A painful operation in Homs

It's three o'clock at night. The nagging pain under my ribs that I've been having these last few months has changed to a stinging pain, like someone's stabbing me with a thick knitting-needle. I can't sleep anymore and feel worn out in the morning. We are worried: this pain doesn't seem normal or harmless. We fear it might be appendicitis. My breakfast consists of a cup of tea, not enough for a cyclist. We decide to alter our route: instead of going to Crac des Chevaliers we head for Homs and a doctor.
A few hours and 53 kilometres later we find an English-speaking doctor, via the shabby hotel owner and a pharmacist. Besides doctor, he's also head of a private clinic in Homs. The sympathetic elderly man examines me very thoroughly, has X-rays and scans taken and urine and blood tested. His first prudent diagnosis is liver- or gallbladder-infection. When he receives the results from X-rays and scans he's sure the gallbladder is the wrongdoer. The suggested treatment is a visit to the clinic, where medicine will be administered. When the drugs are not sufficient, an operation will be necessary. I have tears in my eyes; I absolutely do not want to go to a hospital in these strange surroundings, in a country where we do not speak the language, which has an unknown level of health care. We do have faith in doctor Dabaj though, who studied in Lebanon and the United States of America. In his own car he takes us to the private-clinic.

The clinic (Medico Surgical Hospital) looks very clean and well cared for from the outside. I get assigned to a big room and immediately a drip is placed. Again blood is taken and medication given. Two surgeons examine me and can't reach a final diagnosis: the pain is too widespread in my whole abdomen to be caused by the gallbladder alone. I stay in the hospital, Peter goes back to the hotel by taxi.

The taxidriver tells Peter that he never ever visits a doctor, that's far too expensive. When he has complaints he visits one of the many pharmacists, buys some kind of medicine and that's that.

I have a very bad night with a lot of pain. Every breath causes a tearing pain in my chest. The Arab-speaking nurses are very sweet and like to chat very much. The news that we do not have any children causes an upheaval. In the morning an echo is made, it reveals the presence of the gallstones. I do have a lot of pain in places that can't be explained. The drugs begin to work, although now I do have a fever.
The room looks sober, but clean. There is an adjoining bathroom that doesn't have the same level of cleanliness. It contains a big bathtub, unfortunately opening the tabs doesn't cause water to flow in the tub. Washing and showering you have to do yourself here, if necessary with help of family. I arrange with the doctor that I can take a shower. This takes place in a very luxurious suite, where there actually is a shower with water. The nurses that accompany me arrange for towels and soap and wash me with a lot of pleasure. Special treatment.

After two days my condition has improved somewhat, but not enough to discharge me. The doctors keep being uncertain about the exact diagnoses and advise us strongly to go back to the Netherlands and have my operation there. Telephone conversations with Travel Care (our insurance) are very disappointing. They judge the level of health care in Syria to be sufficient to be operated there, despite the fact that the doctors here are not sure about the diagnosis and their advice to go back to the Netherlands. We decide to pay the tickets ourselves and get me in a Dutch hospital that way. The insurance-company puts a stopper on this idea as well: my condition might deteriorate because of the flight. In that case they pay absolutely nothing. We ask our doctors in Homs whether it's possible that my condition might deteriorate because of flying, they just laugh about it. However much we talk to the insurance company: we're not allowed to fly and I have to be operated in Syria. This must be a lot cheaper for them.

Awaiting the results of the medication I have left the hospital. Despite a continuous nagging pain I walk around town with Peter. We internet, do some shopping and extend our visa. The last sounds like a few minutes work, but we reserve a few hours for it, just to be on the bureaucratic safe side. After a lot of asking around we at last find the immigration office on the third floor of a dubious shopping centre. We fill in the right forms at civil servant 1, in a far too small office. On the wall hang sagging bookshelves that are overloaded with thousands of files that can come down any minute now with a loud thunder to do their smashing work. Two civil servants are making tea on a private stove between the Pisa-tower like piles of forms. Constantly acquaintances, colleagues and friends come in to shake hands, drink tea and chat. Our Latin writing is not readable for our civil servant. He looks for a chance visitor who can translate our form in the elegant Arab writing. Chance is on our hand: minutes later our form is translated and we can go to have copies made and to buy stamps. That's a department two floors down, somewhere in the region of civil servant 2. With help from some passers by we succeed to fulfil this task and return to civil servant 3 who puts our form, with the stamps this time, on a huge pile. After having waited for some time, civil servant 3 writes some things in Arab on our form and takes the big immigration-book. The eighties computer gets started: we're well on our way! Civil servant 2 nods very importantly with his head, indicating that we are allowed to report to the big chief: smart office, braids on his jacket, an exquisite wooden desk, armchairs and a color-televisionset. He has the huge responsibility to sign the endless stream of forms. He signs ours, with a nod we can return to civil servant 2 who takes our forms and disappears in the catacombs of the building. We take seats on the benches that are still warm. At the moment we start to despair at his return with our forms, he reappears and takes a seat behind the computer. After a few indistinct actions he hands our forms over to civil servant 4. This one immediately asks for money. It's not clear to us whether this is a bribe or a regular fee, clear is that if we do not pay, the big chief will not sign the last necessary paper. It's only a small amount of money. We pay, get the signature and are ready!

The 28th of October I have to return to the hospital, where the doctor certifies that the medication hasn't done its job. Surgery is necessary. We are not allowed to go to the Netherlands, I will have to be operated here. On the 29th of October, in the morning, I'm brought into an operation-room for the first time since I was five years old. Peter is not allowed to come along and stays back in the empty room. He looks at the empty bed, smoothes down some folds in the sheets and takes my place. He closes his eyes and waits.