Morning Pages: The Donut and the Thai Plastic Surgeon
Chalong, Phuket, Thailand. Just as I was pondering which of the daily sanity-tests of Thai life I should share next, I landed myself a cracker of a surreal day, worth writing about even if just to process what actually just happened.
Jungle dawns
The morning started relatively normally — emerge at the break of dawn into jungly steam and golden light (God, I can’t get enough of daybreak here), step over whichever nonchalant snoring animals have nestled inside doorway, locate strong coffee and bask in that incredible ahead-of-the-day feeling.
I’d grudgingly decided to bite the bullet and head to the local hospital to get an infected cut checked out. I like life to be as drama-free as possible and had been banking on the ostrich method, but putting this off any longer was getting risky, so off I dutifully trundled.
Round one!
Passport duly studied, questions successfully hurdled (thanks Google Translate) and payment method ascertained (no payment, no emergency! cynical eyebrow flicker), I was ushered off to Accident & Emergency. A&E always seems like overkill when you’re not at death’s door, so I took a corner chair and flattened my healthyish-looking self against a wall, trying not to take up too much emergency-dedicated space.
Was whisked off to bed booth with whip-around curtain and lots of mystifying emergency tubes and plastic paraphernalia. Imposter feelings growing.
Chat, examination, and flappy charades with nurse one.
Short wait, alternating between staring at toes (v. glad presentable, pedi on point) and football pitch-strength floodlights hanging over bed.
Chat, examination, and flappy charades with nurse two.
Chat (fewer amateur dramatics) with doctor… floodlights activated… Referral to plastic surgeon in a different hospital! Wait what?!
Phrases like ‘minimal scarring’ and ‘your choice but highly recommend’ echoed distantly as I was helped off the bed and back into my flip-flops like a precious geriatric.
Where pain meets beauty
Next surreal stop: hospital number two! Luckily this was just a 10-minute taxi ride away. Clearly a rung up on the private hospital ladder, this one boasts its Aesthetics department’s accolades in the doorway, along with a large shrine bedecked with coloured flowers (how Thailand rolls) and the oddly comforting lights of a Dunkin Donuts. More on this later.
I was directed to the fourth floor, and got into the elevator with a smiley paramedic who fuelled my now all-encompassing imposter syndrome by pushing my button for me.
Phuket Plastic Surgery Institute greeted me, along with an army of pristine Thai nurses in crisp pointy white hats and white high heels, and… a vast range — in little pedestal display cases — of silicone boob implant squelchies (not sure if technical term), like glistening transparent jellyfish without the tentacles.
“Beautifully built from the inside out” proclaimed one poster, conjuring mental images of intricate cyborgs, while an internal voice piped up “but isn’t internal beauty about umm, personality??” A chart deftly explained voluptuosity(?) gradients at a glance, ranging from a perky, stealth top-up, to eat-your-heart-out-Jordan (only with far more eloquent branding obviously). Everywhere, images of ecstatic ladies mid slow-mo jogging bounce or with fluffy hotel robe ever-so-casually falling open, leaning juuust the right side of the classy/slutty divide, beamed back at me.
Would you like a side of face lift with that?
“Yes, can we help you?” the nurse interrupted my bewildered reverie. “Umm I’m here to have this infected cut opened and drained” I whispered. “Minimal scarring, referred by other hospital” I further explained, almost embarrassed… although then thinking if people could get whole new à la carte boobs, asking for a very quick “please fix me” procedure and requesting a pretty scar shouldn’t be that out there.
I quickly realised English was getting me absolutely nowhere, so crafted a short essay in Google Translate and handed it to the chief nurse, who then proceeded to take it down the line and share it with the entire reception crew, who then gathered for a quick team huddle. “No usually do,” she finally concluded. “Usually ladies here beauty reasons…” she vaguely fluttered a hand at the smug bouncing, robe brigade.
Scared of being palmed off to a third hospital and with my morning rapidly dwindling, I played the referral card again, and did my best sad orphan face. Was triumphantly rewarded with a seat in the waiting room (hello silicone squelchies investigation!) and a registration form.
The comedian with the scalpel
I wasn’t left exploring for long before a nurse bundled me off to the “vital signs” room, where she checked my specs, including my height with my sunnies still on, giving me a good 5 extra cms. (It being Thailand, she’d probably just scrawled ‘giant’ on my form in any case.)
A different nurse, with, I couldn’t help noticing, a giant camera slung over her arm, then motioned for me to follow her to meet the doctor. The doctor was old (fine by me, equals experience), male (sigh, these things are DEFINITELY easier to explain to a soul sister) and seemed to find everything inexplicably funny. Maybe he’d been hoping I’d request a re-architected body part and was disappointed he got an angry red mountain of skin infection instead, but clearly the whole thing was just very amusing. I laughed along until he joked (I think, I’m still not sure) about not needing any local anaesthetic, at which point my pity laughter patience ran out and I said “wait, for real?”
“Ok, if you so scared we give for you,” he winked at me. Argh, what is this day trying to do to me? Camera nurse whipped out her Nikon and before I could say anything my abdomen unwittingly posed for some close-ups that I hope never see the light of day.
A lot more waiting ensued and the novelty of boob land ran out. I downed tiny thimbles of coffee and attempted to do some work stuff, although my thoughts were rather consumed by the fact that I was about to pay £300 for one (albeit highly qualified and presumably artfully rendered) incision.
Mooncakes and mung beans
I was also bloody starving. I finally inquired how much time I had, and was told my surgery was in half an hour. Awoohoo! Skedaddled to explore café options, scooting in and out of gown and plastic croc-clad patients and medical staff, and the odd HAZMAT astronaut. Unperturbed by how weird the day had gotten because I was a woman on a mission, I managed to bypass Dunkin Ds and locate a ‘bakery’ full of miscellaneous semi-identifiable goodies, like mooncakes and wasabi-flavoured mung beans. Settled on some dried peas and a croissant, and a giant sweet coffee (because British eyes see hot beverages as a hug in a cup — whatever the climate) and made it up to the fourth floor just in time to be led back down again to the correct department for surgery.
Showtime!
It was go time! All my belongings were taken away (I negotiated keeping my phone, because it felt like some sort of distraction/language tool was essential) and I was led through some NO ENTRY swing doors into the brightest white, most sterile room which strangely reminded me of an empty swimming pool. I was given a very fetching green sack skirt to wear, and led into an ominous little anteroom surgical theatre which just had me feeling it wasn’t somewhere you should generally be awake. More football pitch-styley floodlights were trained on my unresisting cut. Some music came on and I relaxed slightly thinking “right, that’s more like it! I can get on board with this!” before realising it was the nurse’s ringtone, as she and the music hurried out. Crazy comedian doctor came in and theatrically threw a cloth with a hole in the middle (just like Grey’s Anatomy!!) over my cut, and pumped a foot pedal so that my bed and I juddered upwards towards the floodlights.
Game face
I had a momentary flutter of panic, because no part about doing this in a strange country in a fair bit of pain is fun, but decided the only way was up and to put my metaphorical big girl pants on. Because sadly no actual pants were allowed.
The anaesthesia injections didn’t really hurt until the last one which evoked an involuntary OW and a nurse squeeze of my elbow. There was lots of chatter in Thai as the doc clearly explained what he was doing for the benefit of the nurses, but despite their code language it wasn’t hard to guess the part where he told them he was about to prick me with a scalpel to test if I was numb yet. Thankfully yup, a small part of me was out for the count.
No one needs the details, but suffice to say it was pretty tuggy, and I think the local anaesthetic missed a bit. The doctor invited me to look at a silver bowl in which at a momentary glance it looked like a small animal had been massacred. I quickly assured him I was cool just looking at winter dresses on Pinterest thanks. I was very glad when a waterproof bandage was produced, and didn’t even mind when a shower ban was given and further hilarity and opacity ensued when I asked comedy doctor when I could train or swim again. (No problem Charlie Chaplin, I’ll figure it out for myself!)
My clothes and belongings were returned, and I was given a small hospital paper gift bag of antibiotics and receipts (how thoughtful!). I scarpered back through the no entry doors into the public domain, and into the waiting arms of Dunkin Donuts, which is VERY hard to refuse when you’ve just been through a small ordeal. (Dunkin clearly knew what they were doing, with this strategic location!). I calmed my nerves and shaking hands with a ‘strawberry flower’ (all hail the power of the donut) while waiting for my taxi — yet another 10-seater party bus, what are the chances?
What a bloody riot of a day! But first (and hopefully last) Thai surgery mission accomplished.
Postscript…
As a fun sequel, the following four days’ mystery prize for being SO BRAVE turned out to be a ride on the spectacular food poisoning rollercoaster. I’m now a dab hand at Thai hospitals, clinics and party buses, have experienced my first vitamin drip, first charcoal tablet breakfast (yes, I have been willingly eating coal — couldn’t help but think of the little dragon in Terry Pratchett books) and… first (definitely last!) sobbing on a scooter with the wind making the tears fly everywhere as I let the frustrations of a hellish week creep in for a tiny moment. Travel brings the highest highs. It for sure has its lows. It’s been a tough one. But next week is sure to be sunny again. And if not, I know a great donut place!
