While rolling around in bed yesterday morning I got a sharp pain in my neck. Immediately afterwards I wasn't able to lift my head. WebMD.com and my own hypochondria had me convinced I'd slipped a cervical disc and after a few hours I made the decision to seek some medical help. In any foreign country this can be quite the undertaking. It can range from a wonderful experience in a hospital identical to any you'd find in the States with friendly staff who speak perfect English to pantomime with a witchdoctor in the bush. So needless to say, I had my reservations, but equipped with a valid insurance card -- something I haven't had for a number of years now -- a couple hundred dollars, my passport, and a recommendation for a clinic from a colleague with sciatica, I headed out in a cab on my own.
Immediately upon entering the clinic I felt both relief and apprehension. Relief because the facilities were modern, clean and accommodating; apprehension because it seemed to be quite busy. Abaya-clad women chasing screaming children around and more than a few self-important Saudi men barking demands at the unfortunate Filipino nursing staff made the scene a little hectic, especially for a Thursday night (Saudi Saturday). A very nice Filipino gentleman behind the insurance desk invited me back into his office to fill out the appropriate forms when he saw I was having a difficult time figuring out exactly where I should go and what I should be doing. He took my insurance card and my passport to make some copies and when he noticed I was an American he struck up a conversation. "USA?" "Yes, Yes." "What state?" "Indiana" "Oh Indiana. Indiana Pacers? Yes?" "Yea, that's right," I said with a smile and only a little surprise. "Reggie Miller. Dream team," he said. "Haha. That's right." He went on to explain to me that basketball was the "official" (his quotations) sport of the Philippines and that other than China, his country was the best in Asia. He told me of their glory, culminating with a silver medal in the 1954 Olympics (the USA won the gold). Our paper work complete, he then sent me on to the cashier.
Here, again, my anxiety was quickly assuaged. Having only to pay 10 Riyals (less than 3 bucks US) for my deductible was nice and of course the young Arab man behind the counter wanted to know where I was from. "Brittish?" "No. American." "American?! Mr. Bin Laden! Mr. Bin Laden! I found one!" he said pretending to look around to alert the most wanted man in the world of my presence. "Just joke. Just joke," he said more than a little pleased with himself. I found it pretty funny too. He then pointed me in the direction of the orthopedic doctor who would be seeing me and after weaving my way through a series of corridors, I found the right office and sat down, opening the book I'd brought, and settled in, prepared to be sitting there for quite some time. Half a page into Catch 22 my name was called. It seemed everything was done through the computer system and the doctor had already been made aware of my presence and was ready for me.
The Doctor spoke the best English of any local I've met here yet and after hearing an explanation of my symptoms and then conducting his own examinations filled with more than a few "oohs" and "ahs" on my part, he assured me that my issue was muscular. When I explained to him my reservations about this diagnosis he reassured me and explained quite succinctly what I would be experiencing if the worst of my fears were true. He wrote my prescriptions and directed me to the nurses' offices to get an injection to kill the pain.
The nurses were sweet and after I got over the initial surprise at them being aloud to parade around with their hair and faces uncovered I was directed toward a bed. The nurse came in, shut the curtains, and said rather matter-of-factly, "The shot go in the butt." To which I replied, "Uh, no. The pain is in my neck." "I know," she said. "Now please take down your pants." "Uh, but the pain is in my neck." "Yes, Yes. Take down your pants." It went on like this for a little longer until I finally relented. One shot in each cheek later and after visiting Osama's lookout at the cashier one final time to pay for my injections, I was on my way to the pharmacy, conveniently located in an adjoining building. The medications were in boxes, with no need for them to be counted out, and three minutes later I was back in a cab heading home with a sore butt, a not-so-sore neck, and only 45 Riyals poorer for the whole experience. Two thumbs up.
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