Last summer, I decided my impending move to Beijing should coincide with a shift in emphasis on health. Gone would be the all-night parties of my previous life in central Europe and in would come more trips to the gym and maybe a half-marathon or two. It is something of an irony then, that is was this lifestyle shift that left me requiring a stint in a Chinese hospital. One month into my stay here, I over-exerted on some weights and caused myself a hernia.
While there are some very plush hospitals geared specifically toward foreigners in Beijing, these are often very expensive and with only a limited amount of money and a basic medical insurance package, I was bound for a Chinese state hospital.
Through an incredibly dedicated search by my co-worker, I found out about a surgeon who sounded ideal. Trained in China and Germany, specializing in hernia surgery and leaving minimal scarring and also able to communicate in English. I was astonished at the speed everything moved. On the day we met him, I could have been checked into hospital there and then had I not made the error of eating breakfast that morning and thus affecting the necessary pre-operation blood tests. The next day was a Friday so rather than spend a weekend pointlessly rattling around in hospital, I arranged to be admitted on the Monday and have the operation on the Tuesday.
Being British, I have that annoying habit of being quite proud of my health service. After all, I haven't lived anywhere else where I can get free health care, no questions asked. This great system, now in place for over 60 years, was initially established by a fellow Welshman, Aneurin Bevan. However, I have to concede, I probably would have waited at least six months from my initial meeting with the surgeon had I been back home.
And the care I received was equal, if not better. After an initial registration and deposit, I was taken to my private room (yeah, I paid extra for that but not much) on the 14th floor with my own TV and bathroom and a communal walkway affording me a great view along one of Beijing's many eight-lane traffic arteries.
But there was no time for relaxing. I had to give blood, have a chest X-ray and an ECG--all things I had done six months earlier to get my residents' visa--and then lie still while two nurses shaved away all the hair from the key area. I must admit, this was not how I had envisaged the immediate post-Christmas period.
But any level of modesty is quickly shed when one requires surgery near an intimate area so I quickly adapted to the regular removal of my hospital-donated pajama bottoms. Although, every time there was a knock on my door, the nurses would still be greeted to a panicked deer-in-headlights stare as I feared another needle--or worse--another doctor needing to stick his fingers as far as he could into the problem area to get a feel for the situation.
On operation day itself, I awoke dry-mouthed (I was not allowed "so much as a sip" of water after midnight) and I couldn't help but have a slight death-row condemned-man feel. I was helped onto a trolley, had an oppressively-heavy duvet dumped on top of me and was wheeled toward the elevators, getting a slight sense of motion sickness on the way.
Into the theater and a drip was attached to me. I had been unsure exactly how I would be rendered unconscious and so, I foolishly assumed this was the anesthetic. After a slight panic that it wasn't working, I began to convince myself I could will myself unconscious. Obviously, when I was wheeled into the next room and given gas to inhale I felt a little stupid. I remember taking as many as four deep breaths, the tingling sensation of a dental visit and the anesthetic gases entered my mouth and someone wrestling my pajama bottoms down (again!)
Then I was awake again, a terrible ache in my abdomen no doubt enhanced by the petite surgeon's assistant who was leaning on me like I was a bar counter and telling me to wake up. Still a little woozy, she told me everything had gone smoothly.
Later, while disinfecting the wound, the same assistant, in a bid to cheer me up, told me I had charmed all and sundry in the operating theater. I am not sure how I should take the remark that I am charming when unconscious, but it did at least remind me of the jolly, caring and gentle teasing natures of almost every nurse I have met in British hospitals and I realized that, once past the admin stage, the entire process had gone as smoothly as if I had been at home. And in three months time, I can start training for that half-marathon.
The author is Welsh and lives in Beijing
