We are often told that 60% of our body is made up of nothing more than water. Over the last two weeks I came to the painful conclusion that my body is made up of 60% mucus. The condition responsible for this is called acute sinusitis and involves all sort of cavities in one's head no one ever understood the use of. Apparently they are simply made to hold mucus and to inflict pain through pressure on the brain, the eyes, the nose and the teeth, which, summed up, is a striking argument against 'intelligent design'. But I digress. After secreting enough slime in various shades of green and brown to supply a whole zombie film shoot single-handedly, I decided to see a ear/nose/throat specialist. Now I am not fond of doctors at all and the total loss of control that a visit to the doctor implies here in Japan made me very reluctant. My fears were soon to be substantiated.
I was waiting for about an hour in a line mostly made up from Japanese mothers with their small children. The line lead up to a bench already inside the doctor's room. There was just a milk glass screen separating the patients being treated and the patients waiting. Milk glass generally makes me nervous because the intention to hide something while being bright and seemingly friendly is so obviously inscribed into it. Nor was I put at ease by the fact that all the children that had been calmly playing or reading started screaming as soon as they disappeared behind the milk glass screen. The doctor's voice kept repeating 'Oh it's nothing', 'I'll be over in a minute' or 'What's for dinner tonight?', words that to every child in the world immediately conveys the message that there will be inevitable pain to be suffered. Then it was my turn. Beyond the screen was a sort of a dentist's chair surrounded by large machines and instruments that were state of the art perhaps in 1956. The doctor, a friendly looking elderly gentleman with glasses greeted me in a mix of Japanese and English and upon hearing that I was from Switzerland assaulted me with the inevitable German phrases that all doctors of his generations had had to learn ('Ich bin Alleinherrscher'). I never know what to say on these occasions. Before I even considered an answer I was propped into the much too small chair and the still smiling doctor started thrusting a succession of frankly intimidating things up my nose, down my throat and into every other hole in my head. This is the worst thing about Japanese doctors: You are expected to absolutely let him do whatever he pleases. There is no explanation whatsoever and when my hand in a reflex grabs his arm to prevent him from making me sick all over him, he exchanges a startled look with the attendant nurse. The other unfortunate tendency of Japanese is to believe that the more painful a course of treatment is, the more effective it will heal their illness. Not exactly much encouragement for doctors to be gentle, I always found, and when he says 'this will hurt a bit' I literally jump out of the chair under the profusest apologies and make a quick getaway. Not without a recipe for antibiotics, of course.
I was waiting for about an hour in a line mostly made up from Japanese mothers with their small children. The line lead up to a bench already inside the doctor's room. There was just a milk glass screen separating the patients being treated and the patients waiting. Milk glass generally makes me nervous because the intention to hide something while being bright and seemingly friendly is so obviously inscribed into it. Nor was I put at ease by the fact that all the children that had been calmly playing or reading started screaming as soon as they disappeared behind the milk glass screen. The doctor's voice kept repeating 'Oh it's nothing', 'I'll be over in a minute' or 'What's for dinner tonight?', words that to every child in the world immediately conveys the message that there will be inevitable pain to be suffered. Then it was my turn. Beyond the screen was a sort of a dentist's chair surrounded by large machines and instruments that were state of the art perhaps in 1956. The doctor, a friendly looking elderly gentleman with glasses greeted me in a mix of Japanese and English and upon hearing that I was from Switzerland assaulted me with the inevitable German phrases that all doctors of his generations had had to learn ('Ich bin Alleinherrscher'). I never know what to say on these occasions. Before I even considered an answer I was propped into the much too small chair and the still smiling doctor started thrusting a succession of frankly intimidating things up my nose, down my throat and into every other hole in my head. This is the worst thing about Japanese doctors: You are expected to absolutely let him do whatever he pleases. There is no explanation whatsoever and when my hand in a reflex grabs his arm to prevent him from making me sick all over him, he exchanges a startled look with the attendant nurse. The other unfortunate tendency of Japanese is to believe that the more painful a course of treatment is, the more effective it will heal their illness. Not exactly much encouragement for doctors to be gentle, I always found, and when he says 'this will hurt a bit' I literally jump out of the chair under the profusest apologies and make a quick getaway. Not without a recipe for antibiotics, of course.
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