How to Go to Hospital in Style

I’ve heard people complain that the Montreal - Toronto route is too long a haul for a weekend visit. It's not a complaint that I will be making again. Mae Sot, the town where I rent a house and spend most of my week, is an 8 hour bus ride from metropolitan Bangkok. There are no trains and flights were recently cancelled (due to sketchy safety concerns about the airline's planes.) A weekend trip to Bangkok usually involves at least one overnight bus. For 365baht, you can take the "first class" ride, with air conditioning and somewhat comfortable seating. For 565 baht, you can have a VIP bus. Both provide the traveler with cheap snacks, a dark frigid environment, occasional movies or karaoke opportunities (just what you want at 3am) and the requisite midway stop for food. On the VIP bus, you are provided with a food coupon which you must use (the bus attendants insist on waking you up to get it and will drop food on your lap if you insist on sleeping through the noisy, bright, commercial encounter. Typically you leave Mae Sot somewhere between 9 and 10pm and arrive in Bangkok anywhere between 4 and 6am.

There are a large number of busses coming into the station at that early hour. The bus stops and everyone piles off, collecting bags and dispersing in a hurry. Before you can even blink your crusty, sleepy eyes, the bus has pulled away and is gone, leaving you surrounded by touts prodding you and shouting, "Taxi? Tuk-tuk? Taxi? Where you go?"

My parner in crime, coworker and traveling companion, Brooke, and I have perfected the art of Bangkok hotels, checking in at the earliest possible hour and enjoying two full nights of sleep for the usual price of one. At 5am, we were nearing our hotel.

The taxi turned at the last minute off of the busy thouroughfare into a dark, unpromising looking alleyway of high walls and locked gates. Brooke spotted the sign up ahead, "Opera Hotel."

“That must be it,” she said, peering through a gate into the spacious car park, gleaming glass doors to a lobby with a fountain in it.

“Here,” said the cab driver, pulling into the parking lot opposite. Although it was a decent place, it certainly lacked the glass fronted lobby and the cool cascading fountains. We walked into the lobby and I started giggling manically, a likely reaction when I have very little sleep.

In the lobby of the hotel was a body wrapped in a white sheet laid out over three chairs. About five policemen were sitting around talking and looking serious. One seemed to be writing something down and on his way out. Brooke seemed unconcerned and walked up to the front desk to begin checking in. When I could control my laughter, I whispered to her, “Brooke, we’re checking into a hotel with a dead guy!”

Brooke looked up startled from filling in the paperwork. She stared at the porter who was slumped fast asleep propped up in the corner behind the desk. “Really? How can you tell?”

“Not him! Look behind you. There’s a body covered in a white sheet and the place is swarming with cops!”

“Don’t worry about that,” she said, “this place is always full of cops. They like to hang out here for some reason.” And she went back to filling in her paperwork.

Sure enough, when I glanced over again soon after, the “corpse” had changed positions and put his leg up. The presence of the police remained a mystery to us all, however, and, sure enough, they hung out in the lobby the entire time that we were there, sleeping, relaxing and chatting.

The purpose of my visit to Bangkok this time around was to visit a diabetes clinic at a private hospital I had found on the internet, have blood tests done and attend an appointment I had made there with an endocrinologist (a doctor specializing in, among other things, diabetes.)

I am a Canadian and when I am in Canada, I usually get excellent health care. I have to make appointments months in advance, of course, but it’s usually all paid for and I usually get quality care. The hospital where I see the doctor may be dingy, and the lab isn’t exactly speedy, but the job gets done. I’m not sure what the exact costs are, particularly of the blood tests. I know that an appointment with the endocrinologist gets billed at $90 and could last anywhere from five minutes to fifty.

Nothing in my health care history had prepared me for the experience of the private hospital.

Entering the lobby is like entering the lobby of a major international hotel. It was full of light flooding down from plate glass windows. There were artificial trees and plants and plenty of comfortable sofas, carefully arranged in cosy groupings. There was a Starbucks tucked away in a corner and an information desk directly in front of the doors, staffed with beautifully uniformed, immaculate woman eager to greet and direct those who entered. The uniform of most of the staff was silvery gray, more suited to a first class flight attendant or hotel manager than a hospital.

I took the escalators to the third floor, passing an extensive food court with a McDonalds, a French bakery, a Japaese sushi restaurant and an Italian restaurant as well as a Thai buffet. At the registration desk, I merely had to present my passport and fill in a simple, one page form. I was directed by to the area of the hospital that housed the diabetes clinic.

At the front counter, I was directed to station 6 where a nurse checked my temperature, height, weight and blood pressure and screened me for flu symptoms. Then I was ushered over to station 7 where I had only five minutes to wait before it was my turn to see the doctor. We discussed briefly my history and the tests I wanted done and I was referred to station 5. At station 5, they took my blood and directed me to the x-ray lab. The shirt I had to wear while getting a chest x-ray was so fashionable and fit me so well that I considered slipping it in my bag. I waited less than five minutes for my x-ray and was told to go back to station 7 in two hours for the full results of all my tests.

Results for my Complete Blood Count, a simple test to look at the composition of your blood, were not complete in two hours in Calgary, even when they were marked “stat” and the balance of my fate was resting on them.

Two hours were wiled quickly away. I started off by treating myself to pastries and a latte at the bakery, curling up in a big comfy sofa and reading my book for awhile. I watched people go by. Everyone I saw was well dressed and had an air of confidence. They must hide the really sick people away, I thought. I took a short walk in the neighborhood to explore and came back fifteen minutes early to take my seat in the waiting room. “Ms. Jones?” Before I had even sat down, the doctor was ready.

I had been able to read most of the doctor’s profiles online when I researched the hospital. The majority of them had received training in the United States. Although clearly competent and very patient and knowledgeable, I was this doctor’s first diabetes patient with an insulin pump, not very surprising considering their cost. I also live a fairly unique lifestyle: I’m not sure what kind of doctor would be qualified to give me advice on adapting my diabetes needs to refugee camp life. But he took the time to answer all of my questions, go over my blood test results in detail and I left feeling fully satisfied.

An important feeling, I might add, when the nurse presents you with a barcode and number and refers you to the billing station. When they called my bill number, I was presented with an invoice for over 8000baht, or about $200.

I left the hospital feeling immensely relieved. I think if you smile at a doctor in America, it will cost you that much and my organization’s health insurance policy was picking up the bill for me (this time).

Brooke was in Bangkok anticipating a similarly painful appointment although hers was with the dentist. She feared a major cavity requiring all kinds of oral surgery fun. I left my appointment to meet her and was surprised to encounter her leaving the dental clinic just as I pulled up outside it, not with a line of drool hanging from her lips, but with a radiant smile.

Healthy and happy, we celebrated with an indulgent two hour long Thai massage in a lovely spa that was dark and cool and delightfully calm. From there we took ourselves to a sushi dinner and a little shopping excursion. Since we both anticipated disaster and escaped unscathed, we were determined to celebrate, feeling fabulously light hearted and glad to be away from Mae Sot and all the reminders of work. I somehow managed to forget my pressing “to do” list all weekend.

Sunday morning, we had breakfast in the hotel diner, sipping instant coffee in a vinyl booth and eating eggs and bacon. It all seemed deceptively un-Thai. But then we headed to the northern end of town, near the bus station to where there is one of the largest markets in Thailand: Chatuchak weekend market.

We spent the whole morning there amidst the crowded stalls and dark alleyways shopping for Christmas presents, bargaining with shopkeepers and weaving our way through the piles of goods and hordes of people that descend on the place over the weekend. The whole time my mind was occupied with the people I know, their tastes and desires, and the challenge of finding things that fit both their proclivities and light airmail envelopes. All the while, I knew that miles and miles away people I loved were doing exactly the same and where I was sweaty and hot, they were puffing their way through the cold, snowy streets, their minds occupied with the same thoughts.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end and soon, our feet were exhausted, my wallet was empty and it was time to grab the bus back to Mae Sot. For reasons I have yet to deciepher, VIPs and First Class people seem not to travel in the day. Or, if they do, they must condescend to travel second class, because those are the only busses available to Mae Sot during the day. The second class bus has no air conditioner, narrow seats and nothing at all to recommend it. It’s usually quite slow and tedious, with the sun pouring in through gaps in the curtains making you sweat and stick to the dull brown seats. But however I might complain, it gets the job done and takes me home.

I unlocked my front door at 10:30pm Sunday night to greet the devastation left to me by Frankie Baby – the kitten that (thanks to Brooke) has a name and (thanks to a stable diet) has energy to burn wreaking havoc in my house. Welcome home.