That's what it feels like to enter the American Embassy in Ouagadougou. Mobiles must be removed from your bag and turned off. iPods, too. A simple bottle of water must be examined. Bags are removed from your person and stowed in cubbies. You are then issued a claim check for your belongings and a very official-appearing visitor badge. It’s all very exciting. I told myself that I should feel at home. Not only because it’s like checking your coat in First Class on American Airlines, but also because the strongly-gated U.S. Embassy is an official little slice of America right there in Burkina Faso. But it didn’t feel that way. The Embassy may be new and ultra-modern inside, but it's still surrounded by desert, goats, and garbage. And then there is that little bit with the U.S. Marine guard, which one rarely encounters on American Airlines.
I love when I weigh less than 60 kilos. I feel absolutely tiny. I’m far from tiny. Never have been; never will be. But at less than 60 kilos, I feel positively . . . well . . . unimpeded by gravity. And what caused this blithe attitude? We may never know. And at this juncture, there's not a doctor on this continent (nor, evidently, in D.C.) who knows what is happening inside of me.
I came in to Ouaga from Pô with a history of low-grade fever and nausea. After repeated, nay, daily blood-lettings, my WBC has risen from 15,000 to its current level of over 24,000. Normal is the 8000-10,000 range. My WBC rose over 8000 in a single day. Over 8000! I should be comatose. But, in fact, I don't feel particularly ill.
Today's cavalier attitude is due, in no small part, to my Business Class trip from Ouagadougou to Dakar, Sénegal late last night. Yes, I've been medevac'd to the PC's regional medical center. Business class . . . with a little rosette of salmon garnished with a tapennade shaped into little leaves, a lime-pepper chicken, a raspberry mousse, and cheeses! Blues and Camembert! Then I stepped off the plane to the light, heady aroma of fresh oysters. It's only the ocean . . . it's not as if someone greeted me with a plate of les fruits de la mere. Nevertheless. I smell ocean. Sitting on the curb outside the PC's office in Dakar, one can feel the salt hitting bare skin from the ocean breeze. All this, and the temperature is cool. Chilly, in fact. I've been medevac'd to PC heaven.
Today was a 30-minute trip down the coast to the hospital for testing. Just a CT scan with contrast. Ever had one of those? The contrast liquid goes in by I.V. and fills you from head to tip-o'-toe with hot liquid. It is utterly freaky, though not painful. And so we wait for results. And we wait. And wait. I should remind myself, it's Dakar, not Bogart's Casablanca. So what is the etiology of the curious case of the sky-high WBC? Anyone out there even know what I mean when I use the term WBC? How about significant differential left shift? We can only speculate.
0 Response to "I'll See Your 16 And Raise You 8"