Previously, on The Gregarious Impala

Let's pretend my blog is a TV series you've missed the last few episodes of, and this is that montage at the beginning of the show that catches you up. For best results, read with a dramatic announcer's voice:

Setting: doctor's office. "Jessie, you have the mumps and must stay in quarantine for an additional seven days after you become asymptomatic." (girl, distraught, is frustrated by this news but accepts it as necessary)
Setting: a very small apartment, stir-crazy girl lying in bed reading email off her laptop. "Would you like to spend a few days with us across town to break the monotony of your isolation? You won't be able to come with us to Thanksgiving dinner, but we'll bring a plate back for you. We used to live in Los Alamos and have a significant stockpile of chile to share."
Setting: Baptist missionary housing across town. Veteran missionary couple and new girl at table, sharing red chile enchiladas. "Glad you're doing better." "Me too- thanks so much for inviting me! Hopefully yesterday was the first and last Thanksgiving dinner I'll ever eat alone..."
Setting: upstairs of same house the next day. "Do you have any ibuprofen? I'm not feeling so great."
Setting: back in the very small apartment, next door neighbor/nurse visiting. "Well, if you're feeling worse, we should probably go see the doctor tomorrow. Never fear. If he wants to admit you, I'll talk him out of it."

And now, onto this exciting episode of The Gregarious Impala. Events occur in African time (in other words, painfully slowly to the American mind).
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So yes, the doctor examined me, confirmed complications from the mumps, and wanted to admit me. And, as promised, Jane talked him out of it. At least until my fever spiked in the waiting room and I fainted on her while moving from the couch to a wheelchair. Then she talked me into it.

So pretty soon I was on IV fluids and major painkillers, awaiting ultrasounds on my upper and lower abdomen. There were lots of great things about this hospital- big, private rooms, cable TV, great food. And, since Kenya is so British, it was essential that I "take tea" at 10 and 4 each day: delicious Earl Gray, hot milk, and some sort of biscuit (cookie), all brought on a silver tray to my hospital bed. I ordered each meal off an extensive menu- 5 vegetarian dishes, 5
chicken, 5 beef, 5 fish, fresh-squeezed tropical juices, a variety of desserts, and of course soup. Apparently soup is key. I don't particularly love soup, so at first I didn't order it. But the man in the coat and tie who served my meals would ask multiple times, "And what kind of soup would you like?" I can pick up on cultural necessities eventually; I recognized it was important for me to order soup. I still don't know quite why, but my "waiters" were much more at ease once I chose a soup. And as it turned out, the soups were quite tasty. There was quite an emphasis on making patients comfortable- they had vases for the flowers people brought, they replaced the batteries on my remote more than once (I didn't think they were low, but what do I know?), and, unlike hospitals in the States, no one pestered me to take my vitals...

Honestly, I experienced a pretty strong wave of culture shock while in the hospital. This makes sense in some ways- it was my first extended interaction with a Kenyan institution. Now, every hospital has its problems with communication and getting everything done at the right time, but when tests had to be put off because no one had told me I couldn't eat beforehand, or when I didn't see or hear from my doctor for a couple of days, or when nurses forgot to give me my medicine, I had a hard time being FLEXIBLE! And of course, any small measure of cultural sensitivity I possessed was pretty well buried under physical discomfort, loneliness, extreme homesickness, and anxiety about how this would all turn out. I wish I could say I had peace, I trusted God, I just went with whatever happened. But it isn't true. I was frustrated with what I saw as lack of efficiency and competence, and I even snapped at a nurse once. I feel terrible.

Being in the hospital is much more common here than in the US. It seems like they admit you in the States only if you're at death's door. Here, they admitted me for rest and for pain control. There, your diet is carefully regulated and what you do and don't eat is noted. Here, they still brought 5 packets of sugar with my tea though my doctor was concerned about diabetes brought on by pancreas damage from the virus. No one knew if I was awake or asleep all night- no one ever opened my door. I could never tell if the question "How was your night?" was just a translation of the Swahili greeting (to which the only answer is "good") or if they really wanted to know. Diagnostic tests can wait- go ahead and finish talking on your cell phone. They wanted me to be happy; I wish they were a little more concerned about me being healthy.

So to summarize the medical stuff, my final diagnosis was "mumps with bilateral oophritis." (Look it up if you really want to know, but you probably don't). My blood sugar came back down, cysts they had seen on ultrasound weren't visible the next day, and my pain decreased significantly. They had been considering exploratory surgery if the swelling didn't go down, but it did, and so they sent me home. I believe all of that to be the result of prayer on my behalf, so thanks for praying.

I am no longer contagious, but in some ways I feel worse than I did a week and a half ago- I still have some abdominal pain, and my energy is low. I went to school for the first 2 periods this morning, and that knocked me out for the rest of the day. It's a balancing act- if I do too much, I hurt and I don't get better. If I do too little, my energy stays low and I feel like I'll never be able to live my normal life. I have a bit more compassion for my mom's daily challenges of figuring out what she can and can't do. We'll be quite the pair at Christmastime...

But ultimately, I think I am getting better. God answered many prayers of my church in Los Alamos and my coworkers here. Many serious complications were ruled out, and the others we just have to wait and pray some more about. And while I was in the hospital, I felt very loved: I got lots of flowers- from friends in America, from other teachers, and from parents I work with here. I had about 20 visitors at different times, and my kids made banners and cards that made me smile. And finally, I'm incredibly grateful I'm planning to be with my mom and dad over the holiday break; it was hard on us to be apart during all this uncertainty.

So I'm home (and my apartment doesn't feel nearly as small compared to my hospital room), I'm able to be with people, and I'm trying to restart life as normal.

Hopefully the next few weeks won't be nearly as exciting.