Surgery with a Story

So, I’m having surgery right now in a Palestinian ER, and I’m writing so I don’t have to look down at it. For at least the last fifteen years I’ve had an ingrown toenail on my big toe. I had surgery on my right big toe to correct this problem when I was in the fourth or fifth grade and I’m now finally having it on the other. It’s been a kind of “thorn in the flesh” for me as it has caused me regular pain for all these years. I’ve had a couple opportunities to have this surgery before but I’ve always backed out of I, nerves bearing their partial contribution. The nerves have certainly not disappeared today; it’s something about the surgery involving my nail and a toe, I’d rather have them cut open my stomach frankly. I’ve had a few shots in my foot now and I feel sick to my stomach. So why now, of all times, and why here, of all places? Well, that’s a question I’m asking myself right now actually. But here are the reasons I came to the hospital in the first place. Randomly enough, I’ve always thought I would enjoy rock climbing, but as long as I can remember wanting to, I’ve never really been able with this toe. One of the primary ministries Paidia is operating is a rock climbing wall that we built at one of the very few nice parks located down the road here in Beit Sahour. I’d love to be able to climb it with no pain. The second reason, probably equally little to do with the problem itself is that I seem to have a, possibly masochistic, affinity for rising to the challenges of my fears and accomplishing the most difficult things I can imagine; if not for purely psychological reasons, this is one of them.

What actually got me to lay down on this table probably has more to do with the hospital experience I had. Our secretary called to schedule an appointment for me, and after speaking with them she wrote down the times the doctors are available, no appointment needed. I went in on a Wednesday during the time the doctor was to be in, but as it turned out the dash between Monday and Thursday was meant to mean Monday or Thursday, not Monday through Thursday. In spite of this, before I could leave, or even sit down to wait, the receptionist told me I could just see the general practice physician, who promptly appeared in the doorway and without spending a moment waiting he invited me into his office. Being the only blonde haired person in the clinic I stuck out a bit (not that I mind the attention), so he asked me if I was a volunteer. I told him the work I was doing, how long I had been in the region, about our center, about the park. He told me that his house was right down the street from the park we are working on, and we talked for another ten minutes or so. He seemed in no rush, nothing like the hospital pace I’m used to. He took a look at it and said that they could do the surgery…that day, or whenever I wanted it, and that the surgeon gets in in about an hour. He told me that the surgery would cost 400 sheqels, or a little over $100, that I could pay however much I wanted whenever I was able to. He probably took notice of my surprise and explained to me that they aren’t concerned about the money, the doctors were there to help regardless of the money. I told him I should probably check with my boss to see when I should get it done. After using the phone at the reception desk I returned to his office where the doctor pulled a framed photo from his drawer. He told me it was a picture of his house, and turned it toward me. The picture showed a heap of rubble. He explained that Israeli tanks destroyed it in the last Intifada and pointed to a sole window in one corner of the building that remained standing, he said “that was my bedroom.” He told me that he and his family made it out alive and fled, and that they returned and rebuilt their home where it was. Sometimes I need reminding that so many people here have these remarkable stories. It's not terrorists and fanatics that are the victims, but the average family man, doing the best he can to help his community.

After we finished talking I went to the waiting room to wait for the surgeon who I met shortly after. He suggested, to my relief, that I wait a few days for the surgery. Not that they wouldn’t do it right then and there, but because he felt I should take a round of antibiotics first. A few days passed and here I am. The price and speed at which this whole process has gone have left me little excuse to go through with it, though I admit I am concerned about the results. Pictures to come…