Just Another (Infectious) Day In The Tropics

Posted by Kaire Kalam (That Estonian Girl) on June 30, 2012 in Stories | 1 Comment

“Are you sure you need a doctor?” asked the Indonesian receptionist at the Ubud Green Resort in Bali. His comment made me wonder if he had seen too many little white girls overreact and run off to the hospital.

“Salt water is good for bug bites,” he said as he stapled a stack of papers. “Also, talking kindly to your bug bite works well.”

I looked down to decide what sweet words could possibly heal my wound.

He walked out from behind the counter and stood next to me. Together we stared at the red, oozing, yellow-puss filled volcano I used to call a toe.

“You should see the doctor,” he said.

A few days earlier I discovered a fabulously itchy and a pleasure to scratch bug bite on my toe. Unaware of the effects of bacteria in the tropics, I continued to claw at it until it was raw. The skin around it turned purple and the toe swelled to double its size. It was painful. I couldn’t walk. Now it was time for help.

The doctor approached me with tools that she had gathered together quickly and efficiently. She sat down at the edge of the table and asked with a smile. “Do you want to lie down?”

“Nah, it’s ok. I’ll sit,” I answered. “How bad can cleaning out an infected bug bite possible be?” I thought.

Without warning, explanation or numbing the area, the tweezers appeared and grabbed hold of my infected wound. Like a frantic bird picking through rotten prey to get to the juicy parts, so were the tweezers now tearing at raw flesh to get to the infection.

My eyes rocketed to the back of my skull and my mouth burst open. I gasped for air.

“Do you want to lie down now?” I heard the doctor say, her voice floating in the background. I shook my head “no,” hoping the anesthesia may still come.

Trying to fight and hide the eruption of tears, I hid my face between my knees. I was once again a Soviet-era child getting a root canal without anesthesia. Crying was not allowed then and I would not now.

The tweezers continued their work, ruthlessly pinching and picking out the stubborn thick puss and the bacteria that haunted my toe. To my shock, a significant hole appeared as more of the puss, blood, and dead flesh were removed.

I started to shake. I started to panic. I released a, “boo-hoo-hoo.”

“Ok. No more. I can’t take it anymore,” I spat. I could not stop the tears. Heat and shakes now possessed my body. The tweezers stopped.

“At least you are not screaming out loud like most tourist,” the doctor said, still smiling.  She paused only a moment and then she continued.

Two months later in Dubai I recounted my experience as my family doctor and I stared at the bulging and permanent scar on my toe. After hearing my story she looked at me and said, “We can fix it. We cut it open and stitch it.”

I raised an eyebrow and a slight smile. “You will use anesthesia, right?”

The doctor just smirked.