But no matter – the verdict was that I don’t need surgery, in the doctor’s opinion.  A hard cast for 2 weeks, followed by physical therapy, would be enough to restore full range of motion.  100% stability for my knee is, alas, a fiction – the ligaments are simply too worn at this point.  Perhaps if my kneecap strays again, reconstructive surgery will be necessary, but for the moment, exercise and safety are my closest allies.

Matt, version 3, here to stay for 2 more weeks.  I know it looks like I’m attempting a pose, but I’m actually trying to draw attention to the hard cast that now encases my leg.  Also, I’ve installed padding on my crutches, because it hurt to haul myself around by pressing my palms on hard, merciless plastic. Oh, and I’m wearing a Jet Set Zero T-shirt, but don’t let that think the shirt leads to crutches.

If you’re in Seoul and want to sign my cast, shoot me an email: Matt[at]jetsetzero.tv.  This sucker better not be bare white when they remove it in 2 weeks…

In the meantime, I got crutches to hobble around and my new cast lets me wear a shoe.  While I am mobile, I’m unbelievably slow, especially climbing and descending stairs.  My room is 4 floors from the street; the kitchen is 2 floors from my room.  I’m also skeptical that my crutches will fully support my weight for a long time – I am a little heavier than the average Korean.

The English support was definitely better but not enough that I felt completely comfortable.  It’s starting to approach that threshold between amusement and alarm.  I know these posts are long, so here’s a dialogue version of how today went down…

Me: Hi hospital, I’m sure glad you’re located at the top of a huge hill, now could you tell me where to go?

Hospital: *point* *point* *point* *point*

Me: Awesome…but I thought you were supposed to speak at least some English…

Doctor appears: Hello, I speak medical English.  Your knee has much effusion on medial side, we need to aspirate.  Remove splint.

Me: Does that mean my knee is swollen and you’re going to stick that needle into me again?

Doctor: Um…sure…*sticks needle into my knee, digs around, removes * Oops, looks like the blood is clotted and we can’t aspirate.

Me: That sounds kinda serious…will it go away naturally?

Doctor: What?

Me: Will the blood go away?  Be drained?  Get flushed out?  Is it dangerous?

Doctor: What?

Me: Will it heal naturally?

Doctor: Um…sure…here talk to my English-speaking nurse who will schedule an MRI to determine tissue rupture and medial structure.

Nurse: Nice to meet you.

Matt: Nice to meet you too.  So we’ll schedule an MRI to see how damaged my knee is?

Nurse: What?

Matt: Um…ok…I’ll follow you…

Nurse: MRI on Thursday, 9:30am – now let’s get another X-ray

X-ray people: Ok now bend your leg in this position

Matt: Um…I have a hard cast on and I can’t bend my leg

X-ray people and Nurse: * talk a lot in Korean *

X-ray people: Ok, all done, you can go *smile*

Matt: Um…ok…wait was that X-ray important?  Should I just take the cast off so we can get it done?

Nurse: Doctor said MRI more important and we skip X-ray since you already splint.

* opposite of confidence *

Matt: Ok, I’ll see you Thursday…wait, wasn’t the doctor supposed to give me some medication for swelling…er, “effusion?”

Nurse: Hmmm, they never told me.  Let me see and email you

No email has arrived

Despite the many miscommunications, I understood a fair amount of what they were trying to say, and I think I’ll be able to have someone that can serve as a translator on Tuesday morning.  The English-speaking support that was promised was better than on Sunday but not quite what I hoped for.  However, if I want to transfer to an international clinic, I need to get all of my medical records myself (which I suppose is theoretically possible, especially if I become fluent in Korean in the next couple days), and even then, they’ll probably repeat all the x-rays and MRI’s (which I’ll pay for again).  So for better or worse, I think I’m stuck with Korean University Hospital for now.

That’s weird.  I thought I was supposed to be in Tokyo… Ah well, let’s see where I am tomorrow!

Paradise or Prison?

Over a year ago, I remember reading Thurston Clarke’s book, Searching for Crusoe, about 13 of what the author determined to be the “last real islands” in the world. Since his name bore an eery resemblance to Thurston Howell, the well-to-do gadabout from “Gilligan’s Island”, I assumed he was an authority. The eleventh island he covered in the book was Phu Quoc, Vietnam, renowned for its beauty as well as the prison on it that was the former abode of VC POWs. The title of the chapter was “Frightening Islands”.

Our trip to Phu Quoc took a grueling 14 hours, despite being only 140 miles from Ho Chi Minh City. We took a taxi to a bus; the bus to another bus; that bus to the town of Rach Gía, where we took another bus to the port-town, Hon Chong, where we caught a ferry to the island. After that we took another, hour-long taxi ride to the hotel. That was Friday, 12am to 2pm.

On Saturday, there were no horns honking, or loudspeakers calling “Anyone want some cakes?” in Vietnamese. We woke to the soothing sounds of the Gulf of Thailand lapping against a porcelain beach, and the sight of a nectarine sunrise peaking through the thatched roofs of our bungalows. Except for Kevin and Bryan, our crew. They woke to the sound of the backhoe laying a septic tank next door. According to the Vietnamese government and their infinite wisdom, Phu Quoc will be the next Singapore. So instead of preserving the island’s natural beauty for tourism, they’re laying pipes and leveling ground. So we followed suit, and unleashed 400cc’s of rented motorbike fury on the jungle roads. We were lost the whole time, so we drove as fast as we could. We came across (in this order) a deserted coral-sand beach, a nest of angry hornets, dozens of dump trucks, and a big, weird dam down an empty and disused road in the jungle.

Our deserted beach on Phu Quoc.

The dam view of all of the dam jungle.

Sunday was the crowning moment of our weekend. We woke up mid-morning after a good old-fashioned (mini) beach bonfire Saturday night, and climbed into a one-hour taxi ride to the ferry dock, prepared for another 14 hours of travel. One problem: there was no ferry. Double-check the tickets. Yep, 12:30pm on Sunday, November 30th, 2008.

We took a walk to the nearest ticket-seller and found to our incredible dismay that we had been sold passes to a ferry that doesn’t exist. No ferries out, no ferries in, no buses, no helicopters, no submarines. We split up, Matt, Kevin and I refunded our ferry tickets while Brian and Bryan scrambled to the airport to find a flight out. As the last plane left the tarmac, we realized we’d been stranded. We had classes to teach, and the all-important Monday episode deadline. But, as it turns out, Phu Quoc was, and continues to be, an island prison.

The retro ticket counter.

The next day, we woke up at 5:30am skeptical of our chances, rushed via taxi to the airport and waited for standby tickets to Saigon. The first flight left at 7:30- one standby ticket- Matt left to catch an early class. The next flight, 8:30- two tickets- Brian and Bryan. Finally, after 2 days and 3 and a half hours of irritating the standby clerk, the final flight left Phu Quoc at 11:00, with me and Kevin aboard. Arriving in Saigon, we faced more disappointment, realizing that our misstep had placed us a week behind our production schedule, and episode-less for Monday.

So Thurston, I couldn’t believe before how such a lovely place could earn that chapter’s name, but now I know. I’ve come to realize that no matter how lovely a prison can be, at the end of the day, it’s still a prison.