Two weeks ago, I came down simultaneously with some type of stomach flu as well as a middle-ear infection, and thus spent a majority of the week in my flat, resting. After making it to work on Wednesday, I was immediately led out the door by my boss who insisted I should go see a doctor because I “looked green.” Before departing, he assisted me in obtaining a list of English-speaking doctors in the Berlin area, and pointed out 3 that were nearby. He also insisted that I shouldn’t worry about making an appointment, but rather just show up so that way they can’t turn me away. At the time, it seemed like sound logic.
Anyway, after getting a bit lost and unfortunately shelling out an unneccesary 5 Euro for a 2 minute cab ride (how should I have known I was only 2 blocks away? My ear was hurting too much to concentrate at the time!), I realized that perhaps I should have phoned ahead first. It turns out that the information provided on the US Embassy’s doctor list must not be kept up to date. Upon entering the building, I immediately realized that I was clearly not in the right place. Rather then entering a doctor’s office, I found myself in a shared multi-African state embassy building.. Somewhere between all of the curious stares, security guards, and African flags I realized I was clearly out of place. After trying to look as nonchalant as possible as I retraced my steps back out the door (and telling myself that I might not look as awkward as I was feeling because hey, at least I was wearing a business suit), I pulled out the list of doctors and immediately called the office I thought I was at. Straight to modem. Of course.
So by this time its starting to get pretty hot outside, and I am wearing a black suit, I am stressed out, and oh yeah, I’m sick. Needless to say, it was getting pretty uncomfortable standing around.
I decided I would make another attempt at finding a doctor. Reviewing the list, I quickly recognized that I had no clue where the hell any of these doctors’ practices were, and I didn’t feel like shelling out money for more random cab rides that could be as close as a block or as far as 15km. I eventually decided on one more that my boss had recommended I check out, and this time I decided to call first. The call went straight to a German-only voice mail.
At this point, I am beginning to get that “oh shit I think I am going to pit out through my suit” feeling, which only exasturbated my steadily increasing headache. I believe I muttered “fuck this” audibly enough for some passerbys to look at me, and marched myself to the nearest train station to get myself home. I figured that I clearly wasn’t dying, so even though it felt like someone was stabbing me in the ear, if I just sat in bed and watched illegal streaming television for long enough I would get better.
In my heated (clever word use, right?) state, I completely forgot that the S-Bahn wasn’t running (and still isn’t) East-West routes (Side Note: Turns out they had to shut down the trains because after some inspections of the cars, the committee in charge recognized that they were essentially moving death-traps and could kill people at any moment…good to know that I was riding in them regularly for almost 2 months prior).
Anyway, the S-Bahn wasn’t running, and there was no direct tram/bus/u-bahn route back to my stop. I was clearly in no mood to figure out a new way home, so I had to wait around for the Regio Express, which only runs 2 an hour. And wouldn’t you know it, I got to the station just as it was pulling away. It just really wasn’t my day.
Anyway, I eventually make it home only to find the door locked (I had left my key with Mayme, who has been staying at my flat, so she could do things during the day when I was theoretically supposed to be at work). Now this is when I start to really freak out.
I rang the buzzer a half-dozen times. No answer. Luckily, a neighbor lets me into the foyer of the building, and I begin ringing the front door bell. Again, no answer. I knock. No answer. I pull out my phone and try to call Mayme’s cell phone. It’s off. I send a desperate text message just in case. I walk around the back of the apartment and try to open the back door. Locked. I knock on all of the windows. Silence.
I give up and go back out to the street. Frustrated, I start throwing pebbles at Mayme’s window, just in case, for some reason, she is really sound asleep. Nothing.
There I was, visibly sick and stressed out, pacing in front of my building in my grey suit that, now saturated with sweat, was beginning to gain a darker tint to it. In my moment of desperation I did the only thing I could think of – I called my parents.
Being that it was just before noon my time, this meant that I was calling Los Angeles just before 3am. I was a bit embarrassed about calling at such an inconvenient hour, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
I don’t want to get into the specifics of the phone call here, but I just wanted to publicly thank my parents for putting up with me and helping me figure everything out in my moment of panic. Also, sorry for not really letting you get any sleep that night. My bad.
At the advice of my parents I called a few more doctors, only to be told that “no doctors are in on Wednesday afternoons.” Apparently, here in Germany it is culturally accepted that Wednesday afternoons are an appropriate time for those in the medical profession to have a beer and a round of golf. Should you find yourself in a medical emergency, you can either wait in line at the emergency room, or just deal with it until Thursday. I began to consider the emergency room, but was trending more towards the latter option solely because the thought of the language-barrier at the ER made me sweat more then I already was. In my state, the thought of trying to explain my symptoms to an ER nurse who quite possibly might not speak a word of English seemed far worse then just sucking up the pain and waiting it out.
Realizing that I could not wait in front of my flat any longer, I decided to make the trek to the rentral agency to see if they might have a spare key I could borrow so I could get back into my flat. This journey would regularly only take 20 minutes with the S-Bahn, but since of course the train system was not operational, it took about an hour to get to the agency. Luckily however, they did have a spare key. Relieved, I made the trek back to my flat.
On the ride home, I got a call from my parents who told me they found an on-call doctor who was willing to come to my flat and check me out. Things were looking up.
When I got home, I was greeted at the door by one groggy and dazed Mayme Berman, who sighed, “I just got up…how did you get back in here?”
Not cool.
The on-call doctor was quite an experience as well. I felt like I was straight outta the olden’ days…he came and checked me out in bed and had all sorts of interesting instruments in little little medical attache. The only difference was that he prescribed me real, modern medicine, instead of something cool like leeches and deer blood. That was the only bummer. On the plus side though, he gave me a shot of vitamins which was cool. Mostly because he mixed the whole concoction right infront of me, and also because I was fascinated with the well, lack of care for hygene through the whole procedure. I mean, he never once washed his hands or used gloves or anything. In the States, at the VERY LEAST you would expect the guy to have gloves on when he a) mixed the vials together, b) pulled out a needle, c) put the needle in me, and d) wiped the area down after pulling out the needle.
Things certainly are different here. I will miss it though.
Tune in next time for: "Czech Ya Later, Prague 2009." Or perhaps, "Brad Goes Clubbing, Hilarity Ensues." Or maybe even, "I Can't Believe I Got Drunk and Ate That."
