I feel like I’ve just escaped from a horde of bloodthirsty hyenas.
N 44°26'48.2'' E 026°03'41,6''Events of 29.06.2006
The morning is nothing more than the continuation of a nightmare from which there is no awakening. My personality structure changed abruptly from cheerfulness, zest for action, discovery and joie de vivre to fear, listlessness, gloom and hopelessness. The intensity of the pain can no longer be described in words. It is incomprehensible to me that the human body is capable of torturing its mind with such torment.
At 08:00 Dr. Ratiu is at my bedside again and heads off the top of the pain with an injection. Then four men carry me back down the stairs and through the hotel. I wave to the gentleman at reception. “We’ll see you again! But next time we’ll be running!” I shout and wring a laugh out of myself. I have no idea where I get this confidence from. For my own sake, I pray that I come out of this adventure without paraplegia. Tanja organizes everything that needs to be organized. She talks to the receptionist, the doctor, the paramedic and makes decisions. “Tata! Tata! Go! Tata!”, the siren blares in my ears as our ambulance cuts a swathe through the dense avalanche of cars in a city of millions.
We are finally here. I wait longingly to be admitted to a real hospital, a hospital without bloodstains on the wall, with good doctors who will take away this damn pain and give me back the mobility in my legs. “I’m sorry. The beds are all full. Your husband would have to wait two to three hours for a room to become available,” I hear Dr. Ratiu’s voice in horror. “Can my husband lie down in a bed in the corridor while he waits?” “No, there are no spare beds. There is only a couch he can sit on.” “A couch?”, but you see, he can only lie down and that’s already too much.” “Yes, I know. But what can I do? The house is full,” I hear the voice in which actual regret rings through. Tanja sits down in the ambulance next to my bar and describes the situation to me. “Impossible, just the thought of getting my upper body upright is killing me,” I say meekly.
“There is another private clinic in Bucharest. The best in the whole of Romania. But it’s very, very expensive. If you want, we can take you there,” suggests Dr. Ratiu. “How much does the night cost there?” Tanja wants to know. “I don’t know exactly. Something around 100 euros plus doctor and treatment.”
With an average income of 50 cents to one euro per hour, a Romanian would have to work between 100 and two hundred hours. If you add 50 euros for medication and medical bills, it would be between 150 and 300 hours of work. With a 40-hour week, an average earner would have to work between 7 1/2 and 3 3/4 weeks to be treated in a private clinic for just one day. Mind you, without surgical interventions.
Tanja and I look at each other. “No question, please take us there straight away,” Tanja decides. Another quarter of an hour later I am lifted out of the ambulance. A couple of green coats roll me into the reception of the Euroclinic in Bucharest. Suddenly everything happens very quickly. Without the slightest wait, my rolling stretcher is pushed into an elevator. Then the door opens to a small but spotlessly clean, brand new room. I am lifted from the hard stretcher onto the wonderful bed. I breathe out a sigh of relief and feel like I’ve just escaped from a horde of bloodthirsty hyenas. By which, of course, I mean the overall situation and not the many people who have helped us so far.
Suddenly I feel safe. The people are extremely nice to me. “I am Dr. Cristina Vladulescu,” the young ward doctor introduces herself in good English. She smiles at me and asks how the accident happened. She is the first doctor to start examining me. I immediately have confidence in her. “We will carry out an MRI tomorrow. I assume that you have a herniated disc. We will use the images to determine the severity. We may have to operate,” she diagnoses. “Operate? For God’s sake. I definitely don’t want to be operated on. Can’t they get me to the point where I’m fit for transportation with medication?” I ask in horror, because the last thing I want is to undergo disc surgery in Romania. “Maybe the medication will reduce the inflammation enough for you to fly home. Let’s wait until tomorrow and please don’t worry so much. You’ll be fine,” her words comfort me a little.
Only minutes after the admission interview and examination, a huge dropper is hanging from my arm. The effect is fantastic, because most of the pain flutters away like a plucked crow. Although I am in a single room, Tanja is allowed to stay. “Dr. Vladulescu makes an exception. They wanted to bring me a bed. I refused. I didn’t want to bother them. When I offered to sleep on the mattress, she wouldn’t let me under any circumstances,” Tanja tells me. “So, where are you going to sleep if they don’t bring you a bed?” “On the sleeping mat. I managed to get my way.” “Hm, a bed would be better. It’s much more comfortable,” I say. “We slept on sleeping mats for years. I certainly don’t mind the few days.” “Whatever you say. The main thing is that you can stay here. But if you want, you can move into a hotel in the meantime. I could understand that. A hospital like this isn’t pleasant,” I suggest. “It would be even more unpleasant for me not to be with you. I would feel terrible. I’m not going to abandon my little bunny, not even for an hour.” “Thank you,” I say and feel tears running down my cheeks again.
After a delicious lunch, another doctor visits us. Dr. Baltisanu is a neurosurgeon and, among other things, a specialist in intervertebral disc surgery. “Judging by their condition, they will definitely have to interrupt their journey for a month. But I’ll only know more after the MRI scan,” he explains, raising hopes that we will be able to continue our Trans-East expedition after all. “Let’s see. Even if we have to operate on her, her traveling life is not at risk. Such operations are no big deal these days,” he says and bids us farewell.
I speak to my parents that same day. They are deeply shocked and fear for my health. After four knee operations and other incidents, I can understand her. “Yes, I’m in good hands here,” I explain to my mother, unable to hide the trembling in my voice. Suddenly hearing the familiar, dear voice makes my sorrow bubble up. I can feel my mother controlling herself not to cry. Knowing that your own son is in a Romanian hospital with a serious back injury is a blow to the strongest of minds. “We’ll know more tomorrow. Maybe it’s not so bad. In any case, there’s a chance that they’ll be able to fix me with medication. Then I can fly home.” “Let’s hope for the best. I’m sure it will go well. Good luck and see you tomorrow,” my father’s voice, also vibrating with worry, comforts me.
