If there was a Guinness World Record for the most hospitals visited abroad, I'd surely win it. Peru, Mexico, Thailand, Morocco, and now Vietnam. If you pick a country I've been to, I can probably detail an exciting trip to the ER.
So, what could have happened in the last two weeks that landed me on the operating table in Ho Chi Minh City? I broke my arm.
Well, not recently. A few months ago, I was zooming down the street on a motorized vehicle of sorts. Suddenly, I was crawling to a patch of grass on the sidewalk, covered in dirt and red blood cells that were once in my body.
It didn't hurt. I'd probably equate it to the pain of a stubbed toe. But when I tried to move it, it felt like I was dragging an anchor through my bone marrow.
Fast forward through surgery, rehab, and two months of skeptical healing, and I was cleared for my trip to Asia. About two weeks into the trip, on my 8th plate of Pad Thai, my scar started to look a bit questionable. I waited a day, flew to Vietnam, and by day 3, it was clear I needed to go to the doctor. The next morning, I went in for a consult and got scheduled for surgery the next day. Damn.
If you've never gone through it, any type of surgery can be stressful. You get put under anesthesia, then your retinas are obliterated by the stark white hospital lights, and finally, you wake up with zero memory of anything. Add to that being alone in a different country with different health protocols, stolen bank cards, and a language barrier. It was ripe for panic. Anyway, I fell asleep and woke up at 7 a.m. the next day to the bone-chilling iPhone alarm.
"You can get some pho after", I thought to myself as I reluctantly hit confirm on my Uber. There was no turning back.
I got told I look like a model
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