The Sanatorium

I spent a couple days at the Hong Kong Sanatorium in November.  It wasn’t because I’d finally lost the last bit of my sanity - though it does sound like it would be a place with white coats and padded rooms.  (I did look up the definition of sanatorium since it seemed a little fishy to me.  Turns out that the term “sanatorium” is from the days of widespread tuberculosis when there were no antibiotics to treat it.  I'm glad I didn't need to go to the HK Sanatorium for that purpose either!)

The reason I was at the HK Sanatorium was for foot surgery.  No heroic running or hiking adventure was the cause.  I just had two annoying masses growing on the tendon on the arch, which were continually changing shape and size.  The were also literally “on my nerves”, causing all kinds of tingly feeling in my foot.  (The lab report showed they were benign, nothing to worry about.)

Turns out, my foot issue and the surgery itself was about the least exciting thing to do with my stay at the sanatorium.  Rather, it was this that caused a major stir:

I knew that something was amiss when the first nurse entered my room (clad in all white, complete with the SAS nurses shoes and white hat – felt like 1980).  She said to me s-l-o-w-l-y: "Can…I…Speak…English…to…You?"

That’s not a question I’ve been asked before. 

I said “of course” and she looked a bit relieved.  She said, “I wasn’t sure.  You have a Chinese name on your Hong Kong ID card.”  Go back up to the photo above.  See the Chinese characters on the left?  Yep, that’s it – my Chinese name.  Dave’s staff helped pick it out (you don’t have to have a Chinese name here; Dave has one on his business card.  I thought it would be fun to have one, too – I didn’t know it would land on a government document).  Can you see anything else on the ID that would give any HINT that Cantonese might be my first language?   One thing was for certain, there was no racial profiling going on at the sanatorium!

Everyone I interacted with at the hospital had a comment to make about me having a Chinese name.  Though there were a few giggles, I received many compliments on it.  The anesthesiologist asked me carefully “Can…I…call…you…Molly…when… I…wake…you…up?”  I told her that if she called me anything else I wouldn’t know she was talking to me.  I really do need to find out how to pronounce my Chinese name and what it means…

Finally, when it was time to check out, the labels for my prescription medicine were printed in Cantonese.  No problem, right? They were only pain meds.

Other than the comical Hong Kong ID caper, the hospital stay was as good as one could be.  The inside of the facility looked a bit more like a luxury hotel than a hospital.  The orthopedic surgeon I had was absolutely outstanding – not only did he relieve the problems from the growths, he did such a good job sewing it all up I don’t think there will be a scar when it’s full healed.   I’m amazed. 

The doctor was also really good natured.  When I went in to get my stitches removed, I took Lydia along.  No one takes their kids anywhere here, so I didn’t know if he’d appreciate it.  Rather, he was thrilled – he kindly guided an enthusiastic Lydia through removing the stitches.  That’s right – Lydia was in charge of the scissors and tweezers to take them out.  This will be the one and only time you will EVER see a photograph of my foot:

Despite the positive experience, I hope this is our one and only time at the hospital here!