Doctor, Doctor

Within a week of arriving in Tokyo in October 2001, I was introduced to the Japanese medical "system" because of a "strange" ear infection (Japanese love words like "strange" and "difficult" to describe things they don't understand). I had no idea what to expect when I rocked up to the Police Hospital in Iidabashi; although, from what I'd heard, I knew it would be prohibitively expensive.

On that occasion, our company's resident goddess, Mayumi, came with me to translate. I had to fill out a deluge of forms (or, more accurately, Mayumi had to fill them out for me as they were all in Japanese) and we waited in three separate waiting rooms before I got to see the doctor. For a country as anally organised as Japan, the word "appointment" is strangely anathema in Tokyo's hospitals. You are simply expected to show up and wait. And people wait. And wait. And, dammit, wait patiently. Do these people not have jobs?

Finally, we were ushered into the doctor's rooms where Mayumi did her best to translate the consultation. After a barrage of tests (these docs are nothing if not thorough), he rattled off a stream of Japanese verbiage, wrote all his notes in German and was reluctant to tell me/Mayumi (after three hours, the distinctions were starting to blur) what was wrong with me. It seems Japan's doctors go into practise completely unprepared for how to deal with the question; "well, what the f!@#k is it?" Perhaps the patients never ask...

When Mayumi asked this very question, she received the enigmatic response;

"ewoiubvlasfaieourwa brain tumour woiufvdfhgoeirutfjajgnai"

which, apparently, translated as;

"You probably don't have a brain tumour".

Right. Pass me the defibrillator, please.

I came out of the hospital 20,000 yen lighter (roughly A$300) and none the wiser as to what was actually wrong with me.

Last week I had the pleasure of returning to the same hosptial armed with a larger Japanese vocabulary and my in-house translator, Matt. The doctor (a different doctor, in a different part of the hospital, requiring a different hospital card) shot all these questions and instructions at me in rapid-fire Japanese which I still couldn't understand and which Matt had to preface with; "I think he said....."

At one stage the doctor apparently asked Matt if I wanted stronger painkillers to which I responded with "hell yes, give me the f!@#$ing motherload" (Matt's translation; "yes, please"). The "stronger painkillers" turned out to be the mysteriously named "Selbex". On further investigation, I discovered that Selbex is actually prescribed for gastro, prompting me to think that the doctor had perhaps asked Matt if I had a problem with gas. I mean, I had had a pretty spicy curry the night before, but what this had to do with a sprained back is anyone's guess...

I left the hospital loaded down with Selbex and a host of other drugs with, yet again, absolutely no idea of what was actually wrong with me. One week later, the mystery of the Selbex has not been resolved, but not only has it helped my back, it has made me quite regular.