On Thanksgiving

The exciting parts of yesterday started not to long after I'd dragged myself out of bed, pulled on my school uniform (no, I'm not posting pictures. Not yet, anyway), and was midway through making breakfast, coughing gently all the while. It was possibly this coughing that prompted my host mother to sleepily poke her head into the kitchen to inform me that I'd better go back to bed, as I'd been coughing badly in my sleep and she was taking me to the doctor this afternoon. I protested that it was just a head cold - admittedly a head cold that'd hung on for a week or so, and didn't seem to be getting any better. Host mother wasn't having any of that, put the milk back in the fridge and sent me back to bed.

Later that afternoon, she and Host Dad bundle me into the car (wearing two T-shirts, two sweaters, and a parka) and drive to (the inaptly named, as it turned out) Universal Hastanesi, or Universal Hospital. Where I present my insurance card to the triage secretary, who promptly hands it back, shaking her head. I point to the phone number on the card, indicating that she should to call that number. The insurance that Rotary exchange students are required to buy is taken everywhere. Nope, they won't call. Why? Because it's an international number. Yes, of course it's an international number, I'm an American exchange student and my insurance is from the US. This is "Universal Hospital," what do you mean you aren't authorized to make overseas calls? Look, it'll take two minutes, just call the number. Please? No.

I call my Rotary adviser. She talks to my host mom. My host mom barks in Turkish before digging out her cell phone to call a friend who works in Radiology. Radiology Friend and her supervisor come find us. They talk to the triage staff. They go and find the manager of the triage staff. Nope. No can do. Rotary advisor curses over the phone. "Your insurance is valid in Bangledesh, for heaven's sake," she says. "This is ridiculous. What if you were bleeding or something?"

"Yeah. I know."

Rotary advisor sighs. "Amy was in the hospital with dystentary earliler this year. Let me see what hospital she went to. They might be easier to deal with."

In September, Amy came down with a particuarly nasty local version of Montezuma's Revenge. I'm glad my sickness is nowhere near that serious. Host family and I spend the intervening minutes exchanging glares with the staff of Universal Hastenesi.

Rotary advisor calls back. "Amy was at Florence Nightengale Hastenesi. Mention her name when you give them the card so they can check their records. Good luck."

It's a short drive to Florence Nightengale, and once there, the process is remarkably fast. The insurence is no problem. Amy? Yes, they remember her. Copay? Deductible? No, of course not. Need to see an ENT? Certainly, he's right upstairs. Want to see what the inside of your nose looks like? We have a handy endoscope right here!

My host mom and I joke that, now that she's seen the inside of my nose, ears, and throat in close detail, we have no secrets anymore.

In the end, they diagnosed a common cold, advised rest and fluids, and wrote a prescription for some (delightfully fizzy!) cold medicine. Well, that was comparatively easy. Also, the guy working the Emergency Services desk was cute in a David Tennant kind of way, but without the skull. Fortunately.

From the Royal Shakespeare Company's current production of Hamlet.

Image courtesy of cerysromana.livejournal.com

From the hospital, we made our merry way to a local mall (this city has malls the way some cities have, oh, park benches. I've never heard of so many Swatch stores per square kilometer), where Host Mom and I stopped at a pharmacy to fill the prescription and from there swung by a Starbucks. Yeah, I know. Drop it. "Where's host dad?" I asked.

Host mom stirred her coffee. "Grocery shopping. Do you want a brownie?"

Yes, in retrospect, that was the best possible way to distract me. The brownie was good, too.

Once we got home, host parents hustled the groceries into the kitchen before shutting and locking the kitchen door.

Well. That was unexpected.

I tapped on the door. "Can I come in?"

My host mom opened the door a crack, grinning fit to be tied. "No. We are being sneaky!"

I started to clue in when the guests started arriving an hour or so later. There was probably a smell to give it away, too, except that I was so congested it was a miracle I was still breathing at all.

The roast turkey on the table, though, was a dead giveaway.





Same for the mound of mashed potatoes, the roasted vegetables piled around the turkey, the tureen of pumpkin soup - sweet honey mustard, they made pumpkin soup. My dad's specialty, which I'd mentioned in passing maybe a week and a half ago, and they remembered enough and cared enough to make it. And tracking down a turkey couldn't have been any easy feat, either. And there was pilav, and dolma, and carrot salad, and probably more that I'm forgetting. Sweet roast pumpkin with walnuts for desert with Earl Grey tea.



I'm not going to say that I cried, but I will admit to tearing up a little. The only thing missing was the Macy's parade on TV, and let's face it, there are only so many times you can watch a giant Snoopy balloon drift past buildings before it loses its thrall.


As at every Thanksgiving, I gave thanks. But I don't think I've ever meant it more.