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.

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.