A Visit to the Doctor

While looking for apartments in the centre of the city, my mother-in-law calls to tell me that K has a fever and his mosquito bites are swelling up.  She’s going to call her sister to find out what to do and then call me back.  I wonder if I should go back home immediately, but then realize that she’ll know exactly what to do – she’s raised 3 sons who have turned out to be just fine, I just need to trust her.  About an hour later, she calls back to tell me that K is ok, the fever has gone down and after giving K a bath and putting some red beets and salt on his bites, so has the swelling.  I’m all for traditional and natural healing and have been ever since I saw a religious healer for a boil on my face many years ago when I lived in Tajikistan.  I was cured after some prayers, verses from the Quran written on pieces of paper that I had to dip in water and burn for 7 nights in a row and some sheep’s fat to put on the boil to get rid of the evil spirit that had come into my body.  Some hours later, I come home only to see that K is running around the apartment playing with his new soccer ball.  He seems fine and I am relieved.

I wake up the next morning, turn over to see K sleeping next to me.  The mosquito bites have spread on his face and I quickly get up and check the rest of his body – they’re all over his arms and legs now!  I begin to worry but then tell myself not to worry – I’m sure it’s just that he’s getting use to the new environment and food.  The more I look at my red spotted son, I start to think the worst – does he have malaria?  does he have typhoid? Is it bed bugs?  what have I done by bringing K here to this dusty city? Before going further with my worst case scenario imagination and my negative judgments on the country, I turn to M on my other side and tell him that we need to get K checked out.  I recall that there is a medical clinic staffed by European doctors in the centre of the city and suggest we go there.  “I’d feel comfortable going somewhere where the doctors speak English” I say to M who sheepishly agrees.  My mother-in-law walks into our room and M tells her that I want to take K to the doctor and she agrees while reassuring me that K is just adjusting to this new environment. She calls a nurse in the family who tells her to go to the nearby hospital and see the allergy specialist, one of the best in town who studied in Germany.  I agree and after having breakfast, the usual naan (traditional bread) with cheese and sausage and a cup of coffee, we get ready and walk down the four flights of stairs of the apartment building. 

In one of the busiest intersection's of the city, we catch a mashrutka (mini-bus) and get off at the stop about a 10-minute drive away.  My mother-in-law tells me the hospital is only a few minutes walk away, but I know that she’s being kind knowing that I am worried– the hospital is a bit more of a walk and after a while K tells me he’s tired of walking and wants to be carried.  K has become so tall and too heavy for me to carry him so I give him to M who carries him until we reach the local hospital.  Along the way, M tells me to sit in the waiting area while he, K and my mother-in-law go see the doctor.  Again, I start to make judgments as to why I, K’s mother, cannot go with my son to the doctor.  I catch myself thinking the worst about the country and immediately ask M why.  “They might not treat him if they know you’re a foreigner” he says, and I back down with complete understanding because all I really want is for my son to get better. 

M, K and my mother-in-law are called into another room and I remain sitting in the dark waiting room with men and women who have come to see their loved ones who are patients in the hospital. I think about when we lived in Vancouver and those times I took K to the doctor for regular checkups and to the health clinic for his vaccinations and the times I called the nurses’ hotline in the middle of the night when K had a fever – these were the time when I felt most like his mother.  But here in the waiting room of the local hospital, I am saddened, helpless and feel ignored as my role as a mother has been stripped away from me.  I wonder if my mother-in-law knew what I was feeling (since she is a mother herself) when I see her calling for me from the hospital door motioning for me to come in.  I ask M if it is ok for me to come with them to see the doctor and this time he says “yes.”  I’m not sure what transpired in those moments but in the end, my role as K’s mother is reinstated as the 3 of us (K, M and I) sit on the chairs in front of the doctor as she checks K’s spots.  In her white doctor’s gown, she comes over to where K is sitting and looks at the spots on his face, arms and legs.  She touches them and lets us know that these are mosquito bites that have been exacerbated by the new environment and new foods K has been exposed to, not to mention all the scratching he has been doing.  She gives us a prescription for some tablets to be taken orally and some ointment to spread on all the spots 3 times a day and gives us a pamphlet highlighting which foods he should avoid eating and which ones he should eat more of.  I’m consoled in knowing that these are only mosquito bites and the natural reaction children have when being in a completely new environment – “phew, nothing serious” I say to myself.

We walk out of the hospital, I buy K a toy guitar for being so patient and brave at the doctor’s office and hand him off to my mother-in-law who gets the prescriptions filled at one of the many local pharmacies in the neighborhood.  M and I take a mashrutka to the centre of the city to continue looking at apartments to rent.

It’s been a few weeks since that visit to the doctor and the spots on K’s face are almost gone and he hasn’t had a fever since.