The Real Chinese Torture

Forget the infamous water torture technique, I now understand and have personal experience with an on-the-ground scream-worthy practice: namely, navigating the treatment for an undiagnosed, mysteriously appearing, and slightly debilitating injury in China.

I didn’t do any serious damage; I just hurt my foot. Actually, most of my foot is fine except for the muscle under my big toe. Still, I came to realize last week that this particular muscle is vital to the concept of walking painlessly.

The downward spiral to wretchedness began last Saturday when my toe was a little tender. Sunday I limped a bit but still blanketed myself in an ignorance that my suffering would dissolve overnight. Unfortunately, by Monday, I could not put any pressure on my foot what-so-ever without bolts of pain scorching my leg.

I’m pretty stubborn when it comes to going to the doctor when something is actually wrong; however, an inability to walk is somewhat problematic when I live on the fourth floor, have an office on the third floor, and walk to work everyday (even if the trek is roughly the distance from my apartment to my parking space in the States). I needed a half hour to manage a typically five-minute walk to the on-campus clinic.

Four doctors were enthusiastically ready to help me as soon as I stepped into their office; the only problem was that none of them spoke English. My angst-ridden soliloquies describing the pain using various creative analogies were reduced to “pain” and “swollen” when translated into Mandarin.

The Chinese-speaking physicians directed me into a large office with only one doctor, who I am going to refer to as Mr. Giggles quite aware that a B-worthy horror movie about a dentist shares the same name. The too jovial Mr. Giggles proceeded to examine my toe by poking it, wiggling it, and bending it to the point that he must have been testing whether I am double-jointed. The entire time the joker-size grin never left his face, and he occasionally giggled…maybe at my grimaces of agony. The chair I sat on probably has equally spaced tears in the vinyl from where I dug my nails in to keep from howling.

I only learned one piece of information from the consultation. “Well, I don’t think it’s broken.”

I was tossed odd smelling self-heating bandages that reach an almost unbearable temperature. The doctor cheerfully informed me to come back if it got worse.

Still with no knowledge of what actually was wrong with my foot, I hopped along as best I could to my classes. George, our adorable grandpa-like dorm guard, stormed into the middle school and burst into my classroom. He handed me crutches that he dug up from who knows where.

The one beneficial aspect of my current impairment is that the preteen populous of the middle school have all become Florence Nightingales and Mother Teresas. Even students I don’t have refuse to let me carry my books and laptop by myself. I had to negotiate a compromise with one English class because they wouldn’t let me stand up to teach; they were finally pacified with me sitting on a desk. AND when I struggled in the packed hall with my crutches that ended in me spilling what felt like a gallon of water, students and Chinese homeroom teachers scooped down like I was a baby bunny lost in a forest packed with wolves. I’m frankly surprised none of them tried to carry me back to my office.

It’s been a week now and while I’m still limping and am in a little bit of pain, at least I can put aside the crutches. I’m still not sure what exactly was wrong though I’m fairly convinced I had some sort of muscle strain. What I do know is that I never EVER want to be on crutches in China again.