Saigon, Thanksgiving Day 2007
Yesterday I was young and invincible. Underground, in the low dark tunnels of Cuchi, I was playing a Viet Cong soldier. Crouching, I moved as fast as I could, imagining myself with a rifle, ready to strike the enemy in the jungle above. In those years I was a soldier too. Drenched in sweat, I wriggled out through the narrow hatch. Maybe the pleasant cool breeze outside, was the first hint to the coming storm.
Back at the guesthouse, the newscaster showed Typhoon Hagibis heading for the city. Saigon is rarely visited by typhoons, and the residents were apprehensive. Having experienced a Typhoon in Hue, I was not concerned. There, as the rains turned the sidewalks into riverbanks, and dark-tanned women, in wooden canoes, offered ferry service through the flooded alleys. Fun. Only later did we learn of casualties in the rural areas. I stretched in bed with Lonely Planet. Unconsciously, my hand wandered where it usually wanders when it has no assigned task. Suddenly lightning struck through my finger. My body froze, my breathing stopped. I felt an alien sensation on my testicle. I touched it again. No mistake, it's a small, hard lump. The lump became the center of my universe. How long did I have this? Is this cancer? How do I find out? What's next? Exhausting the questions, I turned to meditation, and after a while, I fell asleep.
Today, I woke up to cloudy sky. Hagibis will make landfall tomorrow. Google confirmed my symptoms. Testicular cancer is rare, and when caught early, it is almost always curable. Rare and curable, those are pretty good odds. I continued with today's plan, and made a reservation in a highly recommended spa. Vietnamese massage is reputed to be excellent.
The heavy overcast made the walk to the spa comfortably cool. I sank into a deep sofa in a candle-lit room. Soft music was playing in the background. I focused on the sharp sensations, administered to my foot by a pretty young woman, and slowly relaxed. Half way through the session, the electricity died. Must be the typhoon. The massage continued even better without the music. Just me and my breathing. I decided to see a doctor.
Outside, the wind blew my hat off. I tightened the rubber band and continued to the local urgent care clinic. The clinic was a corridor open to the street. The grayish paint on the walls was peeling in spots, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see people silently sitting on benches along the walls. The receptionist was busy stamping forms and attempted to ignore my questions. Finally, a nurse arrived. Now I got it. The receptionist wasn't rude, she just couldn't speak English.
- I would like to see an English-speaking doctor.
- What's the problem?
- Can I see the doctor?.
- Wait here.
- How long?
The last question must have been too much. The nurse called an attendant who escorted me through a saloon-style swinging door and motioned for me to sit. I did not want to be there. I tried to entertain myself and Adi by outlining the possible outcomes, and concluded that even if I have cancer, I will not die young. The humor did not go well. A few more sullen patients were ushered into the room. We walked out.
The Lonely Planet map indicated that the French-run clinic was a bit closer than the clinic run by the "Well respected Rafi Kot". Navigating towards it, we passed the restaurant that introduced us to Ap Chao Xao (Beef and vegetables are served on a bed of fried noodles. You make a lettuce wrap and stuff it into your mouth.) The heavenly taste and texture which I anticipated, did not materialize. The food was bland, and the beer did not help.
The temperature dropped. Other pedestrians were wearing jackets. The automatic door opened smoothly and silently to an environment that could fit any high class clinic in the US. Here, in this bright clean room, It felt better to be sick. In professional English I was informed of the price ($90), instructed to fill a questionnaire, and was asked to sit. Again? Am I wasting my time? What can the doctor do other than ask me to monitor the lump? He could recommend a biopsy. Ouch. Not much else. I passed the time reading an article on the clinic's aid to the Bali bombing victims. Shortly, a friendly looking doctor called me to his room. He too felt the lump and ordered an ultrasound exam. I felt stupid. How could I forget Ultrasound? Especially me. I worked on that stuff.
The ultrasound will not be available till four. A full bladder is recommended for the test, and I should not go to the bathroom till then. That was enough time to visit the former Presidential Palace. Strolling through the palace, I was more aware of the WC signs than the ornate reception halls. On the way back, a lucky man was urinating in the alley. It was almost dark. I felt rain drops.
The urologist and I exchanged pleasantries.
- What are your plans?
- I was thinking of going to the Mekong Delta tomorrow, but with the typhoon coming, I am not sure.
- Don't go. You can get stuck in a flood, and in Vietnam there is no helicopter rescue.
As I undressed and sat on the examination table he reassured me.
- Nothing to worry about. This kind of cancer we can cure almost 100% percent of the time.
- What's the cure, radiation?
- Well, first surgery, than depending on the situation, radiation, chemotherapy, or both.
The doctor applied gel and started to scan my balls. He was slow and methodical. Lying there not daring to move, I tried to decide which country would be better for undergoing chemotherapy. After a long while, the doctor paused and showed me the screen. The tumor is attached to the epi-something, not to the testicle, and therefore with 95% confidence, it is benign.
The rest of the exam passed quickly. No other tumors were found. Nonetheless, the doctor recommended a CT scan, to make sure. I made an appointment for tomorrow but I was already brave enough to doubt the necessity of the procedure.
Epilogue
The next morning the best doctor I know, my brother, confirmed that the CT scan is not required. Hagibis slowed down, was downgraded to a tropical storm and veered back to the Pacific Ocean. Saigon did not see any rain.
Back at the guesthouse, the newscaster showed Typhoon Hagibis heading for the city. Saigon is rarely visited by typhoons, and the residents were apprehensive. Having experienced a Typhoon in Hue, I was not concerned. There, as the rains turned the sidewalks into riverbanks, and dark-tanned women, in wooden canoes, offered ferry service through the flooded alleys. Fun. Only later did we learn of casualties in the rural areas. I stretched in bed with Lonely Planet. Unconsciously, my hand wandered where it usually wanders when it has no assigned task. Suddenly lightning struck through my finger. My body froze, my breathing stopped. I felt an alien sensation on my testicle. I touched it again. No mistake, it's a small, hard lump. The lump became the center of my universe. How long did I have this? Is this cancer? How do I find out? What's next? Exhausting the questions, I turned to meditation, and after a while, I fell asleep.
Today, I woke up to cloudy sky. Hagibis will make landfall tomorrow. Google confirmed my symptoms. Testicular cancer is rare, and when caught early, it is almost always curable. Rare and curable, those are pretty good odds. I continued with today's plan, and made a reservation in a highly recommended spa. Vietnamese massage is reputed to be excellent.
The heavy overcast made the walk to the spa comfortably cool. I sank into a deep sofa in a candle-lit room. Soft music was playing in the background. I focused on the sharp sensations, administered to my foot by a pretty young woman, and slowly relaxed. Half way through the session, the electricity died. Must be the typhoon. The massage continued even better without the music. Just me and my breathing. I decided to see a doctor.
Outside, the wind blew my hat off. I tightened the rubber band and continued to the local urgent care clinic. The clinic was a corridor open to the street. The grayish paint on the walls was peeling in spots, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see people silently sitting on benches along the walls. The receptionist was busy stamping forms and attempted to ignore my questions. Finally, a nurse arrived. Now I got it. The receptionist wasn't rude, she just couldn't speak English.
- I would like to see an English-speaking doctor.
- What's the problem?
- Can I see the doctor?.
- Wait here.
- How long?
The last question must have been too much. The nurse called an attendant who escorted me through a saloon-style swinging door and motioned for me to sit. I did not want to be there. I tried to entertain myself and Adi by outlining the possible outcomes, and concluded that even if I have cancer, I will not die young. The humor did not go well. A few more sullen patients were ushered into the room. We walked out.
The Lonely Planet map indicated that the French-run clinic was a bit closer than the clinic run by the "Well respected Rafi Kot". Navigating towards it, we passed the restaurant that introduced us to Ap Chao Xao (Beef and vegetables are served on a bed of fried noodles. You make a lettuce wrap and stuff it into your mouth.) The heavenly taste and texture which I anticipated, did not materialize. The food was bland, and the beer did not help.
The temperature dropped. Other pedestrians were wearing jackets. The automatic door opened smoothly and silently to an environment that could fit any high class clinic in the US. Here, in this bright clean room, It felt better to be sick. In professional English I was informed of the price ($90), instructed to fill a questionnaire, and was asked to sit. Again? Am I wasting my time? What can the doctor do other than ask me to monitor the lump? He could recommend a biopsy. Ouch. Not much else. I passed the time reading an article on the clinic's aid to the Bali bombing victims. Shortly, a friendly looking doctor called me to his room. He too felt the lump and ordered an ultrasound exam. I felt stupid. How could I forget Ultrasound? Especially me. I worked on that stuff.
The ultrasound will not be available till four. A full bladder is recommended for the test, and I should not go to the bathroom till then. That was enough time to visit the former Presidential Palace. Strolling through the palace, I was more aware of the WC signs than the ornate reception halls. On the way back, a lucky man was urinating in the alley. It was almost dark. I felt rain drops.
The urologist and I exchanged pleasantries.
- What are your plans?
- I was thinking of going to the Mekong Delta tomorrow, but with the typhoon coming, I am not sure.
- Don't go. You can get stuck in a flood, and in Vietnam there is no helicopter rescue.
As I undressed and sat on the examination table he reassured me.
- Nothing to worry about. This kind of cancer we can cure almost 100% percent of the time.
- What's the cure, radiation?
- Well, first surgery, than depending on the situation, radiation, chemotherapy, or both.
The doctor applied gel and started to scan my balls. He was slow and methodical. Lying there not daring to move, I tried to decide which country would be better for undergoing chemotherapy. After a long while, the doctor paused and showed me the screen. The tumor is attached to the epi-something, not to the testicle, and therefore with 95% confidence, it is benign.
The rest of the exam passed quickly. No other tumors were found. Nonetheless, the doctor recommended a CT scan, to make sure. I made an appointment for tomorrow but I was already brave enough to doubt the necessity of the procedure.
Epilogue
The next morning the best doctor I know, my brother, confirmed that the CT scan is not required. Hagibis slowed down, was downgraded to a tropical storm and veered back to the Pacific Ocean. Saigon did not see any rain.
