Sunday at lunch I started discussing my intestinal discomfort with Dr. J, our translator. He immediately put pen to paper to start writing me a prescription (I think most of his prescriptions are for cipro), but after I told him about one of my symptoms in particular, he said it was a bit more serious and that I should come to his clinic. Now, as much as I like Dr. J, I had more than one person tell me, “Jon, whatever you do, do not go to an Afghani doctor!” So I cut out of class early on Sunday, took Vince’s advice, and headed for the German clinic. R took me there in his car. I thought the place was supposed to be close, but we crawled through traffic for some time before turning onto a muddly, disordered road that I thought could not possibly be home to the image I had of a clean, efficient German clinic. But down the road a bit more, while we rolled through big brown puddles and potholes, the German clinic emerged.
Very clean place, actually. We had to put on these blue plastic shoe prophylactics (with 
which I had had my first experience in the museum in Moscow) just as we got in, and there was a gal constantly pushing around this flat mop-type thing. So the floor was clean and I felt confident about the hygiene of the place. I saw a German doctor and his female Afghani partner who prodded my belly, drew some blood, and asked me to produce "a sample." “Well, I don’t know about you folks, but I just can’t do that on command—and the fact is, with the *constitution* I’ve had, I don’t know if I’ll be able to at all.” “Yes, some things we cannot do on commant, even if there is a gun to the head, yes?” smiled the German doctor, a narrow guy with white hair, white beard, and glasses—rather like Santa Clause after the South Beach diet. I politely declined the offer of a suppository (I still have a bad memory from right after my appendectomy in third grade), so they sent me home with a laxative and would see me Monday morning.
which I had had my first experience in the museum in Moscow) just as we got in, and there was a gal constantly pushing around this flat mop-type thing. So the floor was clean and I felt confident about the hygiene of the place. I saw a German doctor and his female Afghani partner who prodded my belly, drew some blood, and asked me to produce "a sample." “Well, I don’t know about you folks, but I just can’t do that on command—and the fact is, with the *constitution* I’ve had, I don’t know if I’ll be able to at all.” “Yes, some things we cannot do on commant, even if there is a gun to the head, yes?” smiled the German doctor, a narrow guy with white hair, white beard, and glasses—rather like Santa Clause after the South Beach diet. I politely declined the offer of a suppository (I still have a bad memory from right after my appendectomy in third grade), so they sent me home with a laxative and would see me Monday morning.Well, Sunday night I read up on intestinal parasites and was nearly positive that’s what I had. Monday morning’s trip back to the clinic seems to have confirmed it—my little buddy is blastocystis hominis.
Apparently this little guy is common—easy to get but hard to get rid of. The doctor laughed as he handled the “little breakfast” of pills I would get to take, saying, “we like you to get your money’s worth, yes?” Day one was four tinidazole, which I have to take another four of in twelve days. Days two through eleven I take two cotrimoxazole and a doxycycline in the morning and evening. This intestine ain’t big enough for the both of us, blastocystis hominis, your days are numbered!!!
(Coincidentally, I haven't seen cipro listed anywhere as a treatment.)
(Coincidentally, I haven't seen cipro listed anywhere as a treatment.)
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