adventures in the hospital...

***i managed to record all of this, one-handed, while laid up. this entry contains some photos that may not be suitable for young viewers.***
do you remember that scene in beetlejuice where they have just died and want to plead their case for return to earth to an official, so they are walking down the corridors of ‘hell’ which are lined with strange character after twisted body beside disfigured person beyond bizarre oddity? welcome to my ward in chuo byouin hospital. the longer i’m here, the more i feel like this could double for the looney bin, and not just because i’m surrounded by absurdity, but because i myself am teetering closer and closer to edge of sanity.
on the morning of may 4 i returned to the orthopedic here for a follow-up and to have my stitches removed. i knew there was going to be a lot more to this check-up because i had been unable to move my injured thumb for 6 days by then. paralysis is scary as hell. looking at your digit, commanding it to move, feeling muscle contractions and slight pain, but getting no response. i had been feeling anxiety and near panic that had to be shelved as there were literally no doctors in our remote village in papua new guinea. back in japan, while checking in at the hospital, i requested an English speaking dr. saying i had a problem to explain. let me say that i did beg uchiyama, an awesome english teacher at my school, to come with me, she caringly obliged, because she is an invaluable translator. she is also super at letting me attempt to communicate and only stepping in when necessary, which is often at the hospital, but it gives me some illusion of empowerment and control that is important at times like these.

the thick white cord on the right is the severed tendon. looks like a chicken leg huh? i knew i didn't eat chicken on the bone for a good reason...

he bent and wiggled my wrist and arm until he dug the other part of the tendon out of my hand. note the needle pegging that piece which keeps it from slipping back in.

the tendon sutures are attached to this button through a hole in my bone and nail. how does it look so normal here and so mangled now?

cleaned right up.

three weeks in this = claustrophobia and restlessness

post-surgery i returned to my room, a little cloudy but feeling no pain, anesthesia is a wonderful thing. another English teacher arrived with cookies and necessities. soon after, she and uchiyama left. i was resting in my bed which faces 2 others and borders one on the left, luckily i got the window seat. i introduced myself to the other sicklies and offered them some cookies. one of the women began feverishly eating the cookie as a nurse strolled in and started talking at me in an excited voice…big medical related Japanese words that i don’t understand. everyone chimed in trying to help explain. apparently this woman was not allowed to have sweet things because of a sickness, diabetic i surmised. she sat there with cookie crumbs on her face smiling at me.

the crazy woman and my corner, taken the day i was leaving.

rise and shine before 7. while they don’t jostle you awake, you can’t ignore them working on your roommates, jamming thermometers in your armpits, talking all chipper in their sing-song voices. so starts the morning routine orchestra. the rhythmic clank of crutches, the beep-beep-beep of blood pressure cuffs, the wocka-wocka of nurse carts, the bizarre noises and borderline unhealthy clearing of throats they all do while brushing teeth—they hock more loogies here than at a major league baseball game.

“camp town racetrack’s five miles long, all the do da day…”

a cute little English teacher from yoshikawa came to visit…i woke up from a nap, as i was only sleeping sporadically through the night, to find him standing by my bed side watching me, which everyone found hilarious. we went to the day room to buy some drinks, he wanted milk tea which wasn’t available…unless we went to the 1st floor by the elevators. coke? 4th floor and 1st floor by the smokers’ alcove. cold café lattes, 4th floor. [one reason i’ve become ridiculously familiar with the vending machines is because after lights out at 9 pm i can still sit near a soda machine and manage to read by the fluorescent aura.] he also brought me a box of assorted cake slices. instead of putting my roomie akiko into a diabetic coma, i decided to offer it to the men across the hall, partly due to the fact that the only other person under 55 i’d seen in the hospital was in that room.

“something, something, sing their song, do da, do da…”

i didn’t know this would set off a gift-giving war. the Japanese love to give gifts, a feel-good habit that’s easy to get into, especially when you’re committed and have no where other than the hospital shop to visit everyday. the next morning, the cutest lil’ ole man wheeled into my room producing a package of inari sushi from underneath the newspaper folded in his lap. another of the men gave me a bean cake thing, i took them strawberries, he bought me juice, i shared custard, he brought me tofu …balls in my court. unfortunately, the wheelchair riding young man was discharged the next morning.

new bag of cookies…i apologized to the diabetic for sharing them in front of her. she whispered to me in Japanese ‘we have lunch soon, it’s no problem’ as she held out her hand. we went back and forth for a minute before i caved. as soon as i handed her a cookie, in walks the nurse and she promptly stuffs the sweet treat under her butt.

“dum de do da day, dum de do da day…”

it’s such a cruel joke…i’ve been doing the stereotypical old person stuff, namely sitting around talking about my ailments and the weather. recently i plopped down by a handsome older man watching baseball and commented it was one of the few shows i could understand. we began chatting as other grandpas hobbled and wheeled and limped over until i found myself involved in a genuine Japanese male pow wow. i was able to discern quite a bit and i chimed in here and there, trying to be unobtrusive as to not make them question why they were socializing with a young foreign woman. they were really boisterous and funny. the nurse looked a bit shocked to find me in the circle when she came to chastise us for not being on our rooms at 9:30 pm.

i've been told i've become somewhat famous around the hospital, being the only non-japanese. as i aimlessly wander the halls i often hear 'hay-lo tee-fa-nee' uttered by complete strangers wearing the same pink and blue plaid uniform of an inmate. i've discovered i have quite a few friends in japan, as many have turned out to keep me company...even the owner of my favorite bar witrh one of the regulars and the maintenance man from school. one friend approached the receptionist asking about me by first name only, the woman held up her hand and scribbled my room number. another fella didn't need to speak; she asked if he was there for tee-fa-nee. usually japanese people are extrordinarily nervous to talk with foreigners, but in here everyone is bored and lonely which means i get the opportunity to chat with everyone. it really deflates me that my japanese isn't better so our conversations could be more substantial.

“camp town racetrack’s five miles long, all the do da day…”

i’m sure you’re not as tired of that refrain as i am. it’s the song of the food truck and when it stops outside every door the music sadly shrivels to silence like a music box that needs winding. 3 meals a day, seven days a week. and i am the only person hear who knows the words that accompany the annoying melody.

the shower schedule is incredibly complicated. when i finally scored a 30 minute slot in the floor's only facility, i could only do half the job. i called the nurse and explained that i needed her to shave my armpit. she looked scared, saying she'd never done that before. after attempting to use stone-age clippers i convinced her to grab my razor. she put enough cream on my armpit to shave a gorilla. what a bonding experience...igarashi san and i have become really close and she's asked me over for dinner when i get out.

after a week i was starting to feel absolutely autistic. playing strange guessing games in my head [whose voice or walk is that?], creating scrabble games in the square tiles in the floor of the day room. take as further evidence of my insanity the fact that i wore my pants backwards for a week. they felt a bit odd, but so did the reverse. after all, they are pink and blue plaid sacks, not versace. besides, the international standard for tags is to stitch them in the rear waistband. leave it to the japanese to place it front and center.

in an effort not to turn completely shriveled and flabby, i was doing some yoga stretches by the end of my bed in the mornings until i realized i was starting to attract a small crowd of wheelchair-bound grandpas.

with my perfect timing i managed to be in the pen for the duration of the famous cherry blossom festival. our town is the 3rd best place to view in all of japan and people come from all over. many groups will send someone to the park early in the morning to put down blankets and stand guard over their space until everyone arrives at night to drink and eat. carrie, mel and liz brought the party to me with some cherry tree limbs and pizza. [i almost went ballistic arguing w/ a nurse about why i should be able to order pizza. she said the other patients would smell it and be jealous. i said the other people should wheel themselves to the payphone and order some. she said it's not healthy. i said i had hand surgery not heart surgery. she said they won't deliver to the hospital. i said fine my friends will bring it. we showed her.]

i couldn't stand it and did manage to escape a few times, some sanctioned and some covert operations. i don't want to hear it...i was careful.



a retired english teacher from yoshikawa high school who personally asked my doc if i could sneak out with him. i'm really sad i won't be teaching with him any more.

takada castle near my house.

being here sorta reminds me of high school…not the football games or math classes, but the horrid food served on square, plastic trays and the social cliques. as during high school, i’ve found that i can float fairly easily between these groups…the neck-injury posse who can’t rotate their heads so it really is advantageous for them to sit together so they can keep each other apprised of the situation...those injured playing tennis and other winter sports who convene to watch baseball every night...the teachers who have varied injuries but their common profession gives them fodder for conversation [there seem to be loads of senseis]...the wheelchair brigade who like to all stop in the hall to chat thus blocking the throughfare...they are not to be confused with the group of men in wheelchairs who propel themselves down the hall backwards using their one good leg, bumping into everything. i love watching them pass by my door because it is a really bizarre snapshot. today i was sitting in the day room reading when the cancer kazoo gang strolled in. they all wear white priest-like collars with short bibs which i am guessing hide the evidence of their voice-box-otomies. the first time i noticed them, we were seated at an opposite table when this man’s pants begin to buzz, as if he’d transgressed the boundaries set-up by one of those invisible fence dog collars. i couldn’t figure out what the hell it was until he joined in a conversation i was having with knee-problem man the next day. my Japanese listening comprehension skills are fairly low anyway, tack on straining to decipher the unfamiliar vocab with robot intonation and he might as well be speaking swahili. it’s sad to hear the exhalations and grunts they produce instead of voices before resigning to place the magic wand to their throat. this particular day in the gathering room, i was enjoying observing them over the edge of my book as they practiced communicating in a way that was new and strange to them. they feverishly jotted on small white/wipe boards, over exaggerated the mouth shapes of common words and imperfectly wielded the vibrating machines. i couldn’t restrain my laughter as they began trading vibrators, each imitating the others’ voices as hammered out by the machines tuned to oscillate at different frequencies. i’m sure this description isn’t p.c. but it’s honest. and these moments of intimacy truly sparked empathy in me. imagine having to learn to live without your voice. some of the things i see in here reel me in, make me thankful that only my thumb is hurt. i'll play and walk and laugh and sing again. some of them won't.