Chicken bones

Who knew that a little chicken bone might eclipse the excitement of pulling off what Wu Dan insists was China's first writing-across-the-curriculum conference. Wu Dan had come to Beibei from Xi'an to help me facilitate what was to be a bilingual workshop for several dozen folks (our maximum capacity), some coming from as faraway as Beijing and Hainan. We were relieved to have it behind us, winding down at a little outdoor cafe when Wu Dan introduced me to a dish I'd never had before and will never have again--Xinjiang Da Pan Ji--meaning "Xinjiang big dish chicken." Don't misunderstand--I love food from Xinjiang and this was delicious--but never again will I risk eating little bits of chicken with even littler bits of bone hidden inside.

Xinjiang Da Pan Ji (photo credit way below)

As soon as I realized something wasn't going down, I excused myself in search of an out-of-the-way trash can where I could spit. But I couldn't really spit--instead half gagged, half coughed until I nearly wet my pants, with volumes of glue-like spit swinging from my fingertips. As I tried to dodge the crowd on my way back to Wu Dan, I was approached by "Daisy" and her sister, two kind women I have bumped into on repeated occasions. They magically produced some tissue for me to use, but I couldn't speak to thank them. Back in my apartment, things calmed down a bit--eventually I could talk, had stopped coughing up volumes of that viscous stuff and could even take about half an ml of water. Wu Dan and I thought it safe to skip ER and see if the damned thing would resolve itself by morning.

It didn't. I shooed Wu Dan on her way, her early morning flight to Xi'an, and called the Peace Corps medical staff in Chengdu. Beat it to the ER, they advised. So, at Gate 2 of the university I met my dear friend Xiaodan who accompanied me to not one but three hospitals before the day was done, each one a little better than the previous one, all packed with people squeezing into examination rooms whether it was their turn or not.

Although I could swallow a drop or two of water successfully before I went to bed the night before, that was no longer the case. I couldn't swallow my own saliva--let alone anything to eat or drink--and surreptitiously spit into a steel water bottle every other minute, dumping it whenever I found a good bush. What had been mid-throat now seemed to have lodged near the base of my throat, too low for the ENT at the first hospital to see and too high for the gastroenterologist to do an endoscopy, he said. Nonsense, said the Chinese Peace Corps doctors who were monitoring things by phone. Ditch that place and go to Southwest Hospital in Chongqing.

An hour or two later, Xiaodan and I found ourselves in a labyrinth of gigantic buildings--a massive hospital complex with beautiful outdoor courtyards and fountains and impressive statues inside. We zigzagged back and forth, following different folks' directions, before we finally found the ER, where blue capped nurses doubled as receptionists, both taking your blood pressure and checking your passports at the check-in counter. Less dingy than the last hospital, this one was just as packed. People, some with big baskets of vegetables on their backs, squeezed into elevators--sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, twenty people--creating shouts of dismay from people in the back.

The ENT department was in a clean, spacious area, and we found the ENT surfing the web in a room like a college computer lab. He directed us to another office--high ceiling-ed and mostly empty except for a little desk, an examination chair and a doctor. The round mirror strapped to the second doctor's forehead reflected bright light down my throat but, alas, he could see nothing. That meant we needed an endoscopy, but, that would be impossible before the next day. The first doctor was solicitous but waited patiently while we consulted our Peace Corps doctors. Given that they would fly to Chongqing to be with me unless I came to Chengdu, where they were, I hoofed it to the train station where I found myself standing behind a humpback about 4 and a half feet tall. When someone tried to cut in front of him, the woman behind me started a row that drew in about half a dozen voices before things calmed down. I booked the next train to Chengdu, enjoying a beautiful two hour journey through western China's terraced mountains, listening to my seatmate drown out the children's songs on the other side of him with an English movie that he put on pause and replayed every few lines, sometimes repeating a turn of conversation ten times before moving on.

The Peace Corps staff was out in full order awaiting my arrival. When I stepped from the train onto the platform, Cheng Dang called to say he was waiting for me, and indeed by the time I got to the bottom of the stairs, there he was. He sped me to what is perhaps the best hospital in southwest China, where Dr. Gao pulled up on her bicycle and Dr. Bing was waiting inside--along with half of China, some in their pajamas. Every hall was teaming with people, many from far flung areas.

Even after living in China for almost 22 months, I still find myself amazed by the scale of everything. The sheer number of people. An ordinary day in a Chinese hospital is like December 23rd in a big-city department store in the US. You simply can't see the floor.

Hospital gurneys with patients in waiting, many in colorful ethnic clothing, were surrounded by family members--extended families, it seemed--many of whom went freely in and out of nearby conference rooms where other patients were being seen. So it was in the IV room where I spent the night along with two dozen others, most snugly tucked in under colorful blankets from home. Having not even a toothbrush, let alone a blanket, I was ready to just chill in every respect, but Dr. Gao noticed, pedaled home, and returned to cover me. Husbands patiently washed wives' foreheads, daughters repositioned fathers--one even changed the man's underpants. The teenager seated next to me seemed to be dying of pneumonia, his lungs rattling when he wasn't spitting into our little shared wastebasket. His sister changed his socks, his brother with long hair neatly held back with a headband looked on solicitously, and his father tended him all night. If I actually snoozed off for a few minutes, I'd awake to see his father staring at me with gentle curiosity, softer than the stares I get all day long on the street.

The Peace Corps medical staff had to wait in the hall but they checked on me regularly, and both doctors were there in the morning to accompany me to another building. Plan A was to have an ENT slither an endoscope down my throat to get those bones hiding down at the base; Plan B was general anesthesia and surgery. I was ushered into a room where the last patient was still collecting his things and was placed on my side on a table. Staring at cutting edge imaging machines, the specialist skillfully guided the thing down my throat (no anesthesia), roaming around while I tried not to gag. Ah! She got a piece and tried to withdraw it. Four more times. The end of her scope had a bright light doubling as camera and she shot pictures of our four prizes inches away from my drooling mouth. No need for Plan B, although I'd still have to hang out in Chengdu at Peace Corps headquarters until my throat was healed enough to take liquids and a tiny bit of soft food. I revisited old haunts on Sichuan University campus, where Peace Corps China headquarters is, and read up on things in the library, having nothing with me from home, certainly not a laptop.

I have had phenomenal medical care my whole life, but the China Peace Corps medical staff is just the tops. Smart. Humane. Pro-active. Spunky. Up to date. They're amazing. Thanks, Drs. Gao and Bing--Kandice and others. Li Li.

Well, my reputation for hospitality is at a low ebb. My sister Mary learned that if you go to China to visit me, you might end up spending half the time at the police station; my friend Wu Dan learned that a visit here isn't complete without lots of spit and chicken bones.


PS I know a surgeon and a nurse anesthetist at home I can't wait to see!

Xinjiang Da Pan Ji photo credit: https://www.google.com/search?q=da+pan+ji&client=firefox-a&hs=YlW&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&channel=sb&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=RPpxU8zfNtG1yAT5n4Ag&ved=0CDQQsAQ&biw=1188&bih=648#facrc=_&imgdii=_&imgrc=bR9wz9QiDh3G7M%253A%3BScz7xOp2yViQJM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fdevelopingcityblog.files.wordpress.com%252F2013%252F02%252Fxinjiang-da-pan-ji.png%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fdevelopingcity.net%252F2013%252F02%252F17%252Fbest-xinjiang-food-in-shanghai-2%252F%3B701%3B396