a stainless steel mirror at the end of a disposable razor. He frowned as he looked at the metal surface, dotted with SOMETHING. The dots were vaguely white. He finally arrived at some kind of a decision and put his hand in his coat pocket. He pulled out a disposable lighter and made a couple of vague passes with his fitful BIC torch.
In slow motion, he approached my mouth with the ‘sterilized’ diagnostic tool. Three alternatives presented themselves, two of them classical and adrenaline based. (1) Fight – grab the thingie and shove it up his ass. (2) Flight – stand up and run away (3) or ask him to keep the thingie in the flame for another minute or two. None of these struck me as viable choices. He eliminated all of them in a single stroke by sticking the thingie in between my stunned lips – the metal tasted like gasoline and tobacco. Doctor Death kept continuously telling me to relax, like I was a whore with my first client.
So I drink. Drink some more. I drink again. This is an open bar, folks. I enjoy my drink. Suddenly, it begins to fog up a bit. I direct my stumbling feet towards the bathroom. The stalls inside this bathroom are very, very uncouth. When I say it is uncouth, I mean UNCOUTH. There are round holes in the wall. There is unidentifiable filth on the floor. There is the odor of ass sweat. It is very, very uncomfortable. I am here, however, and I am hugging that obscenely filthy toilet like she was my lover because there is no strength left in my legs and my soul wants to exit my corporeal body through my gullet. Upon finishing, there was no motivation left to operate my strangely empty body. I just sat there, crumpled up in the bathroom, on the floor. Could this possibly get any worse?
Knock knock. Who is there? It is I, says a familiar voice. Your GAY ENEMY. For those of you who assume that gay people are inevitably kind hearted interior decorator fashion plates who only get irate about wall hangings and white socks with loafers, let me give you a heavy dose of truth: You are so fucking wrong. Some gay people are perverted, evil crossdressing bastards who smuggle guns.
I inject strength into my legs with sheer willpower. When you spend willpower this way, you are really giving up your soul to satan. There is an instant exchange of goods and services involved when you get up ass-drunk from the floor of a filthy toilet to avoid being used for a cumrag. In essence, you (1) promise your virgin daughter, assuming you have one, as sacrifice to the Seth, the Donkey God of Egypt (2) and all your assets to go to the church of Scientology (which is really the same as (1), but I digress), in exchange for the ability to move 29 feet from the bathroom stall to some seat openly visible to the rest of the patrons, who would presumably scream if they saw obvious rape. Or not.
Maybe I am being uncharitable. Gay enemy shoves the door open. I assure you, at this point adrenaline is mixing with bile, cranberry, orange juice and the few leftover fumes of vodka in my stomach quite nicely. He gives me a triumphant, lazy stare down, mixed with equal part amusement. Let me tell you, this is not a cocktail you want served on your ass. In my desperate haste to stumble out of the stall, I hit my shin against some kind of THING jutting out of the floor. It was a part of the bathroom. The excruciating pain faded under the merciful haze of alcohol. I stumbled past ENEMY who looked at my leg with complete surprise and horror. I could see a terrible conflict occupy his entire face like a successful invasion of Russia: (1) Do I take advantage of this golden opportunity and annihilate the dignity of this troublesome being (2) or do I recognize the probability that there will come a time when I will be at his mercy, similarly drunk? (3) Am I satisfied with the probably fatal injury he chose to administer to HIMSELF? He chose (3). I will be eternally grateful. He helped me out of the bathroom and sat me down. A strange, surreal throb emanated from my left leg. I stared at it for a moment. That leg did not really belong to me, of course, it hurt so much the pain faded. Sometimes pain is so intense it fades. There was no blood on my pants, yet the cotton (I think it was cotton. It may have been wool. I don’t actually remember.) was ripped.
Weeks passed. The enormous purple bruise slowly turned brown. The enormous, brown bruise slowly turned BLACK. The pain was awful. I adopted the most effective remedy available to the uninsured: I CONSUMED ASPIRIN, in vast quantities. I am a devout believer in the healing power of Aspirin. I only refer to Aspirin in capital letters, such is my faith in Aspirin. I don’t even capitalize God on a consistent basis. Aspirin kept my pain bearable.
Slowly, the day of my departure to Hungary approached. I was looking forward to the annual visit to the family. First of all, I got to see my sister. Second of all, I got to see my Mom. Third of all, I got to see my Dad. Fourth of all, I got to see a Doctor. I communicated my need for a medical professional to my mother immediately upon arrival, as we extricate ourselves from the dinky-ass airport onto the dirt road with the hookers on it:
“Not that it’s a big deal, but it might be kind of cool if we could go and see a doctor.”
My mother looks at me with muted horror. She is fully aware that I only visit the Doctor when I am at death’s door. “Why?”
“I hit my leg.” I did not feel like talking to my birthgiver about (1) being catatonically drunk (2) at the mercy of a GAY ENEMY.
When we got home, she asked to see my leg. By this time, the limb looked like an ebony sculpture with accents of unhealthy looking ivory.
“What could you possibly do to your leg that could look like that?”
“I hit my leg.”
“Where?”
“At a club. I had a little bit too much to drink.”
My mother pulled her eyebrows together. I could her the wheels turning, grinding together like sandstone in a polishing machine. “That’s impossible.”
I shrugged. How do you respond to that? My mother called the neighbor, who was also a practicing surgeon at the local hospital. “Can you see my son please?” The unspoken qualifier: - ‘IDIOT’ son - was not spoken, but I heard it nonetheless.
If you want to get anything done in Hungary (or anywhere else, for that matter) you have to know people. This is really obvious in Hungary, though, because the place is really very very small. So when you are bumped to the head of the line because your mother knows the doctor, the hatred of the people in the waiting room is PERSONAL. It is not institutionalized hatred, like the hatred one has for the privileged boarding status of the handicapped or those with small children. No. It is hatred against YOU, a naked, panting desire to see you diagnosed with something completely horrible leading to death within TWO MINUTES. There are people in the waiting room who are BLEEDING all over themselves, yet my mother insists on shepherding you inside so the injury you suffered three months ago can be taken care of. Two fat peasant women mumbled to themselves and gave me the Evil Eye.
The surgeon looked at my leg.
“I know what this is.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You ruptured the membrane around your shin-bone (he used the Hungarian word for shin-bone. Sue me.) and the MASSIVE amount of internal bleeding filled up the space between the membrane and the bone. If this got infected I would have to amputate. If it SOLIDIFIED I WILL have to operate to scrape out the congealed blood. Let us hope it did not solidify.”
“So… So what is the procedure? When do we come back?”
My mother spoke. “Can we take care of this now?”
I gaped at her. What on earth was she suggesting?
“Sure. I can do this. Are you squeamish about blood, young man?”
“No. I am not squeamish.” I spoke in very clear, clipped tones.
“Good, then. We will give you a shot or two to dull the pain. Put your leg up on this table.”
Needless to say, this was not United States brand of healing. There were no x-rays, there was no consultation with important looking specialists, there was no gleaming MRI, antiseptic looking nurses in blue uniforms and countless forms demanding your social security number and signatures on releases. There was one old fat dude who stabbed my black leg with a needle twice until I felt nothing. He held out his hand to the nurse, an emaciated, withered crone with an angry scowl.
“Scalpel.”
She tossed him a knife. It looked like a razor sharp letter opener. He smiled at me and cut my leg open. He practically yawned. “Feel any pain, young man?”
“No, no problem.” I honestly felt no pain at all. I suspected if he really had to amputate, he would do it right here and now, with the letter opener.
Once he made the incision, he put down the knife on the table and picked up a pair of GIGANTIC SCISSORS. When I say GIGANTIC SCISSORS I mean GIGANTIC SCISSORS. He had the nurse hold my leg while he stabbed the scissors all the way into my leg until he hit bone. He slowly opened the scissors up with a hand on each (leg? Do scissors have legs?), smiling at me at the same time. Black oozing blood erupted from the opening like thick brackish lava from a new volcano. The surgeon pushed the flesh on my shin as if my entire leg was a gigantic zit and literally squeezed the black crap out of the wound until my leg turned a healing red. It was completely amazing.
“Now we sew you up and there you have it.”
My mother diplomatically gave the surgeon fifty bucks in Forints and there it was. I was healed. That was it. All thanks to Aspirin, which kept the goddamned blood from congealing, as it is a powerful anticoagulant, which is why my nose bleeds frequently when I consume Aspirin.
So I had to get my ears checked out. This requires the doctor to get a glance at your throat. I have no idea why this is. The doctor was very tall and incredibly thin with a dirty salt and pepper beard. His coat was white, the same way very old melting snow with dogpiss in it is white. He took his lab coat off as he began the examination.
“Good Lord. Look at my coat!” He gaped at the filthy stains. “It looks horrid!”
I smiled diplomatically. How do you respond to something like this? Did he think he was supposed to examine his coat? I nervously stood.
“Sit down, young man.” He pointed at the weather-beaten gray steel fold-out chair in front of him. I obeyed, terrified. He leaned very close to my face and pushed his knees in between my legs. He used his bony, withered legs to pry my knees apart. We were T HIS close. I chose to assume this was simply something he was used to doing with children that had to be examined. There was no separate pediatric department for audiology. The alternative was simply not something I was willing to contemplate. His fingers hovered over a tray full of metal implements, finally settling on one, a stainless steel mirror at the end of a disposable razor. He frowned as he looked at the metal surface, dotted with SOMETHING. The dots were vaguely white. He finally arrived at some kind of a decision and put his hand in his coat pocket. He pulled out a disposable lighter and made a couple of vague passes with his fitful BIC torch.
In slow motion, he approached my mouth with the ‘sterilized’ diagnostic tool. Three alternatives presented themselves, two of them classical and adrenaline based. (1) Fight – grab the thingie and shove it up his ass. (2) Flight – stand up and run away (3) or ask him to keep the thingie in the flame for another minute or two. None of these struck me as viable choices. He eliminated all of them in a single stroke by sticking the thingie in between my stunned lips – the metal tasted like gasoline and tobacco. Doctor Death kept continuously telling me to relax, like I was a whore with my first client.
posted by Balázsy András at 9:13 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home