Entry Wounds. Episode 14: Man Bites Dog, God Bites Man, Nam Eats Man

Welcome,
Merry Xmas to all you boys and girls fortunate enough to live in a C@pitali$t… oops I mean, Chrstian country. Santa seems reluctant to land in this C0mmunst hovel, in fact its probably only North K0re@ and the Midd1e 3ast that keeps Nam off the bottom of his to-do list. I was in Lao on Xmas day, and on a Thai island for New Years, consequently, I have plenty to write about but as yet haven’t had a chance to collate my thoughts and hit paper with pen. Thus; YOU WILL WAIT PATIENTLY!
CAUTION:
The following episode has been laying idle in my notebook since early October, and only this week did I get a chance to make it digital. As a forewarning; those of you sensitive to changes in your temporal perception, or with an obsessive-compulsive tendency to have events occurring in their correct chronological order, the following episode may be confusing and disturbing. I have two recommendations for you; a) smoke weed then read b) read each section in chronological order via the time markings.
For the rest of us, just read it as it is. It’s more exciting that way.


Me I: Friday - Midnight

I’m burning! I’m burning alive! My flesh is rejecting my body!

I have a fever-induced delirium, I’m exhausted from fighting the mystery infection, but I can’t escape into sleep on account of the agony erupting from beneath my skin.
I stumble to the bathroom and turn on the light. I recoil in horror, my brow has grown lumpy and small liquid filled blisters are forming near my hairline.
‘What is this?’
‘What the hell is happening to me?’
I fill the basin with cold water and plunge my head into it. My temperature is extreme and I have to repeat the process twice before my forehead cools, albeit slightly. Helpless and exhausted I crawl back to bed and cling to a pillow in a fretful fetal ball of agony and anguish.
Natasha doesn’t wake from this, obviously post-shock exhaustion has finally set in and in the half-light of night, she’s the picture of serenity, barring bandages and the creeping vine of blue-black blood from her temple.


Nat I: Friday – 10:15pm

Blood is smeared along the bed edge, the white sheets splattered with it. It’s still vivid and fresh, not yet the burgundy of the puddles outside the emergency doors. The white-coated clinician has his back to me and is wringing the blood from a ruddy gauze.
I cast my eyes over the patient. Her face is caked in claret, ropelets of enmeshed hair and blood cling to her brow. She’s grimacing in pain revealing bright, white clenched teeth. Her eyes open for second and she sees me. I move towards her and hold her bloody hand, everywhere there is blood. Just below her skirt the flesh on her thigh is shredded back to the salmon pink fat cells. Fresh red oozes from unseen pores while the doctor attempts to stem the tide and apply a dressing.


Me II: Saturday – 4am

I now hug and bite a pillow, rocking back and forth in the bed, trying to muster the will power not to scratch my flesh raw. Sweat pours from my pores and my skull feels as though it will burst from the pressure. I return to the bathroom, gaze into the mirror and fear envelops me. My face and neck are swollen and covered in blisters, more are spreading to my chest and back.

Ahhhhh! What the fuck is happening?

I wait in a silent panic until 7am. Natasha awakes and gasps in shock. I put on a cap and together we leave the house and hail a cab to the Australian Medical Clinic. At the clinic, the little Vietnamese receptionist gives me look of indifference and gives me a form to fill out. I comply. I wait, and the clock on the wall takes great delight in making every minute last as long as possible.
7:40am…….8:10………..8:35……………8:55………………9:45………….10:05….. 10:40.
The wait is intolerable; the steamy hot waiting room causes the sweat to flow, beading on my skin and irritating the blisters. Babies scream and old men vomit. I’m the only white person in the room, so everyone takes their turn to unashamedly stare at me and then grimace. Finally at around 11am a doctor beckons me. He asks me questions in broken elementary English and at that point a question begs: I’m the only Australian in the Australian Medical Clinic, so what exactly makes this an Australian clinic?

The unenlightening consultation over, he directs me to booth. A poker faced nurse wraps surgical rubber around my bicep, and reveals syringe and a needle, I balk at the needle and she blurts out “brud tess”. A cold sweat joins my hot sweat and saliva fills my mouth with a familiar metallic tang - I’m blacking out. The nurse searches for a vein, but in vain, she grips my pale cool hand and shakes her head. A second nurse enters the booth, barks Vietnamese to me and then runs away. She returns with the doctor and he inquires; “Do you feel ok?”

Do I feel OK? OK? On what fucking planet do you think being eaten alive by microbes is OK? OK! OK!
NO I’m not fucking OK!

However this torrent of abuse never came to fruition, instead I collapse against the wall and they carry me to a bed.

Lying in the bed looking at the large mould patterns on the ceiling a sense of dread overwhelms me. I am jarred from this by the unholy sensation of a needle sliding into the flesh on the inside of my elbow.
And again!
And again!
The nurse shakes her head and leaves to fetch the doctor once more. He asks me if I’ve eaten breakfast and slept well, and I explain that I haven’t eaten in 12 hours nor have I slept in the last 24. They make another attempt in my other arm, with no success.
And again in my right hand!
And again in my left hand!
And again in my left wrist!
And again in my right wrist!
Nothing.
Finally after my anger at their ineptitude has momentarily distracted me from my own pain, they succeed in drawing a blood sample by pushing the needle in between the bones at the base of my right thumb.
Only after five minutes of slow deliberate breathing do I relax enough to disperse the dizziness and I return to the aptly titled ‘waiting-room’. I wait impatiently under the mocking clock, as the intolerable itch engulfs my stomach and sides. 11:50….12:05……12:32……….12:51…………1:01……….1:20………..1:35….. the doctor waves me in.
He shows me a print out of my blood test, and says:
“Hepatitis A and Hepatitis B, you ok. Everything is ok, except white blood cell count, which means virus….…or (his tone drops)………HIV.”

My stomach knots, my head swims, I’m numb. HIV! What?

Some five seconds later he adds: “You no have HIV…. you virus.”

MUTHAFUCKER!!!!


Nat II: Friday – 9pm

I’m jarred from my sleep by my phone. I’ve rested for no more than ten minutes, profusely sweating and feeling increasingly light-headed. ‘I think I’m coming down with something.’ I answer the phone, and a tense voice splits silence “It’s Natasha. I’ve had an motorbike accident. I’ve hit my head. There’s blood. I’m going to the SOS hospital.”
Her words are clear and her sentences concise, but the tone of her voice suggests someone desperately trying to keep it together in a state of shock.
I run out into the alley and take a taxi to the hospital.


Me III: Saturday – 3pm

I return home delirious and exhausted. I lie down on the bed and throw a handful of anti-histamines and anti-biotics down my throat. My anxiousness is still high given that the doctor was unable to diagnose me but I’m now banking on some sort of allergic reaction being the cause.
By the evening my situation has not improved, in fact now the blisters on my head are forming pustules, and fresh ones are advancing down my thighs, dangerously close to my most treasured set of organs.
The itching sensation is fiercer now and doubt seeps back into my thoughts, fertilizing my fears.

What is happening to me?
What is this?

Scottish-Mark drops by the house in the evening. I have taken refuge in the cool, dark of Natasha’s room with the DVD player and a small mountain of dope. Natasha returns upstairs after Scottish-Mark has left, with a concerned look upon her face. “Scottish Mark says he’s had what you’ve got……… it’s Scabies.”

‘Waaaah? Scabies?’

At this point I’m so overwhelmed by an acute fear of the unknown that this news comes as a relief. “At least they’ll have a cream for this!” I say to myself.
Scabies. Sarcoptes scabiei: highly infectious, flea sized, spider-like mites, that burrow into your flesh then lay eggs in nests under your skin!
That’s exactly how it feels…….like I’m being eaten alive by 100,000 minute mouths.

Natasha isn’t as relieved; everything I’ve touched must be bleached or burnt. I am quarantined to my room. Despite my searing flesh I am eased by the idea that tomorrow I can obtain a cream that will solve my situation. This ease is only partial however, as I am fearing the repercussions of a household infected with such an appallingly titled pathogen as ‘Scabies’.

Sunday – 6:45am

After another sleepless night of fevered rocking and the discovery of several blisters on my most sensitive organ, my mind is once again being embalmed by fear endorphins. At 7am Natasha and I take the long taxi-ride out to the Franco-Vietnamese Hospital, a massive modern facility which sits in the sparse green surroundings of a reclaimed area of the Mekong Delta.

We enter through the large automatic glass doors and the pristine whites and ocean tone décor calms me. He man behind the desk is equally clean and manicured and in perfect English he direct me to the Dermatology department. There I am told the dermatologist will not be in until 2pm and that she is completely booked. The receptionist gazes at me for a second or two after dispensing this information then adds; “but you should see her first.” I am angry and frustrated that I have to endure yet more anguish, but I have long since lost the energy to express my disapproval, so we return home and wait.
Five hours later and its 2pm, and I am again in the dermatology waiting-room. I am ushered into a white room where a stern looking Vietnamese woman scrutinizes my skin. Once again in broken English I am diagnosed.

Her expression is grim. She shakes her head and tells me nothing. I ask her what it is and she says “Vericellae” and hands me a French dermatological diagnosis manual. I nod in confusion, because although it’s not English, it’s slightly less incomprehensible than Vietnamese, and I’m desperate for any improvements or conclusions. “Very infectious” she adds, “two week, stay home”.

She gives me no further information and I am unnerved by my condition’s new mysterious title. At the pharmacy I am given no magic cream, instead all I receive is generic anti-inflammatory. Uncertainty envelops me once again, ‘Does anyone really know what this is?’


Nat III: Friday – 8pm

Natasha and I sit in our lounge room, stirring wasabi into the small dish of soy sauce. My vision of a romantic dinner has been dashed due to a sudden and overwhelming sense of lethargy.
‘I think I’m coming down with something.’
Natasha on the other hand is understandably excited. We finish our home delivered dinner and I regretfully tell her I need a nap, but will join her at the party. “That’s cool” she responds, “I’ll just take a xe om (motorbike taxi)”


Me IV: Sunday – 11am

My phone vibrates to an overused generic jingle.

New Message.
View.
Natasha:
I found out what Vericellae is. You my dear have chicken pox.


Nat IV: Friday – 9.05pm

Natasha unlocks the front gate, I call to her; “See you in an hour babe, sorry I can’t escort you to your birthday party.”
She responds: “No problem, I’ll be fine” and steps out into the shadows.

~MALadapted