A Picture of Health, Part 2

I can’t remember when I last had a fever, but I haven’t forgotten what it does to one’s brain—it thoroughly muddles it. I was fortunate—mine only lasted for three hours—but for the time that it raged, my body was consumed in a fierce battle. I lay in bed for the fever's duration and shook and tried in vain to stop my mind from running away from me. In the beginning, I was occupied by a black and white, Rashomon-like forest scene in feudal Japan. A loose confederation of noblemen in belted kimonos were upholding an esoteric code of honor in the forest; soon they surrendered themselves to perfidy and duplicity, forging alliances with, and then murdering, their oldest friends. The scene underwent a shift in context: the Japanese noblemen became Indian tribals engaged in chicanery in the same vein—backstabbing, mob violence, and the like.

I had spent most of that day at work reading a book about conflict resolution in community-based Natural Resource Management, primarily among tribal communities in western India (don’t ask); soon I imagined that I was among a group of NGO workers in a village betrayed and held captive by those same treacherous tribals, our erstwhile partners in community development. They wanted to kill us: I had a terrible, overarching feeling that we were entirely powerless, that we had no control over our fates. We couldn’t run, we couldn’t reason with them, and they were deaf to appeals for mercy. They had turned on us without cause or provocation. Either they were going to kill us or they weren’t, but we couldn’t affect that decision in the least.

I wasn’t dreaming; I was more or less conscious that my thoughts didn’t represent reality in any manner, and yet they were hardly less upsetting for the fact; what’s worse, I was utterly incapable of stopping them. The entire experience was disturbing; if one must come down with a fever, he should at least have the good fortune of not being haunted by visions of human malevolence and turpitude while within its clutches. But, after all, the fever soon lifted, and relief, both physical and mental, was palpable. An hour later I ate four oranges, which seemed moderately appetizing as few things at that point did; within minutes I was hunkered down in the toilet with diarrhea and would spend a significant portion of the next two-and-a-half hours in precisely that spot. Blood was quickly in evidence; as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t ignore it. I resolved to see the doctor the next day.

After 9:30 I tried to sleep and occasionally found success during the night in one or two hour intervals sandwiched between extended visits to the toilet. I found it necessary to make mental note of the time elapsed between these visits: I had to calculate when I would be safe to make for a doctor. Finally, at 1:30 the following afternoon, I purchased a Coke, hailed an auto-rickshaw, and headed to GBH-American Hospital.

GBH-American is an inviting, disarming space—at least as much as any hospital can be. Suffice it to say, I’ve never been to a hospital in the States less prone to inducing squeamishness and anxiety in me. It’s either fortunate or else explains much that I’ve been blessed with such exemplary health to this point in life—my general distaste for hospitals and other institutions for the physically unsound—nursing homes, hospices—is pronounced. Yet I didn’t once contemplate this innate aversion after arriving at the hospital Sunday. I knew the place well enough—my brother-in-law had spent two nights there after suffering food poisoning in December—and thus knew its charms: a new and attractive building, airy and full of natural light; cleanliness and tranquility; and a competent and professional staff.

Upon arrival, I was examined immediately in Emergency. Blood and stool samples were given; I took a single pill, received an injection and a prescription for three drugs, and was sent on my way with instructions to return the following afternoon for the results of the tests. The entire visit lasted less than two hours.

I’d like to diverge from the main narrative for just a moment in order to mention one aspect of the experience that made it especially unpleasant. It wasn’t until I arrived at the hospital and sat on a public toilet that I fully realized how much more uncomfortable things had been made by the fact that I don’t have a “Western” toilet in my guest house. Squatting on one’s haunches for minutes on end is exhausting, particularly when one is weak from dehydration, hunger, and fatigue. As my visits to the toilet mounted, I took to improvising new positions in order to relieve the discomfort (some worked better than others), or else supported myself by leaning on an overturned bucket or grasping hold of the doorframe with both hands. It helped very little; however, I never succumbed to cramps or teetered at an inopportune moment, and for that, at least, I can be thankful.

Sunday evening I began a course of antibiotics and felt well enough on Monday to eat a substantial breakfast and three grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch. In the afternoon I returned to the hospital, where I learned that my stool test had revealed evidence of the E. histolytica amoeba—I had come down with amoebic dysentery. As a result, my antibiotic course was extended from five to seven days—in reality, it can take 2-3 weeks to kill every last amoeba in one’s intestines. By Tuesday morning I felt invincible again; I had effected a full recovery from amoebic dysentery in less than seventy-two hours. What can I say? I am, after all, a very healthy man.