Meet Sid

No.  It's not what you think.  I'm not pregnant.  That would be impossible.  Unless of course, Jesus has been begging God for a little brother, and I was chosen for immaculate conception.  Fortunately, that was not the case.  (Also, even if this were to happen, I don’t think God would select me since he seems to prefer virgins.) 

 

On the left side of the screen is a picture of a "normal" ovary.  On the right side, is my ovary, and although I think my ovary is very photogenic and could possibly be an ovary model, there is a problem.  On the top right, you will notice an egg shaped black spot.  That is Sid.  He's a cyst.  He is like that annoying, clingy, guy who attaches himself to you and won't leave you alone, even though you want nothing to do with him.  Sid and I don't have anything in common.  His hobbies include making me bleed for three weeks straight, causing extreme exhaustion, and irritating the hell out of me. 

 

Maybe I should begin at the beginning.  One day, I drove to Sisopon to get some essentials that aren’t available in our village.  I was out of insect repellant and had been spraying Raid on my legs for a couple weeks some might consider a health hazard.  (In my defense, it was lavender scented Raid.)  Additionally, I needed some other items like strawberry jam, Mentos, tomato soup, baked beans, adding minutes to my phone, etc.  Suddenly, I realized there was a big problem.  My shorts had a big wet spot, and it was not water.  What is going on?  It was too soon for my period.  Maybe it just came early…or so I thought.  Now, I faced a dilemma.  I still needed to buy brown eggs at the outdoor market.  Since eggs are one of the few sources of protein available to a vegetarian in rural Cambodia, this was important.  I had to get them.  I decided to bolt through the market, quickly buy my eggs, and hope that nobody noticed my increasingly soggy bottom.  I was doing an outstanding performance of maneuvering through the narrow pathways between all the tiny vendor stalls, when I came upon a scene that caused me to stop abruptly.  

 

Directly in the middle of the path was a large, black fish which had clearly escaped his owner’s bowl and attempted to slither away to freedom.  I looked around and didn’t see any fish bowls.  This was one impressive fish!  It had obviously squirmed quite a long way.  This was already an absurdly funny scene, but it became even more comical when I noticed a tiny kitten, half the size of the fish, stalking up behind it.  I looked around at the nearby vendor ladies who were also watching this show with glints of amusement in their eyes.  Nobody was bothering to pick up the fish and find its owner.  It was clearly a case of “Not my fish.  Not my problem.”  Besides, it must get incredibly boring, sitting in a hammock, waiting for somebody to buy a few vegetables.  This an opportunity to view live, free entertainment.  I wanted to stick around to watch the spectacle unfold too.  However, I feared that at any moment beads of blood would begin dripping down my legs, and I would become part of the show.  So, I left.

 

For the next 5 days, I thought I was having my normal period.  On day 10, I became concerned.  On day 14, I realized it wasn’t stopping.  I told Cynthia about it, and she suggested, "You're probably going through menopause."  (Cynthia is a bit extreme when it comes to ailments.  One time she had the flu and convinced herself that she had malaria, and actually went to get a blood test.)  I bellowed, "I am not going through menopause!"  I decided that it was probably just stress.  (I, on the other hand, am an optimist, and  may perhaps tend to live in a state of denial when it comes to my own ailments.)  On day 19, I realized that I had to do what I dreaded most – visit a village doctor.   Ugghh.  I am all too familiar with the clinics and hospitals in Cambodia.  Two of the clinics in our village never have an actual doctor around, so the nurses take your blood pressure, stand around for 20 minutes staring at you, and then send you away.  The other clinic has a doctor whose only skill seems to be injecting me in the butt with some kind of pain killer which he can only describe as “medicine.”  And the hospitals are where people go to die.  None of these options were appealing to me. 

 

I told Kim and Sophert about my problem, and asked if there was a doctor for women.  Sophert knew of one, and drove me there.  As soon as we pulled up, I could tell that this place was different.  True, the clinic was inside of someone's house.  However, it was a really nice house, and I didn't have to walk by someone's entire family.  I could tell these people were rich.  They had a car (which, of course, was parked inside the house in the living room.  That's where everyone parks them, so they don't get stolen.)  The other side of the living room contained a lot of beautifully carved, and very expensive wooden furniture.  There was a couch, four chairs, a table, two large cabinets, a nice radio with speakers, and a refrigerator.  What really struck me was a box of Kleenex on the table.  I have never seen a Cambodian in possession of one.  It all seemed so civilized. 

 

The doctor wasn't there, but her husband was, and he spoke English.  He was a nice Chinese man in maybe his late 60's.  I told him my problem, and he said he would call his wife.  He picked up his cell phone, and then proceeded to tell me his life story.  It was all very interesting, but I kept glancing at his phone, wondering when he was going to make the call.  Wouldn't it be more expedient to call first and then tell me all about his visit to the United States?  Eventually, he did get around to calling her, and said she would be there shortly.  Meanwhile, Mr. Chatterbox continued talking.  At this point, I was kind of zoning out because I had other matters on my mind.

 

Finally, his wife arrived and conducted a thorough pre-examination by asking me two questions: “What is the problem?  How old are you?”  Unlike other doctors I’ve seen in Cambodia, her room was clean, she had modern equipment, and she was able to provide me an actual diagnosis.  She performed an ultrasound and spent several minutes rubbing her wand on my right side.  I could see it all on the screen, and I knew she had found something.  Then, she turned to me and said two words, “Oh-vee-an ceast.” Ovarian Cyst.   “Is it bad?  Do I need it taken out?” I asked, trying not to screech.  She said no and told me it was only a small cyst - 31 x 44 m.m. and gave me a prescription for pills called Ethinyl Estradiol which would stop the bleeding.  Apparently, cysts will usually go away on their own.  My bill for the doctor visit was $5.00.

 

We went to the nearest pharmacy, and I was surprised to see Dr. Chan.  He had visited out school about a month prior because he was wanted to enroll his child in a school that teaches English.  Once again, I was in luck.  He spoke English, and I told him about the cyst, and bought the medicine.  I'm supposed to take it for 21 days and return to the doctor for a follow-up visit.  On the way back to school, Sophert said in a stricken manner, "Ohhhh....more than $10 for medicine."  I laughed and explained that if I had an ultrasound and bought medicine in the U.S., it would have cost hundreds of dollars.  I told her it was cheap, and I didn't care how much it cost.

 

Since I was so utterly exhausted, I took two days off school.  On Friday, I was still weak, but I could only manage three hours of teaching before crawling back into bed.  The loss of blood likely made me anemic.  Add that to poor nutrition, daily stress of living in rural Cambodia, a grueling work schedule, and a number of other factors, and that's what happens.  After four days of taking the pills, the bleeding did stop completely.  Laum asked, "You better now?"  I laughed and said no.  I began to explain that the considerable blood loss has made me extremely tired, but at the first mention of blood, he got totally freaked out and left.  The other Cambodians don't understand either.  They all think that I should be fine now.  I'm not. 

 

Today, I woke up at 7:00 am when Kim called and asked, "Kerri, you want porridge?"  I started laughing hysterically in the crazed manner of a lunatic and blurted out, "Kim, when have I ever wanted porridge?"  The last thing I crave is soggy rice mixed with warm water.  When I was able to control my laughter, I said very politely, "Thank you Kim, but no.  I have some cereal."  She then ended the call in her typical way by abruptly saying, "Bye!"

 

I was finally able to get out of bed at noon, and I drove to ask Dr. Chan for some advice on my fatigue.  He suggested some multivitamins from France.  They are called Alvityl Comprime.  He told me to take two per day for five days.  He added, "They are expensive, but they are strong."  I asked how much they cost.  They were $4.50 - less than 50 cents per pill.