Photo courtesy Drew Hays via Unsplash

The annual medical check-up.

Time to kick the tires. Lift the hood, tighten the screws, replace the spark plugs. I registered as a patient at the Christian hospital because it was in my neighborhood. Their mission statement included the following: “Take care of others. Just like you desire that he should minister unto you.” Luke 6:31.

I normally kept my distance from overtly religious organizations due to the bad taste a lifetime of proselytizing family members left in my mouth. However, the medical check up was on sale, so I paid for it and made an appointment.

My bus dropped me off ten minutes early. I took a seat in front of the blood draw laboratory. Powder blue ruled the decor: from seats to painted walls to uniformly attired receptionists and nurses. My normal hospital represented violet, à la violet seats to receipts. 

A couple of smartly dressed women

stood at the entrance to direct patients. They sported tailored powder blue jackets and above-the-knee length skirts. Hospitals in Thailand appeared like a 1950’s throwback to when doctors wore dress shirts and ties under their white coats, and nurses toiled in impeccable outfits, replete with fitted cap. The nurses at this hospital in fact stayed true to that aesthetic—yes, with nurses’ caps—and some even dared to wear pumps! A far cry from our modern US hospitals, where staff sport anything from scrubs to street clothes, Crocs to clogs.

I had declined to get my medical check up at my normal hospital since it was twice the price of the powder blue hospital. However, my violet hospital boasted fluent English speaking staff, including doctors, receptionists, and cashiers. It wasn’t unusual to see as many foreigners as locals in the lobby.

As I observed my surroundings, I heard only Thai spoken. It dawned on me that I was the only foreigner. I doubted my scanty Thai would help me understand the doctors’ diagnoses, and I was booked in for a full day of examinations. I bit my lip, regretting my penny pinching ways.

A nurse waved me into the blood draw laboratory. After taking my blood pressure and several vials of blood, she reached for my printed check-up agenda. She ticked off a couple of boxes. The nurse gestured to her chest, then pointed across the lobby.

Spit back out into the seating area,

I meandered like a lost toddler. From the entrance, facing the lobby and a sea of patients—by this time including patients in stretchers and wheelchairs—I endeavored to figure out where to go next. A middle-aged Thai woman in street clothes touched my elbow and confirmed my name. Confident she had the correct patient, she led me by the wrist through the hospital, past crowds of people in the waiting room, through a second wing with its own rows of waiting people, past a restaurant, down a corridor and into a changing room. With her hand on my back, she pushed me forward into one of the stalls, handing me folded clothes and shut the door. 

Unraveling the clothes revealed a Thai version of scrubs, but cute. The drawstring pants didn’t for once stretch beyond my feet for another twelve inches, but hit right at my ankles. The top—a tunic length multi-panel blouse—wrapped around my waist in a Diane von Furstenburg-esque design. Slipping into powder blue slippers, I swung open the door and posed for the woman. She smiled her approval. 

She led me to the EKG room. When I completed that examination and exited, I was surprised to see the woman waiting for me just outside the door. She motioned for me to follow her to the chest x-ray room. I understood that she was my personal hospital assistant, in charge of guiding me through my check-up agenda.

From the chest x-ray room, we continued down a corridor which became progressively darker and rustic. We had left the modern wing, and crossed over into the original hospital building with concrete pavement. We entered a courtyard featuring a lush green lawn framed with white wooden offices. It could’ve been a college campus except for the doctors and nurses strolling the open walkways.

Leading me into a spacious waiting room

with wall-to-wall windows, my personal assistant pointed to my agenda where it read “abdominal ultrasound”. Cases of water bottles edged the walls. She brought me a couple of bottles and told me to drink them. With that, she disappeared. In contrast to the other waiting rooms, this one was sparsely populated: just myself and a male patient. He sat in the front row chugging water. It was as if we’d finished running a marathon and were now dutifully replenishing fluids.

The late morning’s heavy heat pushed up against the waiting room, like a thief casing a joint, looking for a way in. When a nurse entered to call the male patient, a burst of hot air quivered at the door, the chilled air rendering it impotent. I remained alone in the room, struggling to drain the second water bottle. It was important to drink enough fluids so that my internal organs would float to the surface for the ultrasound.

The broad, plate glass window offered a clear view outside. The green trees lining the courtyard, clouds streaking across a wan blue sky, and birds chirping a chipper song presented an idyllic scene. What was not idyllic was me doubled over, belly taut with water, trying to hold my pee. It had been nearly an hour, and the nurse still hadn’t come in to fetch me. I wondered if patients had ever had accidents on the examination table, or would I be the first?

The door swung open. Thank God hallelujah! I jumped up, only to see a female patient walk in. My crestfallen disappointment knocked me back onto the chair. The patient eyed me cautiously as she made a wide arc to a seat on the opposite side of the room. Since she didn’t have a personal assistant, I waddled over to hand her two bottles of water. She shirked away from me. I grabbed a seat and twisted my legs in a pretzel. I pondered staggering outside to pee behind a tree.

Finally, a nurse called my name.

I wobbled behind her, where she delivered me to the ultrasound table. I heaved myself up, untied my hospital tunic to expose my protruding belly like a pregnant woman. The ultrasound technician squirted lube on my tummy and scrolled the wand over various organs. I bit my lip to distract myself from the urgency of my urinary tract. The technician asked, “Does it hurt?”

I shook my head, although tears leaked out of my eyes.

“Good,” she flashed a sweet, sadistic smile as she rolled the wand to the other side of my stomach. Oh my God, how many organs do I have?

At last, the technician replaced the wand and offered me tissues to clean my abdomen. I snatched the tissues, shuffled into my slippers and dashed out the door. My personal assistant was nowhere to be found; it was lunchtime after all. In a panic, I rushed down a hallway, following several nurses. I recognized the dark walls gradually open to the modern wing, glossed in powder blue paint.

They turned into a restaurant. Hot on their heels, I sprinted through the doors, praying for restrooms. Hallelujah! At the back corner, I spied the international symbol of “His” and “Hers” toilets. Racing to the female side, I hurled myself onto a toilet and relieved myself. Tears rolled down my face, a mixture of relief, pain, and my body squeezing out extra liquid.

Photo courtesy Nick Karvounis via Unsplash

I floated into the restaurant’s dining area,

feeling empty and light. I ordered curry with chicken, but passed on ordering a bottle of water. I learned my lesson; limit fluids until the end of my check up.

My personal assistant collected me from the entrance. She led the way to a small room in the corner, where she dropped me off. A young woman smiled and waved me over. She put her hands on my waist and guided me to a machine. Then she gestured for me to drop my top. I untied my tunic and tossed it aside. The young woman moved her hands to my upper back and pressed me up against the machine. She pushed my chin to the side and pressed me harder against the machine so that I was nearly looking over my left shoulder. Then she reached for my boob and plopped it on a plate glass. She lowered the top glass plate, smashing my breast like a bug. I winced.

She dashed away to take the x-ray. I was physically attached to the machine, unable to move or shift my weight. It felt like an eternity when finally, the young woman returned. She released the top plate and my body instinctively sprang away. However, she moved me right back against the machine, adjusted my chin and shoved me harder. She yanked my boob like an udder and tugged it onto the glass for another boob-smashing. 

“Wait til you have to get a mammogram,” I muttered. She ran away to take the x-ray.

My neck stiffened from being forced into an awkward angle.

I stood hugging a cruel machine, convinced the technician had abandoned me to buy a cup of coffee or eat a snack. I counted to one-hundred, then stopped because it made me depressed to know I’d been left alone for such a long time. I became gloomier when I imagined my breast would suffer permanent damage from being stretched and smashed; would it hang like a flapjack once released?

The technician returned with an even younger woman in tow. She lifted the top glass and Thank God hallelujah! My boob snapped back to its normal shape. But not for long. 

Both of the technicians seized my breast and started pulling in different directions as if fighting over it! “My boob!” “No! My boob!” They treated my breast like a blob of yeast dough. Having rested for an hour, time for the next step: punch it down. Those young fists rained down on my female part as if thumping out every air bubble. Then they moved to the kneading phase, and finished by pressing my boob as if fluting the edges of a pie crust. 

The older technician removed one hand to lower the glass and—smash! 

“Ah!” yelped the younger technician,

because she failed to move her hands out of the way. A smug smile spread across my face. For once, someone else felt the pain.

The older technician raised the glass just enough for the younger woman to remove her hands. Then she crushed the top glass down with cruel efficiency. 

“Oww!” I squeaked. I hated these fresh-faced women.

The young woman moved behind to push against me as if we were dancing a cha-cha with the mammogram machine. Meanwhile, the older technician ran away to take the x-ray.

She returned with a sheepish look on her face, saying the x-ray was “not good” and I had to “go to ultrasound”. Unbelievable!

I stood bare chested while the two young women flashed nervous smiles. I came for a mammogram and nearly got a mastectomy. They helped me into my tunic and put their hands in wai (prayer) to apologize. I reeled out of the mammogram room. 

My personal assistant asked, “Finished?”

I shook my head. Pointing to my bosom I said, “Ultrasound,” and shed a tear.

Changed back into my clothes,

I escaped the house of horrors that was the Christian hospital.

I whipped up a homemade salve to provide much needed tender loving care to my throbbing female part. Reclining with a coconut oil-oatmeal-honey paste smeared on my bosom, I read my check-up analysis. Under mammogram it read: “Ultrasound ordered due to dense breast tissue.” On the last page, the hospital’s mission statement appeared:  “Take care of others. Just like you desire that he should minister unto you” Luke 6:31.

“Pfft! What the hell?” I cursed. I vowed that unless Jesus Christ himself taught me how to turn water into wine, I would skip future mammograms indefinitely. On that note, I poured myself a glass of wine and toasted my accomplishment: Annual check-up—completed. Next year, go to the violet hospital.