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 II

I stood in front of Dr. Shin's medical office last night, batting off mosquitoes, wondering when I would see him coming up the road to unlock the doors and let me in. Earlier yesterday, at the conclusion of my checkup, Dr. Shin had told me that he would need to "operate" again on my wound, as some of the skin surrounding the bite had become necrotic -- dead, unwilling to regenerate -- and needed to be removed. We had made this arrangement before to meet in the evening after I finished teaching, and I could only assume from his stilted English when he had said, "See you tonight," that that was what he meant to communicate.

But an hour later, still swatting at the biting bugs that were making nosedives for my ankles, I had to assume he wasn't coming. Probably I should have left much sooner, but I knew the doctor made special arrangements to meet with me at night after his clinic had closed, and the thought of him arriving late only to find me not there seemed somehow disrespectful. It was late, and dark, and the air was heavy, but I walked home, letting my mind empty and hoping that perhaps a little extra circulation might reverse some of the necrosis that had been spreading beneath the bandage.

At today's checkup, my suspicions were confirmed. When I asked Dr. Shin about our missed appointment last night, I could see that he was was confused. "No, tonight," he said, almost as if it surely must have been me that had misunderstood our arrangements. So it was. Somehow I couldn't be angry or upset. I'd become quite fond of this gentle man with tufts of gray at his temples whose hands had cleaned and cared for my wound more than a handful of time.
So tonight I went "under the knife" again, this time with the benefit of knowing in advance how the procedure would unfold. It made for a much more comforting experience, despite the pain and discomfort of the massive pressurized wrap around my leg. Laura, Dr. Shin's daughter, was there again to help with the translation. That was a kind touch on the doctor's part, as well. Everything seemed to go smoothly, him inserting injections and making incisions in all the right places, tightening up the stitches that he had placed during my first night surgery, sewing my leg up with all of the skill and grace of a well-practiced surgeon. "There will be some scarring," Laura had told me, translating for her father. "But don't worry," she added, "my father is like a plastic surgeon. He will make the scar as small as possible."

It wasn't until the surgical procedure had ended and I was nursing my left leg back into circulation again that I met the rest of Dr. Shin's family, a second daughter, younger than Laura, and a third child, his son, the youngest of the three. As it turned out, tonight was the last night the family would be together before all three of the children left for Vancouver, Canada, where they lived during the school year and studied in an English-speaking public school. I felt somewhat horrified to realize that this surgery had been scheduled during their last night at home, feeling guilty for having taken time away from their togetherness. At the same time, I felt quite honored that the doctor would go to such trouble to meet with me, his foreign patient, and give me the treatment that my wound apparently needed.

I left his office that evening feeling gratitude again for the people that have been placed in my path since coming to Korea. I couldn't have chosen a more caring doctor to help nurse my wounded body back to health, and being surrounded by his children last night, talking to them in English about their upcoming return to Canada, I felt almost as if I were part of the family. It's always a beautiful thing to be reminded of the goodness, the giving-ness, that exists in others. It tends to bring about the same response within us. When you receive a genuine gift from another, you somehow can't help but feel the desire to give back.

A Walk to Remember

Today's check-up went smoothly -- the worst of it was just getting to the examination room. Waiting rooms tend to be more crowded on Saturdays than most days of the week, I've decided. Being one of the few people I know who has ever actually BEEN in a waiting room every single day for a week straight, I'm qualifying myself as a local expert. In fact, Wednesday or Thursday, mid-morning, seems to be the ideal time to come down with something worthy of a hike across town to the doc's. And you can just forget about seeing anything other than the waiting room wallpaper for hours on end if you have plans to see the doctor on a Monday morning. That's the day when all the little old ladies and hunched-over grand-daddies who live in the outlying villages take a trip into town.

I left Dr. Shin's office with relief that the severe swelling I experienced yesterday was a normal part of the healing process and nothing to be alarmed about. The good doctor gave me the green light to loosen or remove my bandages when the swelling gets unbearable and give my ankle a gentle stretch to get my circulation flowing again. (This, of course, is my loose translation, but I think I got the gist of it.) And also, I've graduated to 48-hour stretches between appointments! This means I can stop single-handedly keeping the taxi drivers of Seosan in business! :) Today's trip to the doctor marks my tenth since my leg troubles began. The statistics: 1 emergency room stint, 1 hospital visit, 2 surgical procedures, and 6 office visits. Wow, I'm becoming a regular in medical circles all around town.

After leaving Dr. Shin's office, I stopped in at the pharmacy next door to refill my prescription. The pharmacist always greets me with a warm hello and a chilled mini-beverage from his "vending refrigerator." It's always some kind of energy drink laced with gobs of vitamin C, which is probably a good thing, as I don't get much citrus these days (it just goes against my grain to pay as much for a kilo of oranges as I would for a gallon of gasoline). I sipped down the cool drink while I waited for my prescription to be filled, and I felt a welcome, if odd-timed, smile wash over my face and a quiet contentedness start to kind of ruffle through my insides like the tickling of a feather. Wherever this feeling was coming from, it felt fantastic.

In a bright mood, and joyfully aware of the absence of rain at the moment, I decided that rather than pile into yet another taxi cab to whisk me home, I'd just hoof it. The skies were chalky gray, and ahead I could see a dark cluster of storm clouds building up for another downpour. But for the moment, at least, no rain was falling, and I could make out the tiniest whisper of sunshine from behind the gray haze. As I walked slowly back down Seosan's main street, I felt that my senses were somehow heightened, that I was, for whatever reason, taking in the buzzing of comings and goings around me with more than my normal dose of perception. (Maybe there was more than straight vitamin C in that energy drink...)

I passed a young mother, dressed to the nines, with her three little kids in tow, traversing the hectic sidewalks and detouring around the cars that had unkindly pulled up onto the pedestrians' walkway. The youngest looked to be about four, and he toddled behind with full concentration on the puffed rice cake he was trying to navigate to his mouth. My eye caught a colorful umbrella to my left, down the narrow little where a local woman usually sets up shop. Today, she had laid out baskets of carefully portioned tomatoes, and a large, steaming tub filled with purple-flecked corn on the cob, steamed and ready to eat. I sidestepped two taxis that were about ready to sandwich me just outside the bus terminal, and put on a little speed to make the green light across to Seosan Mart (where I do most of my grocery shopping these days. You don't want to get stuck at this light, as it's a minimum 3-minute wait -- trust me, I've eyed the clock more than a few times this week from the back seat of my taxi ride to the doctor's).

As I rounded the last stretch before crossing the street and heading up the big hill towards home, I passed one of many local eateries, with patrons sitting out front under large shade umbrellas. It was going on noon, and Seosan's version of cafes lining the piazza was, while notably less charming than its European counterparts, equally entertaining. It wasn't the locals queuing for lunch who caught my attention, but a loud, flapping sound, like birds wings rattling against a metal cage. Curious, I looked, trying to place the sound. What I saw evoked a chuckle -- two fish, soon to be on a serving platter, were flapping their little hearts out on the hard cement sidewalk, just out of reach from the safety of the bucket that just moments before had held them.

Splash! My attention snapped away from the flip-finned fish as my foot sent muddy water flying every which way. I had been too immersed in the cafe scene to notice that I was heading right for a mud pit of a rain puddle! Somehow, it didn't seem to matter -- my jaunt across town had been nothing out of the ordinary, yet still quite a walk to remember.

Penny, Pals, and Pepperoni Pizza

By 2:00 today, my left foot and ankle had ballooned into a painful and nearly unrecognizable mass. I hadn't realized how bad it had gotten until I noticed that I had been hobbling around my classroom in quite a bit more pain than normal. Finally, as if it were an afterthought, I glanced down at my foot. I think the look on my face must have been somewhat horrified. One glance south-ward and I could feel despair looming large on the horizon. It had been almost a week since my leg became dogfood, yet somehow I felt the past 6 days had really aged me.

I try to take things with an open mind and accepting spirit, but by this afternoon, I was DONE with the dog bite from hell. I was done with the limping and done with the doctor's visits and done with the iodine stains peeking out from underneath my bandages. My leg hadn't been shaved since.... I couldn't even remember when, and I had just plain run out of smile to paint across my face.

I wanted to be free to hike the hilltops and ride my bike to the grocery store and just... be normal again. It was, then, absolute medicine for my soul to meet up with with Penny, Francois, and Chetty tonight after the workday -- and workweek (hooray!!) -- had ended. This was it, one final round of pizza and beer at our favorite Friday night hangout before Penny left Korea for good. I arrived in it-might-kill-me-to-be-happy spirits but not ten minutes passed by, I think, before I had all but forgotten the worst of my troubles. Good friends will do that, and a few bites of thin-crusted, mozzarella-laden pepperoni pizza don't hurt either!

As Penny handed me a sweetly framed photo of the two of us, yet another parting gift from this little lady with a big heart, I felt my own heart sink a bit with sadness at our pending farewell. In literally three weeks time, I have grown quite attached to this sweetheart of a girl from Down Under. It seems like surely we've been friends for months, so easy and enjoyable has our time together been. I've stopped by her and Francois' place often on my evening walks home from work, and have ended up staying for hours, chatting over slices of perfectly chilled melon and nectarines. We roamed the boardwalk and side streets of Daecheon Beach together in our mud-splattered bathing suits, hiccuping all the way, and climbed the hills of Seosan, which was a perfectly beautiful hike right up until Penny's four-legged friend deciding to give me a laceration or two. And she's been my angel these past days as I've begun, as she says, my "week of healing."

The cuddly little blue teddy bear she brought by Thursday night sits on my nightstand now, a sweet reminder that however far I roam, the genuine caring of good friends can make any foreign place feel just like home. A few laughter-filled hours later, my spirits are high, my tummy is full, and my head is ready to hit the pillow. Good night, world!

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.

Bad Things Come in Threes

It has been an incredibly long 24 hours since the dog attack, and I think I'm still trying to wrap my head around all that has transpired during the past week. It has truly been a beast. I try to take comfort in the proverb that says things come in threes. I tend to think that's more often than not the truth. And in this case, I truly hope so.

Incident #1: Drama with Harrison over unexpected contract changes
Incident #2: The Peeping Tom turned intruder turned lingerie thief
Incident #3: My run-in with the jaws of the devil dog

As upsetting as the issue was that I had with Harrison early last week, he has really been there to help me when I've needed it. He actually stopped by my apartment last night at 10 PM after finishing his teaching shift, to check on my wound. His reaction was almost identical to that of the nurse during my emergency room visit last night... but even more pronounced. He offered to drive to a nearby pharmacy for some gauze and cleansing solution so that I could redress my wound before going to bed, and then told me he would meet me the following morning to take me back to the hospital.

Harrison met me in front of Penny's apartment this morning at 10. We drove to the farmhouse so that he could talk to the dog's owners about whether the dog had received its rabies shots. The owners were, naturally, nowhere to be found, and while Penny and I waited in the van, the ear-piercing barking that ensued from my furry white assailant was enough to put me on edge. Harrison eyed the dog closely as he walked back to the van, and as we sped back to town to drop Penny off at home, he offered his advice. This kind of dog, he informed us, is a very common breed here in Korea. It's a Korean fighting dog, and can be very vicious. (Think Doberman -- the kind of dog people keep on standby as burglar insurance, the kind of dog that hesitates not before attacking anyone that attempts to cross its path.) Harrison's final caution was to NEVER try to pet one of these dogs. Chances are better than good that you'll end up with a fate similar to mine.

Next we headed to the hospital, which was quite backed up with weekend people traffic. We got our number for the queue and had a seat. An hour later, I was shown to a cot and told to lie flat while the attending doctor looked at my wound. I was so grateful to have Harrison there to communicate for me. There was quite a bit of verbal exchange as I lay there on the white sheet covering the cot. The doctor flexed and rotated my ankle, obviously checking for breaks or sprains. Fortunately, none of his motions caused any extraordinary discomfort.

Then, as the doctor began literally scrubbing out my lacerations, I clenched my fist and tried to bristle against the stinging pain that resulted. It seemed go on for quite some time before I could hear his footsteps gradually fading. He returned minutes later with bandaging. With the ordeal finally over, he properly wrapped my leg and ankle, and then gestured for me to stand. Even with subtle motions to step off of the cot, my wound was producing so much pain that tears sprang to my eyes. The thought of having to limp around for the next however many days was deeply concerning to me, but my attempts to try to locate some crutches were unsuccessful. Apparently, because there were no sprains, etc., crutches were not being offered to me. Harrison took me to the in-house pharmacy, where the pharmacist behind the counter handed him my prescription (a pain and antibiotic combination), and informed him that it had been ready for me since last night. Why couldn't someone have helped me find the pharmacy!?

Next, Harrison drove me to the office of one of Seosan's most reputable doctors, an orthopedic surgeon named Dr. Shin (haha, that's actually his name, but I just realized it's also quite a pun!!). His office was closed (as it was Sunday), but Harrison told me that he felt it was best I transfer to the care of Dr. Shin, rather than continue treatment at the hospital. I was in full agreement on that count. We would return to the clinic tomorrow morning and talk to the doctor about him taking on my case then.

The last stop before heading home was the local branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, which is the religion of my family. After hearing the news of my dog attack, my mom's only request was that I please try to find the nearest church building and request a blessing for my body to heal quickly and without complication. Out of respect for her, and because I do believe that faith and prayer can bring about some miraculous results, I asked Harrison if he could help me find the church building. I was surprised when he replied that he knew just where it was. A few minutes later, we were parking right outside a multi-story building housing a restaurant, several offices, and the meeting rooms for the church's Sunday services.

I didn't know how fortunate I was that the church was located so near my home until I was inside, speaking with a young girl from Arizona, who is volunteering for a year and a half to work as a missionary in Central Korea. This young missionary told me that she came to Seosan several times a week, including every Sunday for church services, because it was the nearest LDS church in the vicinity. Still, her bus ride took an hour. I think I could probably ride my bicycle here from my apartment in under 10 minutes. Finally, I was able to ask for a special prayer, or blessing, for my health and recovery. By the time I left, I felt my spirit had calmed. My mind seemed much more focused on the possibilities for my healing rather than the inevitability of my current pain. I had made a mental shift, and that in and of itself was healing.

As we drove back home, Harrison offered me two parting gifts: an umbrella (the rains which had usurped most of yesterday's daylight hours had returned), and a carry-out bag holding a tuna roll (chamchi kimbap) and a container of spicy rice noodles and fishcake (ddokboki). Being that my mobility was so poor, he had bought lunch for me so that I could go immediately home and rest. I disembarked from Harrison's van feeling very indebted to him for the kindnesses he had shown me today. Truly this was above and beyond the call and responsibility he holds as my employer and sponsor. Still, I felt these kind actions generated from a spirit of genuine desire to help. And it was encouraging, and reassuring, to feel a strong positive relationship in place again between us.

The rest of the day was a parade of cheerful friends calling and stopping by to check on me. Penny brought triangles of sticky-sweet watermelon and a few books I might enjoy reading. Dave stopped by to see if I'd like a few scoops of Baskin Robbins' ice cream as a treat later that evening. And Chetty came by to share some peaceful, meditative music and just be some good company for a while. By the time Chetty had left for home and Dave had returned with my ice cream scoops (walnut, and some kind of blueberry-cheese, delicious!), I literally felt as if someone had wrapped a warm, soft, cozy blanket over me and rubbed my shoulders until my whole body had relaxed.

Even with the terribly shitty experiences this week had brought to me, I couldn't fail to acknowledge that good had surely come of it. Wasn't it a beautiful discovery to make, knowing that despite being so far away from my roots, my family, and many friends, that here in this small little town in the middle of some until-quite-recently completely foreign country, I had a support system, a network of genuine and caring people who would see me through the worst of times? Truly, if we just look below the surface, everything can have an element of positivity.

The Devil's Jaws, Part II

(continued)
. . . We neared a tree on the left shoulder of the road, and I could see a rather large dog lying near its trunk, its white fur matted down with rain and mud. It looked rather beastly, and I kept a bit of a distance as Penny approached him and held out her hand for him to sniff. He recognized her, that was certain, and slowly he proceeded to raise up on all fours and respond to her with some long, wet licks. Then Fido looked in my direction, and walked towards me. I held out my hand, slowly, wanting to give him an opportunity to familiarize himself with my smell.

I've been around dogs as much as the next person, I guess. I even owned a dog for a short time. I know animals can smell fear or nervousness. So as we approached one another, I monitored my emotional base to make sure he could sense trust from me. He sniffed at my hand, my fingertips, the cuff of my pants, my ankle. And then he reciprocated with a few slobbery but gentle licks, which seemed to say he accepted me. All seemed to be going according to plan.

But in a split second, everything changed. A deep, low, fear-invoking growl suddenly surfaced from somewhere closeby, but before either Penny or I had a chance to realize what was happening, I saw a flash of white and felt a burning sensation as something deep and sharp cut into the flesh just above my ankle. I looked down in shock to see this dog, who had just a moment ago given me a token of friendship, tear into my leg with determined aggression. I pulled back, completely stunned, my mind straining to interpret the nerve signals firing up from what had instantly become a bleeding mass. I limped further away from the dog, my only solace being the rope tethering him to the tree just beyond my reach.

I looked down to see blood gushing from a long, deep gash, and instantly the sight of it, coupled with the effect of hiking for over an hour on an empty stomach, left me feeling light-headed and weak. We were only about 3/4 mile from home, but as Penny and I attempted to continue on the road leading back to town, I realized that I was not going to be able to make it back on foot.

Within minutes, Penny had flagged down an approaching car, carring a local farming family headed out of town. Through gestures, we were able to quickly garner their help -- one look at my leg, and they herded us into the backseat of their car, minutes later dropping us off just outside my apartment door. The next few hours were more or less a nightmarish blur. I grabbed my wallet and health insurance papers from my desk, and hopped into a taxi with Penny heading towards the local hospital. Once admitted to the emergency room, I was ushered to a cot while an on-call doctor began removing my shoe and sock and inspecting the wound. His assistant approached and as soon as she took a look at my leg, began making terrible noises that, regardless of language, indicated that whatever was going on down there was NOT pretty.

Two hours later, I had been allergy tested for contraindications to some kind of medicine the nurse was planning to shoot me up with, shot in both the arse and my left forearm with menacingly large needles, and had nearly fainted and vomited from the immediate effect of these unfamiliar drugs as they started coursing through my bloodstream.

With little ability to communicate with the doctor, I had to be content with the shoddy patch-up job that the doctor had done on my wound. He somehow was able to explain to me that I needed stitching, but that because the wound was from an animal bite, they have to wait a few days first. I was still bleeding through the gauze as I hobbled out of the hospital. I thought I had understood something about recieving a pain/antibiotic prescription, but there was no one there to help us find the pharmacy and, as the evening was dragging on and on, Penny and I finally decided it was time to head home.

An hour later, I was at Penny and Francois' kitchen table, my leg propped on an adjacent chair, trying with all of my energy to focus on the plate of clams and pasta and fresh parsley loving laid out before me, and not on the perilous incident that had undoubtedly changed the course of the next few weeks. Penny apologized profusely, but I wouldn't hear it. She was not to blame. No one was to blame. It was just one of those things, and it happened, and that was that. There was no undoing it and it was best that I just start focusing on my healing.

But all kinds of fears creep up under the guise of realistic concern when you're brought head to head with an unexpected crisis. What about rabies, I thought in a half-panic. With the dozen plus jabs that I received before embarking on my round-the-world travels in 2006, rabies had NOT been on the agenda. How would I know if I were at risk? And why couldn't they stitch me? What would happen when I returned to the hospital tomorrow? How was I going to get through the night with the throbbing pain from my ankle?

A few glasses of wine and an hour of candlelight later, and my mood was tranquil, my spirits calmed. I was ready for sleep and anxious to meet with Harrison, who had offered to take me back to the hospital for more treatment Sunday morning. As I laid my head back on my pillow and thought of the trauma of the past few hours, and of the past few days, I took solace in the sweet reminder that I was not alone, that I was so very fortunate to have many caring people around me, and many caring people far from me, whose thoughts and prayers would surely be reaching me over the days to come. It was almost enough to allow me to black out the angry bite that a four-legged stranger had inflicted on me just hours before. The devilish jaws of this insidious animal may have wounded my flesh, but I was determined to see that my spirits stayed high, intact, and unharmed.

The Devil's Jaws

There is a portion of the world-famous Iguassu Falls, which straddle the border of Argentina and Brazil, known as the Devil's Throat. Iguassu Falls (Foz de Iguacu in Portuguese) is one of the most impressive waterfalls I've never seen (but someday, God willing, I will).

Imagine taking the grandeur of Niagara, stretching it out to a width of 15 miles, and then splicing it up into pieces, so that instead of two of three major falls, you have literally hundreds of them (there are as many as 260 on record). It is one of the widest and tallest waterfall systems in the world.

The Devil's Throat is the oldest and largest fall in the complex, one of the most dangerous to approach, and one of the most spectacular to behold. Movie buffs familiar with the classic film "The Mission" will remember the protagonist, a peaceful humanitarian and monk intent on helping the indigenous peoples of the Guarana tribes. He climbed the falls at the Devil's Throat in order to pass into the tribal territory and make a connection with the Guarana people. Flash forward to present day, Seosan... and bear with me as I take a literary leap to connect the dots between Brazil and Korea...

This morning came and went with no change in the steady, heavy rainfall outside my window. Monsoon season had indeed descended upon Seosan, and it seemed there would be no reprieve from the precipitation that was most certainly staying put for the next several days. It was unfortunate, as I had missed quite a few of my daily walks and hike due to the drama with work and with Seosan's Most Wanted (a.k.a. Mr. Lowlife) that seemed to make a complete mockery of an otherwise peaceful entry to Korean life.

I was eager to get out and stretch my legs a bit, but with the rain coming down in heavy sheets, it was nothing doing. So, I stayed holed up in my tiny little one-room apartment, losing myself in one project after another -- a recipe hunt for a Korean-style cabbage dish, reading up on yoga poses, tweaking my Facebook page, finding good excuses to procrastinate entering report card grades for my 115 students. The day literally evaporated, which seemed quite ironic, given that just outside my window, the weather was doing anything but. Finally, about 5:30 PM, the rains died down and I seriously contemplated picking up my tennis shoes and going for a walk. After I finish this one last project, I told myself.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door, followed by a familiar voice. It was my friend Penny, stopping by to see if I'd like to join her on a hike. Realizing that my good intentions would all too possibly fail to materialize if left to my own timetable, I thought there seemed no better plan than to go along. A little company after a lonely Saturday sounded like the great way to round out a relaxingly quiet day, and I knew I'd enjoy Penny's company. Plus, with Penny leaving the country soon, I knew I had precious few opportunities remaining to learn from her where some of Seosan's best hiking trails were located. A few minutes later, I was sporting my workout gear and we were out the door.

We climbed and chatted for nearly an hour, clomping our way uphill through seldom traveled mountain trails and then downhill again, ducking under spiderwebs that had become illuminated by the strings of pearly dewdrops from the afternoon rain. We turned off of the trail connecting one mountain to the next, and continued on along a rural but paved road leading straight through some of Seosan's most picturesque farmlands. The backdrop of rolling hills and late afternoon sun, coupled with the lifting clouds and deep saturated greens made for some awe-inspiring sights. About an hour into our hike, we started down a narrow one-lane country road that snaked past yet more farmland as well as some dilapidated lean-tos and shacks.
"I have a little secret," Penny began, "and now that I'm leaving, I think you're the right person to share it with." My mind quickly started turning circles, my curiosity trying to pin down what this secret might be. She hadn't hinted at anything all afternoon, yet I could tell from her tone that it was something important to her. But first, she began with a question: "How do you feel about dogs?"

Penny explained to me that she had befriended a poor dog that was chained to a tree right along the road, and that she often stopped to play with him and give him some attention. It's true that Korean dogs, in general, are treated quite miserably. They are tied to trees with short leashes, given no opportunity to run or play freely, and quite often look despondent, neglected, and downright depressed.

Being a country girl herself, Penny had a natural affinity for animals that seemed to know no bounds. Where she had gotten the idea to get chummy with a strange dog, who probably had fleas and a whole host of other maladies, not to mention a sharp set of teeth was beyond me. But her secret was this: she was worried for the dog's wellbeing and hoped that she could pass the torch on to me to befriend her "pet."

(to be continued)