By: Amanda Reid, Columnist
There are some parts of the trip here that I would gleefully trade away for a day or two at home, but none as much as Oct. 27-28.
Oct. 27 began as a completely normal day, but that’s how days are supposed to begin before all hell breaks loose.
I returned home after a day of midterm exams and took a nap. When I woke up, I felt like I had been hit by a truck. I knew I was sick, but I had to finish reading a book for one of my classes and write a paper on it.
This, I knew, was not a feat I could accomplish under heavy doses of medication.
Therefore, I decided to push through and finish the paper before I fell asleep.
The next morning was even worse. I woke up, tried to force down some breakfast, and in my feverish stupor I attempted to go to school.
Thankfully, my host mom was awake and able to tell me to go back to bed. I slept until four that evening before waking up and realizing I needed antibiotics and badly.
I called my study abroad office and they set up an appointment for me that I needed to leave for almost immediately. Stupid, fever-infested me figured I could handle walking to the metro and then finding the hospital.
After I got off the metro to switch lines, I had to sit down and put my head between my knees to avoid passing out in front of a bunch of random strangers halfway to my destination.
I then regained strength and vision and was able to gingerly pick my way to the next line I needed to be on.
At this point, all I could do was pray.
I finally got off at the metro stop and a five-minute walk to the hospital ended up taking 20 minutes because I got so turned around.
I collapsed into a chair in the international office, and when I heard the sweet sound of the English language, I knew I had made it. The first doctor immediately diagnosed me with strep throat and sent me off to get meds. Little did I know, this was only the beginning.
I woke up the next morning running a fever of 103.
I took a second dose of meds and fell back asleep only to wake up again still running a high fever of 101.
Realizing the meds I was taking were not strong enough, back to the hospital I went.
This time I got to see a general doctor instead of one who spoke English.
The second doctor, now affectionately known as my hero, immediately gave me a shot because my tonsils were so swollen, and I had trouble breathing so he prescribed me the good stuff.
Now taking three different types of medication, I finally felt back to my old self, although those two days were a blur of taking whatever medicine I was given, drinking something, and going back to sleep.
Moral of the story: if ever sick abroad, take a taxi to the hospital.