Surgery in Japan

Recently, I was quite forced to expose a part of myself that I, until it was unveiled, had not known existed: a myoma (a benign tumor) comparable in size and weight to an average pineapple that had, for years latched on to my poor, unsuspecting uterus. The good news was that I found out about it, and had it removed while living in the great country of Japan, with its glorious and affordable health care program. Had I been back in the US, the 'pineapple' in question might have grown to the size of a watermelon before I might have had the money to pay for surgery to remove it. Three doctor's opinions and a few sleepless nights later, surgery was scheduled. For this type of surgery in the US, you are admitted to the hospital for a period of about 2-3 days, in Japan the same procedure requires patients to stay in the hospital for a period of 10-14 days.

Day one was orientation, which my dear friend Yuki was kind enough to stay for, and translate. For hours we were bombarded with detailed information as to everything I would experience during my time there as doctors, nurses and pharmacists came to tell us about their role in the coming days. I was given my "last meal" at 5pm sharp. The next afternoon, seated in a wheelchair, I was wheeled to the operating room, in front of which the nurse pushing me stopped, and instructed me to get up and go to the operating table. This was a strange and terrifying moment. As a surgery rookie, I had always envisioned other ways of entering an operating room as a patient, usually while lying on a bed with wheels as you are brought to the cutting board. But there was something odd in walking into an operating room, and lying down myself. It all seemed so much more voluntary, and willing than I was ready for. The giant, circular light above me as I was strapped on to the lethal injection-like table, and the countless masked faces staring down at me was all too much for me to bear, and I was unable to hold back the few tears that had begun as a lump in my throat the moment I set foot into the room. Immediately the masked faces produced hands that held mine, and patted my legs, shoulders and arms in attempts to soothe the giant, scared gajin. Sleep rescued me from my fears, and the next thing I remember was waking up in excruciating pain, in my dimly lit hospital room, with my husband's concerned face above mine. The drugs had not yet worn off, and I could not, no matter how hard I tried, focus my swimming eyeballs on anything. Breathing hurt, I could speak no louder than a whisper, and moving so much as an inch was out of the question. Then, one of the worst nights of my life: the pain was terrible, and when sleep was kind enough to grace me with her fickle presence, I was woken up frequently by an automated blood pressure reader, and the nurse's numerous visits in the night. Day 3 in the hospital was Day 1 post-op and it was rough. I could not have imagined being let out of the hospital at this point, or even a day or two later (as it is done in the US), the thought of it just seemed so scary—to be sent home with this giant cut in your abdomen complete with aching staples that has barely even begun to heal is ludicrous. The pain was severe whenever I attempted to move, and I found it difficult and tiring to do anything. But there the nurses were, visiting frequently and asking “Itai des ka? Daijobu?” (“Do you have pain? Are you OK?”). They made every attempt to communicate with me in English, sign language, and even occasional drawings about even the smallest things, like adding antibiotics to my IV, or taking my blood pressure. They also came armed with English-Japanese electronic dictionaries, and took the time to stop and search for a word that would allow me to understand what they were going to do next. On occasion, if there was just too much information, special efforts were made to track down English-speaking staff from all corners of the hospital (who had no other reason for being anywhere near my wing of the hospital) to speak to me. And, without fail, they came in smiling—even those wearing masks came in with crinkling eyes peering at me, all of whom possessed unyielding kindness, sympathy and patience that I had never encountered from complete strangers before. I remember a couple of occasions in which I called the nurse’s station and asking for someone to come to my room—nothing big, I just couldn’t reach the light switch. Moments later, I heard someone running down to hall to get to my room. I didn’t make a habit of calling the nurse’s station too often, however when I did, I only waited longer than about 2 minutes one time. My room was cleaned every day, a fresh pot of hot water replenished daily, and carefully arranged meals (no TV dinners) brought to me like clockwork. And the food was really good! It was nothing shy of what you might find at a restaurant in quality, taste and presentation. The following days crept by rather slowly, with even the smallest tasks requiring the greatest of effort, and I found myself with a genuine appreciation for the amount of work my abdomen does, yet hating it so at the same time. I had instantly become painfully aware of every single move that I made, and was accordingly exhausted after short spurts of movement. But all the while, the nurses were there, still smiling, and monitoring my progress. About a week after surgery my 13 staples were removed by the first and only doctor to handle my incision a little roughly—all the while, Yoshiko, one of my regular nurses, held my hand. The way in which this doctor handled me, made me realize how much of an effort everyone one else had made to be gentle and keep me as comfortable as possible. In many places in Japan, understandably so, I have felt like an outsider, but it was different there. Before and after the surgery, I quickly felt as though I was a member of a team that thrived within these hospital walls. Nurses, doctors, and even the housekeepers raised their fists and softly cried “Gambatte!” (“Do your best, good luck”) in an effort to raise my spirits. 8 days after surgery, able to move around and take care of myself (very slowly, of course) I was released from the hospital, which was actually a little sad. A few of my regular nurses came to see me before I left to say goodbye, and again “Gambatte!” It is really astonishing to think about: these people took phenomenal care of me, yet it is regarded as nothing more than part of their jobs. Everyone gets the same amazing care that I did, and if anything the language barrier made it harder for them to take care of me, yet they still did it with a smile. It was an experience I will never forget, and one that has made my husband and I seriously consider beginning our family here on the other side of the planet, rather than back home.