Last week Douglas wasn't feeling well. He woke on Tuesday and said "I don't feel well." He said it wasn't concentrated in the belly, back, or head. Just an all over icky feeling. He went to work anyway and that afternoon called to say he was on his way to a hospital. Diarrhea and vomiting.
Ick.
After a round-about experience of being turned away from one emergency room (not emergency enough) and his doctor not having open appointments for a few hours, he found his way to a clinic.
They hooked him up to a drip to keep him hydrated and collected samples of everything that came out of his body.
And then they admitted him for monitoring. He spent the night in a nice room with private bath and view of the Vercors range. For three nights they tested him repeatedly, and kept him hooked up to an intravenous drip.
They asked if he'd been anywhere exotic in the last month. "Monaco," he said. "That doesn't count," they said. "It's exotic for me," he said.
This being France, where personal lawsuits are at a civilized minimum and insurance company lobbyists unheard of, he was allowed to leave the clinic for long stretches during the day. They'd disconnect his I.V., the plastic doohickey sticking out of a vein would be wrapped to his arm, and the nurse would say "Be back by 18." (It's still shocking after two years to hear people use a 24hour clock in casual conversation)
Last Friday they put him under anesthesia and explored his stomach through a tube down his throat. This was the most invasive of a series of tests he went through. When I reached the clinic after my morning French class he had been released. He was at home, eating lunch. All tests came back negative, and he was allowed to resume "normal activities".
And now it's over. He feels fine. Probably an intestinal flu or food poisoning.
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