by Claire Cambron
The morning I am to leave for my placement city, I wake up unusually stiff and sore. I step out of bed and a familiar jolt of pain radiates from my glute to my foot. Not this again. Dread rushes over me as I remember my last episode. It took a full month for the pain to subside then. Maybe this time the recovery period will be shorter, now that I recognize it for what it is: sciatica. I pop two ibuprofens and do my best to hide my limp throughout the closing ceremony, lunch and departure to Cheongju.
***
It’s three weeks into my homestay and I am inexplicably happy. My host family is generous and kind, and I’m really hitting it off with my host brother. My co-teachers are incredibly thoughtful, and my students are an endearing combination of adorable, funny and frustrating. But at night, I cry. It hurts to shift my weight, and every sneeze or cough is agonizing. I wake up every two hours and desperately try to stretch out my back to stop the aching. As much as I try to hide the pain, convinced that it should dissipate any day now, people begin to comment. My co-teachers notice my limp and the grimace that crosses my face every time I kneel down to help a student at his or her desk. My host family notices how difficult it is for me to position myself on the floor for dinner. They are worried, and so am I. My pain has not lessened; it’s only worsened. It’s time I see a doctor.
***
Over the next several weeks, I visit and re-visit two orthopedists, a general practitioner and an internist. They each perform different physical examinations and order new x-rays and blood draws. One doctor thinks it’s a herniated disk. The other thinks I just have tight hip flexors. One prescribes rest. The other prescribes exercise. With each new result, we eliminate yet another possibility from our list, but to me it seems like the answer is getting further and further out of reach. It’s emotionally and physically draining, but small moments keep me going.
***
My co-teacher Mrs. Won, whom I call Ally, insists on picking me up from my physical therapy appointment so I don’t have to walk to the bus stop. I visit with her husband and their precocious two-year-old daughter on the car ride home. For a while I forget the reason they picked me up in the first place, but then the car stops and I begin the painful struggle of climbing out of the back seat. Ally sends me a Kakao message later that night to check how I am feeling.
“Claire how are u doing? I hope you are doing fine! ^^ Don’t worry. Everything will be alright. <3”
***
I visit the hospital, again, to discuss my MRI results. I play with my other co-teacher Mrs. Kim’s baby as I wait for the images to be processed and examined. The doctor eventually calls me into his office. He speaks English, but I find him less accessible than the last doctor. He laughs as he tells me my MRI reveals nothing unusual. I don’t think it’s very funny. He looks at me and shrugs, “You seem fine.” Never mind how I feel. He orders another enigmatic blood test and tells me to return in one week. I don’t want to talk to him anymore, but I comply. On our way home, we stop by Starbucks and Mrs. Kim orders me a latte.
***
I am lying in bed watching Gilmore Girls. My face is sticky from crying earlier; it’s been a stressful day. I’d rather be outside playing badminton with my host brother, but I can’t move fast enough to hit the birdy. Any abrupt movement wrecks my back. Gilmore Girls makes me miss my mom. There is a knock on my door. “잠깐만요,” [1. Jamgganmanyo, One moment] I grunt as I slowly, carefully, inch myself out of bed. When I open the door, my host brother Jang Hyeon says, “Claire, here. Eat!” He holds out a chocolate ice cream bar, and I am reminded of how much his small gestures comfort me.
***
When I return to the hospital, the doctor tells me that I’ve tested positive for HLA-B27—a risk factor for ankylosing spondylitis. Ankylating splondiferous what? He’s not sure that’s what I have, but he’s transferring me to an internal medicine doctor who will pursue a diagnosis with me. She orders an x-ray of my sacroiliac joint. She explains that A.S. is a very slow progressing disease, and she doubts we will be able to arrive at a diagnosis for at least another decade.
That night, I go home and read about A.S. It’s a rare autoimmune disease that results in inflammation of the joints and muscles and, eventually, bone fusion—most notably, vertebral ossification. “Bamboo spine.” It affects mostly men in their mid-twenties. One to two percent of HLA-B27 carriers actually have the disease. Forty percent of the affected population has acute iritis. I click on the “images” tab and begin browsing through photos of case studies. Some of the pictures frighten me. Just as I begin to panic, the phone buzzes.
“Claire~~~ How are u feeling today? I hope everything will be going well…”
***
At home, my host family pays careful attention to me. Having limited language overlap, I usually struggle to connect with Appa, but his frequent inquiries of “아파요?” [2. Apayo? Are you in pain?] make me feel closer to him. Despite my many hospital visits, my host mom knows I’m still in pain. My host sister Chae Yoon, who speaks the most English in the family, tells me, “Omma wants you try Korean medicine. Very good.” On Saturday, Omma closes up the restaurant early to take me to an acupuncturist. We sit together and watch the baseball game in the waiting room, turning to each other to acknowledge each exciting play or funny commercial. In the appointment room, she laughs when I ask her to take a picture of me with my thumbs up and my hip full of needles.
***
One month after the doctor first brought up A.S. I go to the hospital by myself, prepared to discuss another uneventful test result. Instead, I am diagnosed. It appears that the bones at my sacroiliac joint have already started to fuse. The inflammatory markers in my blood are over four times their normal range. I am told my severity level is a three out of four. What does that even mean? I am prescribed medication and sent downstairs for another x-ray. They want a view from a new angle…
As I change out of my gown post x-ray, I struggle to make sense of my last conversation. Images of men so hunched over that their necks run parallel to the ground rush through my mind. Tears begin to well. Three out of four… Bamboo spine… Will I be able to run again?… Fused! I’m too young… I am brought back to reality by the x-ray technician who has just entered the changing room. She is desperately trying to tell me something. “죄송합니다. 몰라요[3. Joesonghamnida. Mollayo, I’m sorry. I don’t know]” I tell her apologetically. She pauses for a second, deliberating her next move, and then leaves.
I pack up my bag, but just as I open the door to leave the x-ray technician returns. She holds out her phone. The screen reads Ankylosing Spondylitis. “You?” she asks. When I nod my head to confirm that I am the patient they are screening for A.S., she grabs my hand and holds it, looking into my eyes. “Me too.” We stand there for a few moments. She is a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties. She is pretty and healthy-looking. She looks hopeful. Choked up, I manage to say, “감사합니다.[4. Gamsahamnida, Thank you].” I hope she can tell how much I mean it.
***
“I hope you will get better by taking the medicine steadily… please take the medicine every day. Make sure not to forget to take it, even if I know you don’t. <3”
***
I am doing much better now. My pain is subdued and my inflammation is down. I am hopeful. Yes, this experience has been difficult, but it has also been incredibly meaningful. I am amazed by the support I have received from people I have only just met. Empathy, I have learned, can be communicated in many ways beyond words. It doesn’t rely on shared history or common interest. It can transcend language and cultural barriers. My struggles have helped me truly appreciate empathy, and recognize it in its simplest forms. Although I no longer require the help I once did, I find that I still experience it every day.
***
“Claire, I’m glad that I’ve met and worked with you. You are meaningful to me because you are my precious friend!”
Claire Cambron is a 2015-2016 ETA at Jeungan Elementary School in Cheongju, Chungcheongbuk-do.