Unstitched, and Unexpected Wrinkles

It seems like so much more than a week has transpired since I last set foot in my classroom. It's funny how elastic time can feel when you break outside the norms of schedules and appointments and responsibilities. Fortunately, I had the morning to try to remind myself where I had left off with my classes, and get my head out of the clouds with respect to all of the unexpected adventures this last week brought to me. I can honestly say that although as a whole, traveling solo in Korea was much more of an isolated experience than when I traveled through Europe two years ago, it still turned out to be an absolutely and unique fantastic trip.

I managed to meet party-loving locals, backpacking newbies and experts alike, fellow Americans teaching English abroad, and just about everything in-between. I slept on couches and firm mattresses and even the bare wooden floor. I hiked mountains and fortress walls. I waded through stream water, chugged chilly mountain water, bought tons of bottled water, and sampled some new teas. I soaked up the sun on pebbly beaches, slept through the rain plinking on rooftops, and shot frame after frame of Korea's photogenic faces (of which there are many). I reveled in the timelessness of Buddhist temples, stumbled upon ages-old stone-carved relics, circled a city by bicycle, and added a few new Korean dishes to my growing repertoire. It was by all counts a successful trip, and even with my debit-card disaster in Daegu, I would do the whole thing again in a heartbeat.

But, back to life and work as usual today. Or not. As it turns out, today brings me yet another unexpected wrinkle.

I went to see Dr. Shin this morning, for the follow-up appointment we had scheduled before leaving on my trip. I was sure he'd be pleased with the progress of my wound over the week that I had been away, and sure enough, things were looking good. So good, in fact, that right then and there he clipped out the stitches that had been holding my skin together for the past several weeks. And as quick as that, I had been unstitched. I asked Dr. Shin how many days until I came back again -- later this week? next week?

"No," was he reply, "Finished." And as much as the drudgery of daily doctor visits had been a bother, suddenly realizing I wouldn't be seeing my dog bite healer anymore was a sad thought. I hadn't realized this day would mark the end of my treatment, but here it was. So as we parted, I thanked him one last time for all his kindnesses. And then, I rushed back for my noon staff meeting.

Two hours later, while finishing lunch and preparing to pop out the door to begin teaching for the day, my phone rang. It was Laura, Dr. Shin's daughter, calling me from Canada. She had a favor to ask me, for her father, she said. Her father wanted to study English. Her father had a friend who wanted to study English as well. Would I teach them, two nights a week, after I finished my other work?

I wasn't sure how to respond. Dr. Shin had been such a help to me during my recovery. He had been patient and generous and consistent with his care. I didn't want to disrespect him for anything. But how did I navigate this? Was this meant to be private lessons for pay, or lessons I would volunteer in return for his favors in treating me as his patient? If these were to be paid lessons, I was contracted to teach for my hagwon only. Did I mention this to Harrison or keep it to myself? I didn't even know if I wanted to teach additional lessons. And I had never taught English to adults before... So many questions...

But my time was out. I had to get to work. I left her question to hang in the air, told her I'd call her back, and ran off to school. Dr. Shin is the expert at stitching up wounds... but what to do with this unexpected wrinkle?

Night Under the Knife, Part I

My Monday morning meeting with Dr. Shin was pushed back, as his office was overflowing with patients. Finally, I was able to meet with him, and he agreed to take my case. Apparently, he had some apprehension about treating me, an American, as years before he had had a very unsavory
experience treating another one of my compatriates, a man who was quite insistent with the minutiae of his treatment, and somewhat untrusting of the doctor's experience and wisdom. I tried to communicate through Harrison that I would be a different patient entirely, that I of course would trust his recommendations and experience. I, after all, had never been attacked by an animal. I was completely at the mercy of those with experience -- in this case Dr. Shin -- who would able to guide me back to good health.

Dr. Shin explained that my wound was quite deep, and that he was concerned there might be muscle damage. He needed to open the wound a bit further to inspect it for any further complications. We would need to wait on stitching until probably Thursday. In the meantime, I needed to come back at 6:00 for the first surgery. I could tell from the exchange that this wasn't a popular idea. 6:00 fell right in the middle of my workday. (I work from 12:00 until 9:00 PM).

Teaching at such a small hagwon, there is absolutely no substitute coverage for me. So if I can't make my classes, they are cancelled. This being the case, I was given the distinct impression that, as concerned and caring as Harrison was, the expectation was that I would of course fulfill my normal teaching schedule despite having an attack just a little over a day ago that had landed me in the emergency room. I was completely blown away, then, by the generosity of this doctor who had just met me, when he agreed to return to his office 9:30 PM tonight for a special visit. Certainly a doctor with his prestige didn't need to be coming back to the office after hours. It was certainly a special favor on his part to offer to do so. I felt humbled at his giving spirit.

Finding the energy to push through 7 hours of teaching while sitting in a chair with my wounded leg propped up next to me proved to be an enormous challege. Halfway through my fourth class, I could feel my blood sugar drop, and my hands begin shaking. I felt I was near passing out, which was unsettling. Just about then, my cell phone rang. It was unusual that I had my phone with me at school, and even more unusual that it would ring just as a break had opened up in my teaching schedule (today was the first day of the instituted dinner break after my first 4 classes). As I answered the phone, I was relieved to hear the voice of my dear friend Chetty on the other end. He had called to see how I was doing, and it did my soul a lot of good to talk with him for a few minutes, and to be reminded that I was not alone here in Seosan.

Three hours later, when my last class ended, I took a taxi to the surgeon's office. As promised, he was there waiting with his wife, head nurse, and 17-year-old daughter, who was home visiting her family between school sessions in Canada, where she attended high school. I was grateful to have her there, as her English was quite good and she was able to communicate to me each step of the surgical procedure. First, the head nurse fitted my leg with the same kind of wrap used to constrict your arm for taking blood pressure. Only, this was on a massive scale, and within moments, a machine had compressed wrap's grip on my thigh so much so that it was somewhat painful. But I understood: the surgeon needed to restrict the blood flow so that the he could cut into my leg with minimal bleeding.

I was instructed to roll onto my right side so that the doctor had better access to the wound. Lying on his surgical table in this position, I reach my arms across my body as if giving myself a hug. As much as I knew this procedure was what my body needed in order to begin healing, I also knew that more shots and cutting and strange medicines was going to cause some additional stress to my already traumatized body. And though Dr. Shin had the highest reputation for his surgical skills in Seosan, I was going on faith that his expertise would match with the needs of my body, and this his wisdom and adept hand would be enough to ensure the best of all possible recoveries.

So as I lay there, encircling myself in my own little hug, I sent messages to my body of calmness, peace, and faith. And I continued this over the next hour as the surgery took place.
Next came the pain shots. There were several injections of local anaesthetic around the wound. I actually lost count of how many pricks I felt on my lower leg. But I praised his thoroughness -- it would pay off later when he began his incisions. It was an odd sensation, as the numbing medication spread into my tissues. I could feel the pressure of his fingers on my leg, feel tugs and movements that must surely be cutting, but there was no sensation other than the dullest awareness that something was going on doing there.

He proceeded with this for some time, while his daughter asked me questions about the U.S. -- either out of boredom or curiousity on her part, or out of pity for me. It didn't matter the reason, it did help to pass the time. And with each further step of the procedure, she gave me a much-appreciated heads-up. "My father is now deepening the incision." "My father is now cutting out the dead tissue."And the best of all: "My father says you are lucky, there is no damage to the surrounding muscle."

I was so happy to hear those words. His initial diagnosis (during my office visit earlier today) sounded as if the depth of the wound had caused some serious damage, but now, with this news, I felt assured that my recovery could progress much more quickly. In fact, after a closer inspection of the wound, he decided that he would begin some preliminary stitching to begin closing the gashes. So I held on for a little while longer, my left leg completely numb at this point from the pressurized wrap on my thigh. I could feel only a whisper of tingles in my toes as the surgeon sewed two lengths of strong, black thread into my wounds.

With the procedure completed, I sat on the surgery table to regain feeling in my leg. The surgeon's daughter told me that I needed to return to the clinic every day this week for a check-up, so that her father could make sure no secondary infection developed. Later this week, he would need me to meet with him for another procedure in the evening, when he would trim away any tissue that was not healing and close the stitches. I left the doctor's office that night, not with fear or concern, but with a genuine respect and appreciation for this family that had come together at such a late hour to help a foreigner in need.

I took a taxi home, and had been inside my apartment only a minute when my phone rang. It was my mom, checking in to see how I was doing. I couldn't believe the timing of my two phone calls today. First Chetty, calling just at the moment when I needed a boost of energy. And now, my mother, calling just as I had returned home from my surgery. I counted those not as coincidental happenings, but as gracious gifts from the Universe that I had been counted and was being taken care of. It was a serendipitous feeling, and as I settled to sleep for the night, despite the turmoil of the past days, I felt a sweet peacefulness envelop me at the realization that despite the vastness of the Universe, I was Known.