Lots of people get stitches at some point in their life… and now I am one them. Most people probably don’t wait until the first time they are in a country in which they do not speak the language AT ALL, but that’s how things went. Day two in Mozambique, I, with infinite grace, cracked my head open on the window in our hotel room while getting ready for bed, and ended up getting my very first stitches.
I panicked the moment it happened, and even more so when I took my hand from my head and saw the blood. Again more so when Vic suggested that I might need stitches. I’m not getting stitches, I thought stubbornly. I’m just not.
Thank God Vic kept his head. He remained so amazingly calm through the whole thing, and I’m fairly sure that was the only reason I didn’t totally fall to pieces. He called his PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer), who referred us to a clinic. When we got there, Vic translated everything (good thing he’s a health volunteer and knew all the right vocab!). I put up a bit of a fight when I realized they were planning to shave a part of my head before stitching me up. (It is somewhat humbling to know that I am vain enough so that in under those circumstances the thing I was most upset by was the thought of them shaving my hair…) The experience of needing to make medical decisions with such a language barrier was truly frightening, and I kept thinking what it must be like in the States for immigrants who need to go in to the emergency room… Those kinds of things are scary enough when you do understand what’s going on. Vic was great about making sure the doctor was really careful about everything and that I understood what they were going to do every step of the way. The doctor, for his part, was incredibly patient and really kind. He didn’t really speak English at all, but kept saying, “Pain? Pain? Sorry…” Peace Corps took care of payment and everything, and all we had to do was sign our names before leaving the clinic, so that made things pretty easy…
And within two hours of when I hit my head we were back at the hotel, and I had decided that the whole thing was hilarious. Not until then did Vic show the slightest symptom of being stressed, but once I started laughing, he took a deep breath and finally allowed his face to show some of the anxiety he’d been feeling.
The next day we went to see Vic’s PCMO. She took a look at my stitches, gave me a whole lot of things to keep it clean, some pain killers, and a stitches removal kit (yes, a stitches removal kit). About a week later, in between SCUBA lessons, Vic took my stitches out for me. And that was that. What a way to start a vacation, eh?
I panicked the moment it happened, and even more so when I took my hand from my head and saw the blood. Again more so when Vic suggested that I might need stitches. I’m not getting stitches, I thought stubbornly. I’m just not.
Thank God Vic kept his head. He remained so amazingly calm through the whole thing, and I’m fairly sure that was the only reason I didn’t totally fall to pieces. He called his PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer), who referred us to a clinic. When we got there, Vic translated everything (good thing he’s a health volunteer and knew all the right vocab!). I put up a bit of a fight when I realized they were planning to shave a part of my head before stitching me up. (It is somewhat humbling to know that I am vain enough so that in under those circumstances the thing I was most upset by was the thought of them shaving my hair…) The experience of needing to make medical decisions with such a language barrier was truly frightening, and I kept thinking what it must be like in the States for immigrants who need to go in to the emergency room… Those kinds of things are scary enough when you do understand what’s going on. Vic was great about making sure the doctor was really careful about everything and that I understood what they were going to do every step of the way. The doctor, for his part, was incredibly patient and really kind. He didn’t really speak English at all, but kept saying, “Pain? Pain? Sorry…” Peace Corps took care of payment and everything, and all we had to do was sign our names before leaving the clinic, so that made things pretty easy…
And within two hours of when I hit my head we were back at the hotel, and I had decided that the whole thing was hilarious. Not until then did Vic show the slightest symptom of being stressed, but once I started laughing, he took a deep breath and finally allowed his face to show some of the anxiety he’d been feeling.
The next day we went to see Vic’s PCMO. She took a look at my stitches, gave me a whole lot of things to keep it clean, some pain killers, and a stitches removal kit (yes, a stitches removal kit). About a week later, in between SCUBA lessons, Vic took my stitches out for me. And that was that. What a way to start a vacation, eh?
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