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| Katzman at Temple of the Emerald Buddha, Bangkok |
Bangkok—a five day trip to present my paper
"Becoming patient: a path to effective participation
with chronic terminal cancer "
at a nursing
conference
International Council on Women's Health Issues
19th Congress, Bangkok, Thailand
November 14-16, 2012
The whole trip was great, starting with meeting a courteous Japanese on
the shuttle to the airport. Ayumi
announced Bangkok his destination, and at the airport we walked together.
“Where should I exchange money? How much?” I asked. “In Bangkok, at the
airport-- About a hundred or two hundred dollars,” he replied.
Then he followed the business class line. “We will find each other
again,” he waved.
Boarding, he looked around, but did not see me.
At the Bangkok airport, business card in hand, I introduced myself.
He agreed that the TRUE brand cell phone chip was the best. He obligingly
said to call if I needed anything.
The hotel shuttle greets me, and shows me to a cell phone
provider; I insist on the TRUE, and we go to that booth.
The ride to the hotel is uneventful, although the infamous
afternoon rush hour is on.
FIRST FOOD
Tuesday
Arriving late afternoon, I will have my first hotel breakfast not until 6; the
concierge said yes, there were food stalls on the small street next to the
hotel that were safe. A fruit slice at a cart tasted chalky. At the
end where the road turned, a woman welcomed my glance at the preparation
activity of food by a man. Perhaps the young couple owned the
business.
Drinks?
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| dosage instructions in Japanese |
I pointed at a bottle of water.
The rickety table near the Music TV had a view of bicycles, pedestrians, and
motorcycles entering a narrower street. I waited; the time was just long
enough to feel comfortably in pace with the place. A noise like a drum
roll was not a musical instrument; perhaps a recycling sound of cans? The
food arrived: a plate of sliced, broiled pork with a hot dipping sauce, a
basket of sticky rice and a plate of cucumbers and raw green beans. Tasty
and satisfying. About US $2. (someone more confident with currency
exchange rates told me that the 75 Baht I paid was about 2 dollars; I used this
as my standard conversion factor.) Opened 4 pm to 3 am. I was
the only customer; the place had just opened.
Wednesday
Hotel breakfast. I left the exotic choices for lunches and dinners.
I ate fried eggs, whole-wheat toast, juice. A soy soup: hot soymilk
with sugar to be sprinkled on top. A few croissants. Many
introductions by the early goers; table-hopping. The conference book
of proceedings was opened many times as “participants” promoted our
presentations.
THE PRINCESS
Opening ceremony.
The princess is coming!
Yes, a real princess, and what a princess. A white carpet at the hotel
entry. We some 600 conference-goers, mostly nurses, waited in the Ballroom,
instructed on when to rise and how to bow and curtsy. The princess, a
lawyer and women’s health activist, talked about her work with female
prisoners.
A question from the audience: What can nurses do [to help the project of
the princess]?
The princess answered: Nurses are the first responders to women who are
arrested, or who are victims. The criminal justice system needs
documentation of injury and complaint.
I poked the South African sitting next to me. She had shown me the
abstract of the presentation she would give on Friday: the document
filled out by nurses in South Africa in cases of allegations of sexual assault.
“How can I contact the princess?” she asked, modestly joking.
Lunch served by the hotel. Rotating platters of Thai food. Fruit dessert.
Afternoon session about Media, law, women’s health.
The moderator mentions buying silk in the hotel vestibule.
I shop after the session: silk scarves and a bracelet.
I put up my poster at the appointed time, 5- 6 pm; it will be seen on
Thursday. A nurse from Taiwan is unrolling her poster, and offers to help
me assemble my 24 sheets of paper onto a white base. I have brought my
poster map, stick-on glue stick, and assorted actual evidence of my becoming
patient (prescription envelopes with dosages in Japanese ; finger cots that
allowed me to play piano during days of painful nails; 5 x 7 photos of my
red-edged swollen toes and fingers).
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| Finger cots |
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| Katzman with poster |
DINNER
I tell the Taiwanese nurse about the food stand down the street. We
sortie. She recognizes the pot-on-pot dish. It looks like two clay
planting pots that are curved. The top pot holds water; the bottom pot
holds charcoal. She cooked. The waitress brought platters of fish,
meat, and vegetables.
THURSDAY
Keynote speeches all morning.
The first speaker, a Thai doctor named Krisana Kraisintu, told the story of her
life, including leaving Thailand in 2002 to practice medicine in Africa, which
led to building the first manufacturing plant for medicines in Africa with a
Chinese pharmacist. Self-effacing, she alluded to a movie made of her
exploits.
Thai pharmaceutical consultant Krisana Kraisintu for provides access to
life-saving AIDS medicine to disadvantaged people around the world.
Inspiring talk by Nancy Glass about a sustainable economy project in Congo
involved Pigs. Pigs become more pigs; women are allowed to own pigs;
gardens/crops prosper.
An Australian, Jon Adams, speaks about acupuncture and childbirth, citing his
own experience. His wife refused doctors’ offer “to go in and get it,”
and acupuncture resulted in the healthy birth of their first child.
I have introduced myself to Jon Adams, and agree to send him the articles I
discovered about Military Acupuncture, a topic that surprises him as much as it
did me.
Adams speaks about the need to bring acupuncture into the academic discussions
especially about how people make decisions about health care. 60% of
people use complementary and alternative medicine, but do not disclose their
use to doctors. “Don’t deny what 60 % of people do,” Adams says.
LUNCH
I stand by my poster. One of the South Africans asks me to walk her
through my poster. She asks if “shredding fingers” is in my paper to be
published in January; I say yes; she says that she will use my paper in the
class she teaches, and I agree that she can give the students my email address.
A nurse sees my poster and tells of the disappearance of her Stage 4 cancer 30
years ago. We agree on the transformative power of cancer on the
personality, but do not recommend that route to a young nursing student who is
her student.
Afternoon concurrent sessions; I miss the beginning because there is still some
traffic in the poster room.
I tell someone that I consider using my academic paper about
Becoming Patient for a class text, as I have for other academic papers I have
written. “Don’t,” she
advises. “I have talked about my
own health in nursing classes, but I always say that I am talking about ‘a
friend.’ Young students might be
emotionally compromised to know that their teacher is the subject.”
Another nurse advises, “Go home to family when the end is
near. Death can be very lonely.”
I go between sessions on the 14th and 3rd floor, mostly attending the Track 5
papers about Chronic Illness.
I take down my poster at 4.30 PM and swim. The banquet starts at 6.30.
Dancing lions and fish and monkeys are performed by costumed nursing students
at a Thai university who also take part in the academics of the conference.
I am well tended by a couple of the Thai nursing students who are not in
costume.
Friday
A stomachache plagues my sleep, and I vomit a large volume of liquid at dawn,
the solid component evidently squid.
I cannot eat breakfast, and several glasses of juice come right back up; I had
prepared a plastic bag. Shivering with chills, hearing only selected
words from the speaker—“not their fault,” etc—I leave the room, accompanied by
a breakfast friend. I ask a nurse’s advice: “lie down and sip a
bottle of water; you have to be able to keep clear liquids down.” She
takes my room number.
I sleep outdoors by the pool for two hours, and drink a liter of water.
I re-join the conference for lunch, happily.
I hear a variety of concurrent session presentations. There is a
fascinating talk about the IRIS project to “improve safety for survivors of
gender-based violence.” An American lawyer presents a study comparing
health protection for prostitutes in Nevada, the Netherlands, and Germany.
Closing ceremonies. I see myself dancing with two lions (costumed) in the
movie production of conference visual highlights. South Africa is
announced as the venue of the 2014 conference; the South African contingent
sings and dances.
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| Boat ride: our boat meanders |
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| Outboard engine |
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| Katzman, Shirley, Temple of the Emerald Buddha |
I call Ayumi’s office again, and he is in! He is leaving Bangkok that night,
however, and so cannot go sightseeing, but recommends the ‘Floating Market.’
I swim. I call about a massage; all booked for the evening in the
hotel. I talk to concierge about sightseeing tours for the morrow.
He shows well-thumbed plastic sheet with various tours. He says I would
have to book this evening for tours leaving Saturday at 8 am. I decide to
go without the tour, and hope for company.
I ask about local massages along the small street. The concierge tells me
the massage businesses are trustworthy, and quotes a price. The massage
place I go into succeeds in convincing me of the value of a 2-hour
massage. It was great! Every muscle was relaxed when I left at 11
pm.
Saturday
BREAKFAST
Most conferees have departed. About ten people remain. As I was
about to consign myself to sightseeing alone, the South Africans arrive.
Shirley and I leave the hotel around 11 am, headed for the public transit a
block away. I want to take a
boat ride on the river. We get as
far as the transit transfer; Shirley asks directions, and we get diverted to a
private boat service. Shirley
negotiates price (“Don’t mention again that you have American dollars!” she
tells me.) The boat meanders; very
crowded boats with outboard motors pass us. We are happy.
Our guide stops so we can walk around the Temple of Dawn. He leaves us at another landing, and I
am not ready to return to the hotel and we accept the guidance of an
enterprising woman to tour the Temple of the Emerald Buddha.
DINNER
Shirley and I returned to the hotel around 5 pm. The sun was
setting. A loud thunderstorm hit. We watched the concierge
skillfully field questions about jewelry shopping.
I was hungry. I had plans.
Shirley, also hungry, agreed to accompany me to dinner.
The cook at the street shop holds a root vegetable in one hand. He’s already
peeled it. The fruit is hard and white. He cuts it by wielding a 5”
bladed knife into it attacking on the point.
“I wonder what vegetable?” I ask Shirley.
“Zucchini?” she guesses.
‘No, it’s too hard.”
Finally her fish arrives, after the waitress took off on the bicycle and after
profuse apologies for lateness.
The fish was large, flat, had been grilled; the meat was white.
I swam, and slept, awakening to a
breakfast of napkinned bread from the previous morning and yoghurt.
RETURN
Ayumi, the gracious Japanese, had sent me email with his
cell phone number, but I hadn’t checked my email all week.
