Our Qatar Exit

This last March Brett received a terrible birthday present.  He was visiting Finland with a group of students on a work assignment.  On his birthday the students all wanted to experience the snow up close and personal so they went sledding.  Well Brett wanted to celebrate a little and decided to join them.  He promptly crashed, hit his head, and woke up the beast he had been fighting for years:  long-standing back and neck pain from long ago injuries.  When he got home, life got very difficult in Qatar.  The medical system there is chaotic, confusing, and behind the times, especially when it comes to managing pain.  It took him a month just to get in for an MRI (thank goodness there was no serious head injury) and another month to see the specialist and have him tell him that physical therapy is all they could offer him.  Because he had aggravated an already existing condition that he had had for years, the pain in Brett's neck and back was so constant and so debilitating he couldn't even think of attempting physical therapy.

That's when we realized he might have to live with the pain for months before getting home to the states and then we were in for a complicated summer.  We would have to get him home, in to see a specialist, and repeat this whole process.  We tried to set up appointments from Qatar via Skype but getting the MRI results from the Qatar doctor and then sending them to the specialist in Utah took weeks.  My health had really gone down hill since moving to Doha so I knew I needed some TLC from my team of health care professionals too.  The more we talked and thought about what would be required to happen this summer the more we realized that our summer might have to be extended.  We probably wouldn't make it back in time for VCUQ's fall term or for Abbey's start of school at ASD.

Expat life is tricky.  There are so many things to consider when health issues come up.  We knew that home in Utah would be the best place for us to get the medical care that we both needed, but Brett's job is in Qatar.  Abbey was just finishing up 5th grade at ASD and was excited about the prospects of middle school and 6th grade.  As Brett's pain increased and his ability to even work part of the day lessened we had to make some decisions.

In the middle of all this VCUQ informed Brett that VCU in Virginia didn't want to take on the liability of signing villa leases in Qatar anymore and so we would have to take a personal financial risk by signing the villa lease ourselves - not what we wanted to do.  Brett asked when the lease would be up and when the human resources department checked, it was up that day, the day Brett was sitting in the office hearing this for the first time.  There have been other surprising issues come up at VCUQ over the years that have not been conducive to a peaceful life in a very unnerving country so this wasn't as big of a surprise at it could have been, but it seemed to be the tipping point.  In addition, even though Brett was enjoying working with students and faculty and researching in the Interior Design Department, he was getting anxious to get back to architecture and design. (VCU eventually relented and signed a year's lease for everyone when the dean made a trip to Virginia for her annual pow wow, but by then we had made our decision to just find another villa when and if we came back to Qatar.)

So with all of these issues stacking up, and others I cannot mention here, there seemed to be many arrows pointing us toward the Qatar exit signs.  So we got on our knees and turned to the Lord.  The final answer has come slowly over the summer, but we felt then that we should get ready for whatever was to come. So we began to make tentative/unofficial plans to move home.  Breaking the news of the possible move home to Abbey was easier than we had thought.  She was sad for awhile about the possibility of leaving friends and especially the leaving ASD and be in middle school, but surprisingly, she was the most energetic as we made preparations for all contingencies.  Only the summer would tell us if we were leaving Qatar for good or if we would be back for a fifth year.

We began selling things:  cars, bikes, electronics and household goods we had purchased, clothing, and the enormous amount of odds and ends we had accumulated over four years.  We told close friends and neighbors that we were moving because our lease was up, because that is all we knew for sure.  We had to wait until Brett saw the neurosurgeon in Utah to know what was in store for us in the fall.  We left the door open for us to come back, because truthfully, we didn't know if he would be recovering from back surgery, if he could be helped with simply the right medication, or if he could even find another job if medical issues forced us to stay home.  When it came right down to it though, we purchased one way tickets home to Utah because if we had an extended summer, Abbey would have to start school in Utah anyway and then we would be in Utah at least until Christmas.

Three days before flying home, Brett received an email from a former co-worker.  Chad wanted to let Brett know that the boss at his former architecture firm had mentioned that he wanted to hire a head designer and lead architect and he had mentioned Brett's name.  There was a series of emails back and forth and then when we arrived in Utah, the emails turned to phone calls, which turned to an interview, salary negotiations, and then a job offer.  Brett accepted the offer because he wasn't sure how we were going to pay for all the medical bills, especially if surgery was down the road.  We felt like the Lord's hand was in all of this so we couldn't wait around for the medical decisions to be finalized.  We had to move forward on faith.

Because it was such a long and involved process for him to even get in to see the neurosurgeon who had been recommended by several friends, Brett finally saw him a few days before starting his new job.  The neurosurgeon wanted to take a conservative approach to Brett's injury and recommended physical therapy, traction, and a series of cortisone injections.  It was clearly going to be a chronic condition that could not be solved in a matter of months. Because our family doctor and the neurosurgeon were managing Brett's pain with the correct medications, this seemed possible and hopeful but not quick enough to make working in Qatar a reality.  Brett gradually was able to work a full day and came home smiling and happy from feeling so at home at the office and having the ability to create again.  The decision seemed to be making itself.  Qatar couldn't offer him or me the kind of medical care we need, a new job had fallen into Brett's lap, and we have been feeling blessed beyond measure, in spite of the difficulties.

So saying good bye to Doha means that we say good bye to some great friends we have made during our adventure.  It means a tighter income and a lot less travel.  It means less family time with Brett now that he is working regular office hours and all through the summer.  Being a professor at VCUQ has had its perks but Brett and our family earned every perk, believe me.  With all the amenities comes a lot of expat chaos that can tear a family apart or bind them together like never before.  I think the latter has happened to us, thankfully.  We have put up with the heat, humidity, and the driving insanity.  We have had to hold our tongues and smile instead of complain and scream for some common sense to be used in every day life.  We have been able to laugh at the amusing clash of cultures and have sorrow for those inequalities that still exist in this so-called modern world.

The workers of Qatar will be my favorite take home memory from our time in the Middle East.  To see the hard working faces of the Filipino, Indian, Nepali, and Sri Lankan workers in the unbearable 118 degree heat with 80% humidity, and know that they feel lucky to have a job so they can send a small amount of money home to family is humbling.  To watch the masses of working men walking around near the old souq on a Friday afternoon, trying to enjoy their one day off, is overwhelming, especially thinking about all the wives and children some have had to leave in their home countries and might not see for years.  Whenever I saw the brilliant smile of our guards as they waved us into our compound it gave me courage to face my trials with a brave face. To look into the sweet face of the woman who cleaned for us each week and see the beginnings of trust develop between us made my heart hope, hope for a more civilized universe where everyone is treated with love and dignity.  And to see a friend's Nepali nanny take a giant step forward in her life by being baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, see her learn to drive a car, see her meet a Mormon man online and get engaged, then to see her marry him in Nepal with all the brilliant oranges and reds of a Hindu wedding was unforgettable and life-changing.  These are just some of the miracles of our Qatar adventure.

My Diabetes Hero

Today's Diabetes Blog Week prompt:  Let’s end our week on a high note and blog about our “Diabetes Hero”.  It can be anyone you’d like to recognize or admire, someone you know personally or not, someone with diabetes or maybe a Type 3.  It might be a fabulous endo or CDE.  It could be a d-celebrity or role-model.  It could be another DOC member.  It’s up to you – who is your Diabetes Hero??


Susan Carver was the only person I knew who had type 1 diabetes when I was diagnosed at age 26. She was a single mom of two who played the organ at our church.  She had had diabetes since she was two and didn't know life without this dreaded chronic disease.  She was in her forties, but diabetic-wise, she was much older.  She had already had one kidney transplant and the rest of her body seemed zapped of color, energy, but not hope.  Her husband had left her to live in California, and I don't actually know if they were divorced, but even if they weren't, Susan was a single mom. Her children were smart, articulate, and way too grown up for their teenage years.


Soon after my diagnosis Susan let me know, in a subtle yet powerful way, that I now belonged to her club and I had what it took to deal with my new membership.  The twinkle in her eye always let me know that there was more to Susan than met my eyes.  Her small stature and quiet ways were a facade for the little rebel who lived inside.  She would talk about her illness only when I asked and promised me that we would supply each other with a box of Heath bars in the hereafter.  One day I noticed that one of Susan's index fingers was missing the top digit.  She told me that she had been holding a car fan belt for her husband when he mistakenly turned the car on and off went the fan belt and part of her finger.  It is only now that I realize how long that must have taken her to heal physically and emotionally from that injury.  And she was the organist in our church!  She always let me know that my diabetes path was NOT the same as hers because mine included a later diagnosis and always improving health care and technology.  She knew as we talked that I worried about her future as well as my own and wanted to reassure me.


As Susan's health declined even more after her second kidney transplant I watched as her now grown-up children acted even more grown-up than they had been when they were young and took care of her until the end of her life.  Susan was a grandmother at that point, and thought she might never be one before she passed away, but she had not been denied that joy.  She continued to smile and joke about her physical shortcomings to me and renewed the promise of a box of Heath bars waiting for me when we met again in heaven, and she said that would be ages away.  Yes, Susan is a Diabetes Hero.

What Life With Diabetes Looks Like

Last day of Diabetes Blog Week:  Back for the third year, let’s show everyone what life with diabetes looks like!  With a nod to the Diabetes 365 project, let’s grab our cameras again and share some more d-related pictures.  Post as many or as few as you’d like.  Feel free to blog your thoughts on or explanations of your pictures, or leave out the written words and let the pictures speak for themselves.

 Three hours of slow thinking, slow activities, slow motion - the gifts of low blood sugar

 Here is a 6 hour perspective - the "W" is for how I felt (wasted)

 The previous 12 hours - showing what might be the reason for the 3 hour lows

And then a 24 hour view to remind me that the roller coaster is not a ride I can get off of. The online game among diabetes bloggers right now is to try and find pictures in the CGM graphs.  I haven't been able to do that very well yet.  I wasn't good at the cloud pictures game as a kid either.  What pictures can you see in my CGM graphs? (The break in the graph is the three hour time period when I put in a new CGM site and it has to calibrate.)

 A CGM site from a month ago - the tape does as much damage as the site.

Can you see the small wounds on the ends and sides of my fingers from the finger sticks?  When I was pregnant with Abbey and checked my BG 10-12 times a day (before CGM days) I could just push on my fingers and they would bleed.  It was more handy that way.  :)

One of the reasons my purse is so heavy all the time - just the diabetes section complete with dinosaur and Curious George fruit snacks.


I tried to find a picture of a horrible monster on Google to put as my last photo here to represent the Diabetes Monster, but there just wasn't one horrid enough.  It would have to have pinchers and needles for hands and legs, an energy-sucking mouth, slimy skin of oozing puss, filled with infection, and no heart at all, just a protruding razor that cuts away a slice of life at a time.  I think you get the picture.

More You Should Know About Diabetes

Today's Diabetes Blog Week Prompt:  Let’s borrow a topic from a #dsma chat held last September.  The tweet asked “What is one thing you would tell someone that doesn’t have diabetes about living with diabetes?”.  Let’s do a little advocating and post what we wish people knew about diabetes.  Have more than one thing you wish people knew?  Go ahead and tell us everything.


I wrote on this topic a couple of years ago (you can read that here), so I should feel like I have flushed out all of my soap box points, but there is always room for more understanding when it comes to a chronic disease that millions of people live with every day.  So for today I want to highlight those who aren't always noticed for their bravery.  For every PWD there are dozens of PWLPWD behind the scenes.


There are PWD (People With Diabetes) and then there are PWLPWD (People Who Love People With Diabetes).  There isn't enough praise and understanding offered to this group of folks.  Even though they aren't the ones who must endure constant blood testing, injections or pump sites, high and low blood sugars, CGM alarms, complications, and all the numerous punches this diabetes monster dishes out, they feel the effects of diabetes in emotional and very personal ways.  And in some ways, the indirect line of fire from diabetes is pretty harrowing.

My husband might not remember our life together without diabetes but I do.  We had seven years of diabetes-free marital bliss before it all hit the fan.  Now he patiently gets orange juice in the middle of the night, wakes me when I don't hear the CGM alarm, cheers for any small diabetes conquering action I advertise, makes we laugh when we have to suspend yet another activity because my blood sugar is not cooperating, and silently worries about what this disease has and will rob from him, from us, from our family.

No pump on that hip, only a sweet baby Ben - the carefree days before diabetes.  (Ahhh . . . 80s fashions!)


The people who support, love, and care for PWD are the unsung heroes.  They take on this disease when they don't have to.  They are the moms and dads who stay awake all night watching their little one who is a newly diagnosed PWD, afraid to go to sleep because a blood sugar low isn't something a two-year-old can articulate and deal with.  They are the children who know how to dial 911 as toddlers just in case their dad with diabetes is incoherent on the floor.  Or they are the older children who know how to give a glucagon injection if their mom is unresponsive and in need of a major sugar intervention.  My hope is that others will reach out to the caregivers and recognize them once in awhile.  Give them a pat on the back or a listening ear, not in the way that you feel sorry for them, but in the way that you acknowledge their sacrifices and their part in helping life be "normal" for the PWD in their life.

My Fantasy Diabetes Device

Today's Diabetes Blog Week prompt:  Today let’s tackle an idea inspired by Bennet of Your Diabetes May Vary.  Tell us what your Fantasy Diabetes Device would be?  Think of your dream blood glucose checker, delivery system for insulin or other meds, magic carb counter, etc etc etc.  The sky is the limit – what would you love to see?


Well, duh!  A cure, plain and simple.  And not the kind I have to get with a dual kidney/pancreas transplant where someone has to die to give me those necessary organs and I have to take anti-rejection medication for the rest of my life.  I want this cure in the form of a trip to Hawaii where I get to lie on the beach and have the cure "medication" delivered to me through a series of fruity, tropical smoothies and daily massages. Oh, I guess I forgot the technology part.  Well, that could be a fancy alarm system that would let me know when I need another vital massage or pancreas curing smoothie.  Yep, that's what I call a fantasy.

One of Many

Today's Diabetes Blog Week Prompt:  Yesterday we gave ourselves and our loved ones a big pat on the back for one thing we are great at.  Today let’s look at the flip-side.  We probably all have one thing we could try to do better.  Why not make today the day we start working on it.  No judgments, no scolding, just sharing one small thing we can improve so the DOC can cheer us on!


There are many things I could try to do better when it comes to taking care of my chronic illness, so I won't mention the custard filled croissants at Carrefour bakery that are my weakness, or the many times I wake up to my Dexcom low blood sugar alarm during the night, look at the number, and tell myself that it isn't all that low (or "that can't be right"), because I really don't want to go all the way downstairs to confirm the BG with my meter and drink some orange juice.  I will pick just one of the many areas of improvement and that is regular physical activity.


I really want to be better at having a daily working out.  I am ashamed to say that I have allowed all the legitimate diabetic "excuses" to keep me from moving my body every day in some way.  Six years ago I was working out for an hour or more six days a week.  I had lost 40 pounds by dieting but mostly from consistent physical activity.  I wasn't what you would call athletic by any stretch of the imagination, but I could walk up my stairs without breathing heavily, I could get up from a sitting position without exertion, and I even participated in a 5K run/walk. I could play with Abbey and my grandson on the floor to without feeling like a stiff grandma.  But things have changed dramatically since then.  Moving to the Middle East in 2008 threw a wrench into my workout norms as well even though I have sporadically used the compound gym, exercise DVDs, and gone to yoga.


I think I can pinpoint the biggest change to May of 2009 when Abbey and I got salmonella and landed in the hospital for a week.  My body just hasn't been the same since.  "They" say that diabetes complicates every illness, especially as one ages, but I found this especially true after getting salmonella.  Then there was the time I fell on the marble stairs in our villa and cracked a rib.  And speaking of falling, there are the numerous times I have twisted my ankles, broken toes, and pulled muscles.  I'm not graceful at all and my injury list proves it.  I've had carpal tunnel, frozen shoulder, trigger fingers, and tennis elbow; all ailments you would expect to see on a very athletic person, but alas, diabetics are prone to joint issues too.  Then I developed plantar fasciitis in my feet and now have pain in my feet every minute of the day.  And the pounds have come back with new friends to add to my general flab.


So moving my body regularly is what I most need to challenge myself to do.  I have made a lot of what I call "false starts" to this new goal, but then I always have some other physical issue come up:  a sinus infection, the flu, swollen feet and ankles, numerous low blood sugars, a chronic cough, etc.  Yeah, the excuse list is out the door, but somehow I have to ignore that list and push through the exercise anyway.  A nagging, somewhat whiny voice inside my head tells me that I should just accept the "new normal" of limited expectations, but another voice, the stubborn one, doesn't want to give in to that.  I want to be fit and feel alive again, instead of just existing with low expectations because I have diabetes.  I might not impress anyone else but I want to impress myself with what my body can do.  Here's to new normal of daily physical activity that contributes to a new and improved Dianna!

November is Diabetes Month

Take THAT Diabetes!  Happy Diabetes Month Everyone!  Remember to wear blue on Fridays to show your support.

Surgery in Qatar

Yesterday I took a leap of faith and had surgery here in Qatar.  Why?????!!!!! you ask.  The pain from flexor tendinitis (trigger finger) in my right hand was getting unbearable and making it difficult to do the simplest task.  I didn't want to wait until the summer, which is the next time we will all be in Bountiful, so I knew I had to bite the bullet (continuing with the trigger finger theme) and find a good orthopedic surgeon here in Doha.  Dr. Bhat came highly recommended, but he practices at Doha Clinic Hospital.  That was disappointing because this clinic/hospital is run like a circus.

I actually met Dr. Bhat last year when I was having pain then and he gave me a cortisone shot to see if that would take care of the problem.  Well, it did work for awhile, but this last October I was in bad shape again.  I went ahead and scheduled the surgery, but I came down with a serious ear infection and was too sick to go through with it. 

So when I went in last week to start the whole process over I also had to have a cortisone injection in my left elbow for the tennis elbow malady I have.  With my kind of ailments you would think that I am a maniac athlete or something but no.  I just have diabetes which can cause extra swelling in my joints and this is what aggravates all these poor tendons.  After x-rays and waiting hours and hours and then going back the next day, I finally got the injection.  I have had quite a few of these injections in my time and this one was by far the worst.  I don't know if it was how he placed the needle or because I had let the pain get too high, but this one was bad.  If you have never had one before it just feels like someone is pushing a needle into your bone.  Usually the pain goes away when the injection is over, but this one didn't.  For two days I was crying and not able to move my whole arm.  Even my fingers were swollen so much I couldn't put my wedding rings on.  When Brett called Dr. Bhat for back-up he just said I should double up on the pain killers he had given me.  Well, this country's idea of pain management is archaic so that didn't help at all.  Luckily my friend Victoria (name changed to protect the innocent) had some vicodin from a previous surgery and brought it right over.  Oh, man was I so much better.  That little injection cost me three days of my life, so you can say I was having second thoughts about the upcoming surgery.

I pressed on though and found myself at the Doha Hospital at 11 AM ready to take the plunge.  From Dr. Bhat's office the nurse took us to the surgery check-in desk and then my room and then left.  It was a double room and there was a Sudanese man in the next bed.  I asked Brett to make sure we were in the right room.  The nurse came in and closed the curtains around the other bed and told us that he was just the husband of a patient who was in surgery at the time.  Then she handed me a gown and told me to change.  So I went into the bathroom and did just that.

Other nurses then came to prep me for surgery.  One nurse checked my vitals, inserted an I.V. in my left hand, and gave me some medication to make me sleepy.  Another nurse proceeded to shave my hand and arm.  I barely have hair on my arms, let alone my hand, but I guess in this part of the world most women have a lot more hair than I do.  The unfortunate thing is that she nicked my wrist and now I have a cut there that hurts more than the actual surgical incision.  The nurse then wrapped my hand and arm in some plastic sheeting and taped it up.  Then I proceeded to sweat from the plastic.  It was a very strange process to me but I was still pretty patient at this point, especially with the drugs kicking in.

When they finally came to get me for surgery I was quite sleepy, and I just remember having to transfer my body from one bed to another way too many times and watching the ceiling tiles roll by on my way to the surgical center.  I was looking pretty good at this point I'm sure with my hair in one of those surgical caps and a stylish blue hospital gown.  There were quite a few people in the hallway as I rolled through and I could imagine what they were thinking:  "Hey, look, a white woman in our hospital.  I guess fear looks the same on western people as it does on eastern people."

I had a lot of nurses and technicians hovering around me at this point.  They wanted to know about my insulin pump and they looked worried that my blood sugar would drop suddenly if I left the thing on, but I succeeded in convincing them that it would be okay staying attached to me.  When I finally got into the operating room more nurses were positioning my arms and one of them started prepping my left arm and hand, so I reminded her that the surgery would be on my right hand and she laughed.  Then she said, "We can do two for one!" as she smiled.  I couldn't tell if she had purposely tried to worry me or if she was just covering up her mistake.  I must say that it is a little unnerving to listen to all these people speak in Arabic and not know what they are saying.  They would talk and go about their work and then laugh and continue on.  Things quieted down after Dr. Bhat came into the room.  He came into my line of sight and called me by name.  Because he had a surgical mask on I asked if it was truly him.  He said, "Yes, it is Dr. Bhat himself in person!" and then gave a very dignified doctor laugh.  Maybe they also gave me the sleepy medication so I would be more likely to laugh at their little jokes.

So for this surgery they only applied a local anesthesia with a tourniquet on my upper arm.  When I had this same surgery done on my left hand in the U.S.  Dr. Huish put me completely out, but I've quit trying to compare things here to things there, so I put it out of my mind.  The tourniquet was very uncomfortable - probably on purpose so I wouldn't think about the other things going on.  Dr. Bhat then injected the anesthesia into the I.V. they had started on my right hand and my hand felt like it was on fire.  There had been no warning at all.  It then occurred to me that these people weren't the greatest communicators.  When the nurse took us up to the room she just started walking away from the surgery intake desk.  I had to ask her if we should follow her.  I try to give them the benefit of the doubt about English being their second language and all, but sometimes I just think it is a cultural thing to leave people in the dark so they then don't have to be pinned down on anything - more on this later.

So then the cutting, tugging, snipping, pulling, and sewing commenced and it wasn't fun.  It didn't hurt a lot, but it is rather unnerving to feel the movements with some discomfort, but not be able to really tell what is going on.  And you can believe I wasn't going to watch even though I could.  I was content to just sit there with my oxygen mask on and try to stay in my happy place in the tile ceilings.  I think at one point I might have gotten a little too uncomfortable and started moving too much.  They might have had to give me additional anesthesia because after Dr. Bhat said he was done with the cutting and just sewing me up I kind of lost time after that.  The next thing I remember was them asking me to once again move onto the rolling bed.

I stayed in recovery for awhile and shivered away the anesthesia, which is normal, but a warm blanket from the nurse helped.  Then they took me up to my room and Brett was there with a big hug, a smile, and even a kiss, and in a public place no less!  He had made friends with the Sudanese gentleman in the room who had his wife back from surgery by then and they were making a business connection by exchanging email addresses.  This man later checked on me when Brett was gone and called me Mrs. Brett when asking me how I was.  And to think I was scared of him when we first arrived!

Well, after that I slept - sort of - and rested while Brett went and did car pool at the school.  He then brought Abbey back to the hospital.  I must have looked pretty rough, because Abbey's face was a little scared when she came in.  I felt bad that she caught me with my guard down, so I forced myself to perk up a little after that.  I changed into my street clothes and conveniently bumped my I.V. pic line so they had to remove it.  Abbey said I looked better.  She was a sweetie and read her Harry Potter book to me and did her homework.  Brett went and got food from Turkey Central and we had a picnic on my bed.  We kept asking when the doctor would be coming in and they always said in five minutes or so.  Well, at 4 PM they finally told us that it would be after 8 PM when he would be able to come - after his clinic hours.  So the same day surgery was looking more like an overnight stay all the time.  Brett left to go to a doctor appointment and do his home teaching.  When he came back it was after eight and still no doctor.  Abbey was super tired. 

Brett said, "Grab your purse.  We're leaving." As we walked (I kind of wobbled) past the nurses' station I saw this look of disbelief on all their faces.  They quickly jumped up and tried to persuade us to stay, that the doctor would be there soon.  I explained that we had been waiting too long and I needed to get my family home.  They had me quickly sign some papers and gave me some pain meds, but they were still trying to keep me there.  Brett just thanked them and ushered us out the door.  I had never broken out of a hospital before and it felt kind of exciting in a Tom Cruise kind of way.  As we pulled into the driveway at home the nurses called me and said that I needed to come back to get the antibiotics the doctor had just prescribed.  They were in disbelief when I told them no, that I would try and pick them up the next day.

So I felt really good today and went over and picked up the antibiotics.  The nurses told me that I needed to see Dr. Bhat today or tomorrow so he could change the dressing, but I told them that I could change my own dressing, especially if it meant I wouldn't have to wait for hours to see him.  Again there were those looks of disbelief.  Here was this western woman who had had enough of their system and wasn't going to just take orders.  I went straight home after picking up Abbey from Girl Scouts and changed my dressing by taking off the pound of gauze and wraps and exchanging them for a couple of bandaids (wow, that razor cut burns!) and an old wrist brace I had.  And then I started playing the piano, just to see if I could!

So I have decided that the way Doha Clinic/Hospital runs mirrors the culture, which makes sense to them, of course, but is total craziness to me.  It is this:  They want to tell people what they want to hear, so they do.  They don't think twice about saying misleading things or saying nothing at all and putting their hand up in dismissal.  Integrity has a different definition here.  No appointments are made before you arrive for a clinic visit.  You must show up, talk to a receptionist who then gives you a number for the doctor you need to see.  Then there is a flat screen T.V. mounted on the wall in the hallway that gives the details of numbers being called for which doctor and how many patients are waiting.  Of course, there are separate waiting rooms for men and women and the appointment T.V. screen doesn't work in the women's room.  No one can even hear the P.A. announcements for the next patient so I basically had to jump back and forth from the waiting room to the jumbo tron in the hall to see if they had called my number. 

Last week when I went to have my x-ray read and get my cortisone shot I waited for one hour in the waiting room and then noticed that patients without numbers and holding x-rays were going right into Dr. Bhat's office.  So I went down and stood in the hallway next to his door to try and figure this out.  The patients that the nurse was leading into the office were dressed in abayas and insisted they be seen.  My number was up on the board yet I waited for another hour before speaking up and telling the nurse the situation.  She just gave me a dismissive hand as she closed the door after leading more abaya clad women into the doctor.  When I finally got into the office I was so upset I said, "I guess next time I will just wear an abaya and push my way into your office instead of making an appointment." I could tell the doctor was a little offended, but he asked me what I meant.  After I explained he then told me that all those women had earlier appointments and were just having their x-rays read.  When I told him that he had told me the previous day that I would have to come back that day for him to do that, he said, "Oh I thought you had another appointment here for something else and were coming anyway.  You could have knocked on the door and I would have seen you." (By the way, the door has a sign that says "Do not knock the door." And that is a direct quote because I memorized it during my hour-long hallway vigil.)  I just sighed in disbelief and determined then and there that I was going to play by my own rules from then on, and I guess that is just what I did when I followed Brett through those hospital doors.  They are all just lucky that my trigger finger issue wasn't caused by real trigger finger action or who knows what I would have done instead of vent via my blog!  Well, happier typing from here on in thankfully!