Confessions of a Nomadic Hypochondriac, Part 2

Pain + anxiety + a sexy doctor = My happiest ending in Bangkok.

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Photo: pixabay

The general consensus was that I could be suffering from a kidney infection or, worst case scenario (gulp!), kidney stones (double gulp!).

“Damn Facebook!” I shouted to no one in particular as I decided that I would take a few days off from it.

Pain revisited

First, I convinced myself I had appendicitis. Then I remembered all that talk about kidney stones. Next to cross my mind were the various forms of cancer that originate in the abdominal area. Was I too young for pancreatic cancer? I hoped it wasn’t an abdominal aneurysm or some kind of intestinal malady.

Maybe it was early stage liver failure. Speaking of which, the only thing that made the fear and the pain go away were liver-compromising nights out at Frangipani and Market Place in Kuala Lumpur. Jack Daniels can cure pretty much anything, if only for one night. Then tomorrow comes.

Situation: Not Critical

I won’t bore with the details of my treatment over the course of three trips to BNH in the next three days except to say that I received low-cost care; fast, friendly, and efficient service; and a battery of tests (urinalysis, an ultrasound, and an EKG) that all came back normal.

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Eyes wide shut? Slide in… (Photo: Wikipedia)

Hello, darkness

“It’s sleepy time,” a too-cheerful-for-a-single-digit-hour nurse announced to me the next morning once I’d changed into a hospital gown and was about to enter the frigid room containing my scanning chamber.

The noise coming from the MRI machine sounded like the introduction to a song by The Strokes that kept getting interrupted by one of David Guetta’s deplorable techno beats.

Every time I tried to shut off my mind, the rock-n-techno symphony jarred me and kept me from my reverie. Just when I was about to squeeze the ball the earplugs guy had given me in case I needed assistance, it was over.

Thirty minutes later, Dr. Lorsuwansiri delivered the good news: The MRI was clean. My brain was in perfect working order. He suggested that I try to avoid stress, eat well, and continue to take the amitriptyline until I finished the prescribed supply of 10. If I didn’t die another day, it would have nothing to do with anything in my brain.

As I later told my concerned Facebook friends via a status update, I suspected from the start there was nothing in my head that wasn’t supposed to be there, except for the odd and occasional dirty thought. I had a feeling that for the next several days, a few of them might involve Dr. Lorsuwansiri and his healing hands, which, after two weeks of nearly non-stop pain, finally had given me more relief than any $10 hour-long Thai massage ever did.

Written by

Brother Son Husband Friend Loner Minimalist World Traveler. Author of “Is It True What They Say About Black Men?” and “Storms in Africa”

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