Few moments were as lonely as being sat in a taxi to the hospital, holding my bloody hand in a mass of kitchen roll. I wanted my mummy.
The injury I had sustained was little more than the work of a small but brand new knife who’s sharpness I had underestimated. I sliced an onion arrogantly fast and sliced a small chunk off the end of my pinkie.
It strangely didn’t hurt in the slightest, perhaps the work of my calloused guitarist fingers, but my, did it bleed. My roommate Chad wasn’t much help. “I hate blood man, I might throw up” he said, tossing me a few sheets of kitchen roll before disappearing into his bedroom.
At this point I could speak barely any Chinese. I didn’t know where the hospital was or how to get there. It was a quick way to ruin my day off. Through the miracle of technology, my colleagues acted fast and helped me organise a taxi. I grabbed as many kitchen towels as I could and suffocated my dripping hand as I headed to the hospital.
I was just getting used to the new world. I had started to get my head around my new job, had moved into my new flat and Ikead it out. Then I took a leap backwards and was reduced to a little boy on his own in the back of a taxi, feeling lonely and trying to figure out what I was gonna say to the grownups to fix my problems.
I was dropped off outside a building with no clue where the entrance was. Are you supposed to walk in the front doors of hospitals with bloodied digits dripping? I’m unaccustomed to hospitals regardless of the country and regardless of the language being spoken. I couldn’t have been more grateful when one of the local teachers messaged me and offered to come down to the hospital and help me. Many mundane incidents became ordeals due to the language barrier. I was relieved to get help whenever it was offered.
Before I knew it, a doctor was blabbering away in Chinese at me as he stitched up my finger. I showered my colleague with thanks. She giggled, revealing that they also had to inject something into my bum.
Sweating nervously I dropped my pants to my knees and braced myself, expecting something intrusive. The nurse injected me at the topmost part of my bum, almost my back. I had dropped my pants way too far.
I left the hospital with my dignity shattered, my finger in stitches that would be painfully torn out a few weeks later and with the renewed understanding that I would be relying on the help and generosity of others a lot.
I never did find out exactly what had been injected into me.
I diced my next onion with surgeon precision.
