Mosquito Bites and French Doctors
How simple things can become irrationally overwhelming in foreign countries
A week after arriving in Paris, sitting on the patio of a cafe adjacent to the Louvre, I strummed my fingers next to the white orchid on the round fuchsia table. My all-too-long legs awkwardly intertwined with those of my new friend Christina across from me. A group of us had just stepped off the metro and were looking forward to an afternoon at Paris’ largest and most famous museum, followed by a visit to the Tuleries (an expansive, statue-laced garden). It was a Saturday morning and we had just finished our first week of class: it felt like we were celebrating—I wore a black sundress and sandals. Taking in this rare and delightful scene around me, I absent-mindedly reached down to scratch my ankle and felt an insect bite: I glanced down and was greeted by a very infected-looking swollen ankle. How had it gotten so bad this quickly?
Believe it or not, I’ve actually been hospitalized for an infected mosquito bite on the same ankle in the past. I was a camp counselor one summer at an overnight camp and general cleanliness for that week was a hard to come by—any minor cut became a risk for infection. A few days into camp I had a mosquito bite that turned into a swollen ankle. Believing the swelling to be caused by over-exertion and to be relatively innocuous, I ignored the cut for a few days. By the third day I knew something was wrong: my ankle had swelled to several times its normal size and walking was starting to become difficult. I tried to treat the ankle with the available supplies at the camp medic but it became apparent that a real hospital would be necessary. Sure enough, a few days in a sterile hospital room and rounds of antibiotics were what ultimately rid the infection.
Remembering this previous incident, I made a decision at that now fateful cafe: there was no way I was spending the end of my first week in Paris in a hospital. I was taking care of this tonight. I ached to get back to my room to clean the wound and call a doctor. Are doctor’s offices open on the weekends? How do you say infection in French?
By the time I made it back to the hotel, it was a late Saturday evening. I knew no doctor offices would be open on Sunday and that I had a full day of classes on Monday. Fearing a similar fate to that summer, I decided to research my options.
I googled “doctor home visits Paris” and finally came across a post by an American who had also needed health care over the weekend and used something called an “SOS médecin.” I called the number listed on the site and was given an operator:
“J’ai besoin d’un médecin ce soir pour un infection” (I need a doctor tonight for an infection).
“Quel type d’infection?” (What type of infection?)
“uh…uh mosquito?”
I froze. I hadn’t looked up the word for mosquito. Throughout this conversation I had been pacing our cramped hotel bathroom—I had just met my roommate a few days ago and was embarrassed by my need to already have a visit from a house doctor. But at this point I think she heard me over-enunciating the word “mosquito,” with the irrational reverse-logic that he might understand the word if I spoke in a very clear, loud American accent. At a certain point I believe exasperation compelled him to patch me through to another operator—the exhausting charade started all over again.
Finally it was agreed that an English-speaking doctor would come to my room within the hour for a flat fee—I felt hope. I leaped out of the bathroom and quickly explained the circumstances to my bewildered roommate and she pieced things together: You have a mosquito bite? And that’s somehow a dire situation? And you called a doctor? And he’s coming here? Though we became good friends by the end of the trip, I remember our friendship feeling a little labored in the days surrounding “the mosquito incident.”
Within an hour, there was a knock at the door. In walks a middle-aged man with shoulder-length flowing blond hair, carrying a black doctors bag in hand. My first question: “Vous parlez anglais?” (Do you speak English?) His response: “Pas trop” (Not too much). I tried to fumble through an explanation of my condition and he politely nodded as if I was making any sense but I believe the actual meaningful interchange consisted of me pointing to my ankle and him treating what he saw. Sprawled on my twin bed with the doctor towering over my ankle and my roommate quietly trying to read a book next to this bizarre scene, he was able to come to a diagnosis: “It is infected…a few days its ok or hospital.” He explained a bit more in French after that terrifying sentence and it was agreed that I would meticulously care for the cut for a few days and if it became worse I would go to a hospital.
Thankfully, the infection healed within a week—no Parisian hospital necessary. And I gained some valuable information from this experience: I thought I had handled this situation in a rather peculiar way but when I reported the weekend’s events to my academic coordinator on Monday she congratulated me. Usually students who fall ill on the weekends call into her office, not knowing what to do, and she schedules an SOS médecin for them. I had skipped this intermediary step.
This bizarre day largely reflects my four months abroad: lots of time spent in beautiful, historical places balanced with occasional moments of fear that inspired learning. That night after the doctor left our hotel room, my roommate and I spent a few hours studying the French vocabulary for parts of the body and phrases one might use in a doctor visit. I began to equate seemingly terrifying experiences in France with chances to learn more about French culture and some new vocabulary—this attitude served me well.
