III. Russian Medicine

Apr 08, 2016 21:34


Without Jenny I could figure out most of the directions and questions the Russian staff asked me, but after about three days, a doctor with some English proficiency visited me. She wore a surgical mask, but I could tell from her voice and eyes that she was a very intelligent and lovely person already, especially as she genuinely tried to communicate in English, mindful of potential errors. We spoke a little bit in Russian too, and by our second or third meeting she joked (but with some genuine frustration) that we should just speak Russian, since it took her some effort to produce a curate English. We laughed a little about it. I always love meeting in the middle of the two languages. On one of our first meetings she stood over me and said:

"You have pneumonia. You do not have HIV."

"...Good," I replied.


While I had arrived with a very high temperature, it had come down some. Still, I showed a fluctuating fever that stayed stubbornly above 37°. There were serious signs of infection in my first blood test, so they would out me on a second strong anti-biotic treatment because my pneumonia was apparently a tenacious fucker. She asked about how my cough was coming along with the treatment. I didn't know what she meant.

The Holy Child's ears perked up as she asked me about "mixtura," some special Russian anti-cough remedy. She brought me a bottle that looked like a cartoon gag that would have XXX written on the label, rubber cap and all. It was to be stored cool but taken at room temperature. Later that day I took my first gulp of it. The Holy Child smiled and asked how it was. Unpleasant? I agreed. It smelled slightly of cough syrup and slightly of paint thinner, tasting, thankfully, closer to the former. I drank from the mixtura for several days, ceasing as soon as my cough became bearable.

A couple of days in I was introduced to another unique aspect of Russian medicine: физиотерапия. This word sounds like "physiotherapy," which I figured was like physical therapy. It is not. A powerful looking middle-aged woman visited my room and told me to visit her the next day at 10:20 am IF my temperature was below 37.5°. That wasn't the case, so I went the day after. To do this, I left the building where I was staying, walked around several others, through some poorly maintained roads, and into a large brick building with automatic doors. I made a left after entering, walking through one corridor of the infirm, then turned left through another short gallery of the sick before opening the door to the department.

The doctor brought me plastic bags to put over my shoes and directed me to a strange machine that I did not at all understand. "Sit still, like on the electric chair" I think she said to me in Russian, a curious expression. She turned a knob after putting two sensors or nodes opposite one another on my chest and back, then left. I sat, listening to this machine clicking away for several minutes, unsure what was happening. Once it finished, the doctor took down some figures, told me to learn Russian, and to come back the next day. I visited this office on every weekday during my stay. I saw other patients receive the same treatment only on their faces (which were sometimes green) and lower backs.



I asked my English-speaking doctor what this machine did. She laughed, saying Americans and Europeans were always puzzled by it, but that it was normal in the post-Soviet states. She assured me that it was safe and conceded to my guess that it sent some sort of "waves" -- good ones -- through me. We would laugh about this contraption until I left. It is possible that I now have post-Soviet cancer, nbd.

Part IV
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