The Vacation (June 2007)

Disclaimer: The following story is a work of creative non-fiction. All of the events are as true as I remember them to be, but some creative license has been allowed as pertaining to the timeline, people involved, and some conversations. Names and certain minor details have been changed or disguised to protect privacy.

Hong Kong? Tokyo. Maybe. Ah - Mongolia by horse trek. Tibet. The more exotic, the better. Get me out of here!

I cautiously sipped my coffee as I screened through the vast internet of possibilities. My stomach had been grumbly all night, and the coffee wasn't helping. This vacation was long overdue. What to do with two and a half weeks of vacation?

Urghhhh. The coffee fought back. OK, maybe the coffee was a bad idea, all things considered. I put on my sandals, and went out the door.

Byeongjeom has never offered much in the way of entertainment for non-hookers or young people, but, as I reasoned it, it was better than staying indoors. I strolled under the public bathroom (which most people might call a freeway overpass), past all of the anmas (low-class brothels), and through the veritable gauntlet of boshintang joints (boiled dog meat - for virility). I noticed that one of the anmas has its doors open in broad daylight. I peered inside. The small room is divided by cheerfully-patterned curtained alcoves, much like a hospital room might be divided "for privacy." Must be airing the place out, I thought to myself. The green-haired hostess saw me staring, so I hurried past.

I stopped at the Family Mart on the corner to buy milk. For some reason, the thought of drinking milk seemed mildly repulsive at that moment, but I needed it for my cereal in the morning. I purchased the milk, queasily trying not to think about its taste or smell. My energy and enthusiasm for shopping suddenly evaporating, I returned to my apartment. I turned on the A/C, and lay down on my bed.

Five hours later, I woke up. I had missed lunch completely, but somehow I wasn't hungry. In fact, my stomach felt very queer. I pulled a package of mandu (vegetable and pork filled dumplings) and put on a pot of water. When it was boiling nicely, I added the mandu. I ate about four pieces of boiled mandu when the queer feeling in my stomach finally evolved into full-blown nausea.

I am a person who would rather die than throw up - to me, it is a matter of dignity and self-respect. To vomit means to lose the battle; I was this way as a child, and I will be this way until I die. Send me a sinus infection, pneumonia, a head cold, or any other annoying disease you want - I can take it. But mess with my stomach, and I am knocked to the ground.

I held it in for as long as I could, but it would not be denied. Sweat poured into my eyes as I grimly held on to my dignity. Then, my abdomen began cramping. Food poisoning? I wondered, as I dashed to the bathroom. Both the cramping and heaving were uncontrollable; I did not know whether to sit or crouch over the rim of the toilet. Somehow, I managed to avoid making a mess. After it was over, I lay curled up like a fetus on the floor, my arms wrapped firmly around my stomach. I had never been so miserable in my life.

For three more days, green bile continued to spew out of my body in any and every way it could. I did not eat, but I did keep myself hydrated as much as possible. Each day I trudged down to the Family Mart to buy a 2 liter bottle of Pocari Sweat (a sports drink), and I forced myself to drink at least one bottle a day. I had learned this trick from a bout with bronchitis; neither the local doctor or his nurse had been unable to find a usable vein to give me liquids through an I.V. (a genetic inheritance from my mother), so he had prescribed two full bottles of Gatorade per day to keep me from getting too dehydrated.

On the third day of illness, I decided it was time to see my doctor. I hailed a taxi, and spent the next half hour in agony as the taxi driver hit every pothole, and there are many, on the way to Bongdam-eup.

I sat in the waiting room for about five minutes before the waves of nausea became uncontrollable. Just as the doctor came out to call my name, I held up a cautionary hand, grimaced, and dashed for the squatter bathroom down the hall just outside the clinic (which had no toilet).

If there is anything more miserable than vomiting over a Korean squatter toilet, I don't know what it is. A squatter is basically a porcelain-lined hole in the ground, and if one doesn't quite have the knack for squatting while doing his or her business, one can end up with quite a nasty dunk into everyone else's filth. Given the state of this rural squatter, it was clear that cleanliness was NOT next to Godliness in this particular building, at least as far as bathrooms were concerned.

After the waves of green slime subsided, I returned to the doctor's office.

"Oh, you look bad, " the perky nurse tcchhed sympathetically as she escorted me in.

Dr. H. was one of the few English-speaking doctors in Hwaseong-si, and he had a very mild-mannered demeanor that instantly put his patients at ease; nothing seemed to ruffle him. He seemed a little puzzled over the green bile issue, and never quite gave me a firm diagnosis except to say it was probably not food poisoning. As a precaution, he prescribed a round of antibiotics, and asked me to check in with him often until my symptoms improved.

For the next two weeks, I periodically returned to the doctor's clinic. Sometimes I just checked in, but occasionally, he gave me an IV of fluids as well. My symptoms gradually improved, but I never quite fully recovered. Whatever "it" was had gotten a hold on my system and did not want to let it go.

Three days before I was scheduled to work full-time at our university's summer camp, I began to eat limited amounts of solid food. I had ceased the vomiting and diarrhea, but my stomach seemed to retain a sense of unease.

As it turned out, this was all part of the calm before the storm.