Push-ups, the Practitioner, and Paracetamol

I'm sitting on my bathroom floor, and I'm sweating and shaking and pressing my face against the wall to cool myself down, and I'm wondering what will happen if I pass out here in a different continent all by myself, and so I prepare the Dutch emergency number on my phone just in case.

I'm sitting in a French café in the Alps, and I'm sipping on jasmine tea while eating flan—like a slice of flan the size of a large slice of pie—for breakfast, and I'm writing in my journal before I ride a cable car up the mountain where I'll enjoy beautiful panoramic views.

Those two scenarios both actually happened, and they happened in the span of a single week.

Let me backtrack. On Monday, January 22, I woke up feeling warm and achy. Perhaps those sit-ups and push-ups the night before really worked, I first thought. But it wasn't the type of soreness you feel after not working out for a month; no, it was the type of soreness you feel as you're coming down with the flu.

Despite my body's warnings, I got up out of bed and made my way to a meeting with a classmate regarding a presentation we were giving later that week. "I hope I'm not getting sick," I told Debra. I was, in fact, getting sick.

That next day was when I ended up in the bathroom, burning up and on the verge of passing out. It's very scary to feel so sick and isolated and helpless when you're alone in a different country. Who could take care of me? How will I get to the doctor? Do they have the same medicines here?

I consulted my half-awake boyfriend on FaceTime and decided to make a doctor's appointment with hopes I'd feel well enough to go out later. My international student insurance covered a general practitioner located on the far edge of Leiden. But I struggled for 15 minutes to complete a call to a Dutch number with my American phone. Who knew such a simple task could be such a challenge when you're feverish and feel like death!

Finally, I made an appointment for later that day. It was a big relief; but that was just the start of my journey. After a nap, I made my way to Leiden Centraal, the train station. That's where I needed to find a bus to take me closer to my appointment. If not, I'd have to walk 30 minutes, and I wasn't sure I'd make it. 

With a train system so flawless, I thought the buses would be easy to figure out in the Netherlands. I was wrong. A young Dutch woman advised me to go onto a bus and ask the driver if the route would take me to my desired stop. Two bus drivers were of no help, and the third was very rude to me. I wanted to say, "Sir, I know I might seem like a dumb American. But I am a sick dumb American, and you will not address me with that tone!" Instead, I thanked him when he finally pointed me toward the right bus.

But that was not the end of my adventure. I counted ten stops, then got off at Moddermanstraat. From there, I woefully struggled to find the building of my general practitioner. In the Netherlands, all the buildings just look like cute old homes; nothing screams "doctor's building!" So I call the general practitioner's office, and I pathetically tell the receptionist that I'm having trouble finding the building. She reminds me of the house number, and after 10 more minutes of struggling, I find it. 

Dr. Birnie (not Bernie Sanders, unfortunately) sees me, and he's a very nice man who agrees that I have the flu, and he says I should feel better in time for my weekend trip to Switzerland. Hallelujah! I shout internally. What kind of magic medicine will this wonderful man prescribe to make my sorrows wash away?

"Paracetamol," he says.

Oooh, that sounds fancy.

"You can get it for 1-2€ at any pharmacy," he says.

Oh, that sounds cheap. Hmm.

So I thank him and retrace my steps back to Leiden. I find a pharmacy and ask the pharmacist for paracetamol, and it is, indeed, very cheap. I get some essentials at the grocery store (vitamin water, bread, etc.), then finally make it back to my dorm.

I Google, what is paracetamol?, and find out that it is...

Tylenol. 

I navigated Dutch buses and neighborhoods in a feverish stupor just so a doctor could tell me to drink lots of water and take some Tylenol? At first, I was admittedly discouraged. There's no way I'll feel well enough by the weekend. I'll never make the flight and I'll lose so much money. I'm doomed.

But with more fluids than I'd consumed in all of 2017 and some cheap medicine, I started to feel better. It was a Dutch miracle. Check back next week to learn about what adventures ensued in Switzerland and France.