The glory of denial

I'm walking home from work the other day and this all-too-familiar pain is radiating down my legs, my right leg this time, down to my toes. I breathe into it and keep on walking... convinced if I ignore it, the pain will eventually go away. But ignoring it I can no longer do. I have actually tried to get this problem sorted in two different countries so far: the good ol' USofA and Poland. Pelvic inflammation – ah yes, nothing like the throbbing, radiating pain of an inflamed uterus, ovaries and cervix to add to the adventure of life. Antibiotics are apparently our friend, but sometimes they aren't always strong enough... sometimes we need Ukrainian-vodka strength antibiotics to really kick a problem in the ass.
Nevertheless, I enjoy learning these lessons the hard way and as I am keeled over in unbearable pain, I realize, it's time for that dreaded doctor visit I have been putting off since the last day of my Polish antibiotics, when the pain began to creep, un-welcomed back into my life. So I made a few inquisitions into English speaking gynos... called, made some sort of loose appointment – and with a vague idea of where I was headed, I took off early Thursday morning on my bicycle (well actually my flatmate's as mine was in the shop – long story). Surprisingly, it took me 10 minutes to reach the clinic I was told was the correct place to go. Wow, with 20 minutes to kill, impressive. With the name of my doctor clasped in my nervous hands, I walk into the clinic, only to enter into strikingly confusing mayhem. There are old, traditional, headscarf cladden Turks everywhere; waiting in hallways, crowded outside doors - my panic receptors spike and I have a strong urge to flee. Fuck the pain that is radiating throughout my body, I want outta here!
I am being watched curiously by the waiting patients, I can see their wonderment at my presence in this little clinic. I have no idea where to go, so with my minimal Turkish I approach a random desk and point to the name of the doctor that is written in my planner. Happily, a look of understanding appears on the young woman's face and she manages to communicate to me that my doctor is working at the hospital today. A wave of comfort flows through me at the word 'hospital' and I ask where 'said' hospital may be. She hands me a pamphlet with an address and points across the street, and I think she says something about taking a green bus.

I scurry across the street and wait... no green bus. I ask every bus driver that comes by; “bu gidimiyorsun?”, and point to the address on the pamphlet. “Yok” is all I understand of the responses. REALLY? Nobody goes there? “For Christ's Sake!” I frustratingly let blurt out of my pomegranate lip-balmed lips. Bike it is then... I WILL see a doctor today, if it is the last thing I do.

Having received a fully functioning 3G Kindle for Christmas from my father, I google the address and examine the streets that will hopefully lead me to the allusive address. Where AM I? Is this map to scale? Gazi Boulevard seems to be my destination point – so I jump back on the bike and peddle North? Or West? Who knows... But it doesn't really matter, as I eventually found my way – and like a beckon of radiant heavenly bliss, there it stood.... the 'hospital' (clinic) I had been searching for. To my happy amazement, as soon as I walked in, a lovely young woman approached me and asked me how she could help me. I smiled brightly and told her the name of the doctor I had come to see. Ah, English she speaketh. :-) She led me to the office and a shocking hue of died burgundy, pink hair greeted me and invited me in. I had a seat and sweaty from the bike ride, guzzled down a bottle of water I had picked up along the way and began my lengthy explanation of why I was sitting in her office. She listened with brief interruptions and I prayed she understood what I was talking about... she had me go into the next room – I looked around the small, stained examination room, the chair fully equipped with stirrups and a bowl of what looked like iodine or the wax used at the salon for all that unwanted, pesky hair... the gooey liquid had dripped down and left splashes on the floor, next to a bucket of used 'tongs', waiting to be disinfected. Ok, I calming reassured myself as she demanded I take off my pants... remember, you are used to America's unnecessary obsession for all things 'sterile'... I am sure this is perfectly sanitary and totally ok.... Breathe deeply my nerve-wrecked girl, all will be fine. She quickly examined me and handed me an impressive list of antibiotics... “take these for seven days and come back in a week”... I can't argue, and take the list and head to the pharmacy (ezcane) that I am directed to. Three men approach me as I walk into the bustling pharmacy and hand them my prescription. “Türkçe konuşuyoruz?” (Speak Turkish?) “Yok”.... I say in return. They grab my vast array of little white boxes off the shelves and begin to draw pictures on them of when I should take them... a moon for night and a sun for morning. I don't have the heart to tell them that yes, in fact I DO know these words... their drawings are so thoughtful and kind. They package up my medication and send me off on my way. Back on my bike, I cycle home, and thirty minutes later, collapse into my warm bed, too exhausted to do anything else but sleep...