Extreme January Weight Loss Program

Many a January start with plans to drink less, spend less and weigh less. I achieved all three, but not by design. I woke up New Year’s Day with intense stomach cramps and prolific diarrhoea. Convinced it would pass quickly, I stayed in bed, ate nothing and felt terrible.

I received a constant stream of visitors and offers of help, which was of course nice. But I was desperate to be left alone to sleep.

It didn’t pass quickly. It got worse. I’d been keen to avoid the spectacular queues and abundant health risks that a Brazilian public hospital affords its patients. However, by the second day I acceded to Sonia’s persistence. Her pharmacist friend ordered me to hospital, and contacted her doctor friend, to prioritise my case.

At the hospital, after a few words, I was seen promptly by a nurse, ahead of all the other patients. Soon after the doctor called my name (Machin, Mah-teens, Marcheen, Senhor Height, Senor Haichy). There were no available consulting rooms so I was consulted in the corridor, around patients holding their own IV drips, others lying on beds and a mentally displaced gentleman.

The doctor had that familiar arrogance where you get the impression you are the nerd at a great party, and he is stuck with you. Constant leg tapping; constant looking around at everything apart from you; long silences after you finish talking before he realises it’s his turn to talk; desperate searching of the subconscious memory to find whatever it is you just said so he can repeat it back to you to affirm his attention; and the next silence while he thinks of the next question he’s socially (in this case professionally) obliged to ask.

Once he ran out of questions/interest he walked off. Disappeared. For about 20 mins. He returned and took us into a rare available consultation room, and struggled to make notes while trying to recall our earlier conversation. As his conversation with Sonia revealed some mutual political friends his attention and service slowly improved.

The physical examination suggested appendicitis, and he referred me for IV and some tests. That was a challenge as there was no information and all the staff seemed thoroughly trained in arrogance and protection of any helpful information.

I was put on IV and carried the drip in my other hand to the X-Ray department, before moving to a temporary marquee-style structure where I would be staying. 55 beds. 2 toilets. One with a door, one without. A shower which seemed to be more a smoking room. No soap or handwash anywhere. An eclectic mix of patients. Plenty of flies, ants and spiders. I was impressed to have a bed, in a ward, rather than spending days sat in the corridor holding my own IV.

The attending doctors ignored my apparently inappropriate “hello”s and made it clear that there job was not to say hello, explain what they were doing, or explain the drugs they were injecting me with.

One nurse, Rogerio, did introduce himself as he started his nightshift, and it made all the difference. He was to follow his 12 hour night shift at this hospital with a 12 hour day shift at another hospital.

I had constant company from various well wishers, everybody concerned. Sonia’s friend, a physiotherapist at the hospital and who treated me 4 years ago, constantly popped in to check on me and was a delight, chasing the staff for news and to make sure I was treated well. By all accounts I had been, whether because I am white, a foreigner, or due to our contacts, who knows, but it left me grateful that I hadn’t received the standard service.

Officially patients are allowed one visitor. Rather like the speed limit, this is treated as a minimum, as most patients had a few visitors. The result was probably 100 people or more, plus the staff, on the ward. A cacophony of loud conversations, mobile phone video clips, ringtones each more annoying than the last, scraping chairs, coughing, shouting and crying.

Two overnight visitors next to me felt they could rest their feet on my bed. They then leant their chairs against my bed frame so I felt each frequent fidget. They disappeared and returned smelling of smoke. They talked as if they were not surrounded by people wanting to sleep.

On the other side was a motorcycle accident victim and his visiting wife. She was 19 years old and they had been married 5 years. I believe they had 2 children.

Rogerio came in the morning and struggled with an injection, then with swapping the drip, so swapped to my left arm. Gloves were put on and taken off with no apparent order. Coughs were stifled by coughing into the glove. In preparation for securing the drip Rogerio cut off strips and attached them to the IV pole. The pole that everyone carries to the toilet and back. The toilet which has no way of washing your hands. I began to imagine the amount of bacteria and infections lurking on the pole, and asked him to use clean tape, but this should be obvious.

Another nurse, Eldon, introduced himself and was superb, constantly checking on me, cheery, friendly, chatty, informative and helpful. After the ultrasound, around lunchtime another doctor confirmed gastroenteritis, prescription and discharge. No appendicitis, no surgery needed. Result.

At home I researched the condition and it appears antibiotics are not the standard course of treatment for gastroenteritis. I suspect I was prescribed them to deter any infection I may have picked up during my admission.

I soon recovered, and was back to normal within a few days. I was left with a heightened concern for hygiene, and the knowledge that it would be a constant struggle to avoid risky situations. Both arms were very painful from the IV and had to be raised constantly. The left arm was back to normal quickly, but my right arm still concerns me. I just don’t have faith in the public health system to make it worth seeing anyone about it.