Medicinal Madness

A quest to overcome a traveler's worst nightmare, a common cold

The small vial was made of brown glass and sealed with a tight metal cap. I rolled it between my thumb and forefinger and began to suspect that the sole purpose of its existence was to annoy me. Eying the mysterious liquid, I once more reflected on the mistake two days prior that led me to my current predicament.

         It had been a Friday, and the arrival of the end of the week had inspired my coworker to propose a bar hopping venture in nearby San Li Tun. This would have been the ideal expenditure of the evening except for one problem, the pouring rain. Sure enough, the combination of being soaked, drinking copious amounts of a Chinese liquor called Bai Jiu, and getting only three hours of sleep produced a terrific cough, clogged up sinuses, and a pounding headache, which admittedly may have also been the lingering effects of the potent Bai Jiu.

         Reluctantly waking the next morning, I groaned as I saw the symptoms. Though getting sick is never a pleasant experience, getting sick in a foreign country is often a traveler’s worst nightmare. This is doubly so if the traveler cannot speak the local language, as a mistranslation in a medical situation can have some rather negative effects. Yet there I was, doing what was at the top of my list of “What not to do in Beijing”; getting sick.
         
        Initially, I decided to take the path of the stoic and try to "tough it out". Unsurprisingly, my condition worsened and when Monday arrived I was promptly banished from the workplace. Feeling dejected and suddenly having a lot of time on my hands, I decided seek some form of medical attention. When I finally stumbled upon a pharmacy, I was surprised to note that every single member of the staff was decked out in a nurse costume, complete with a lab coat and a Red Cross emblem cap.

         After pantomiming a cough and headache - much to the amusement of the staff - I was on my way home with two boxes of medication and a newfound confidence in my abilities. This momentary pride, however, quickly dwindled when I opened the boxes at my apartment.

         Dozens of small vials spilled out, unlike any remedy I had ever seen. What in the world were they for? Determined, I spread them out on my bed and eyed them distrustfully. I scanned the directions on the box, which, as they were in Chinese characters, did nothing to unveil the mystery of the vials. I then decided that I should emulate the great Sherlock Holmes and use the power of deduction to discover their purpose.

        My first guess was that they were meant to be injected, as the vials resembled the serum vials I had seen on medical shows. Luckily, I quickly dismissed this theory as far too extreme for a common cold. My next, more logical conclusion was that it was meant to either be gargled or swallowed.

         Working off this theory, I tried to unscrew the metal caps. They were unrelenting. Frustrated, I set upon the caps with my teeth, which only served to add a toothache to my list of symptoms. Finally, I decided to use my pocket knife, and was immensely pleased when I punctured the cap.

         Yet my triumph was laced with a degree of hesitancy. How sure was I that my crude attempt at communication with the nurses was fully understood? What if they had given me an ointment, hydrogen peroxide, or some other form of liquid that should not be imbibed? I could already picture the headlines of tomorrow's newspaper, "Foreigner Kills Himself by Drinking Foot Deodorant, Local Authorities Remain Puzzled." Once the seed of doubt took root, all confidence in my detective abilities fled.

         Relenting to the fact that I was indeed a stranger in a strange land, I used a lifeline in the form of a phone call. Though my original intention had only been to ask one of my local Beijing friends for advice, Cui Ying assured me that she would leave her office and be at my apartment in half an hour. Fifteen minutes later she showed up at my door accompanied by her secretary, Karin. They both immediately began to diagnose my sickness, with each taking turns feeling my forehead for my temperature and discussing my condition in rapid Chinese. At this point, the maid walked through the door and, seeing all the fuss, joined in; effectively ensuing a new round of temperature taking and unintelligible prognoses.
         
         I stood twiddling my thumbs and remaining very much out of the loop as the three women decided my fate. I was then informed that my medication was wrong and that I would need new medicine and special types of food. They opened my fridge to take stock of my supplies and, to my everlasting shame, found that its only occupants were a half empty bottle of Jim Beam, the remnants of the Bai Jiu, and a half eaten two week old dumpling. The looks I received could only be described as ones of maternal amusement and reproach.

         An hour later, my fridge was fully stocked with health foods such as pickled cabbage. Cui Ying handed me the new medicine and to my astonishment it also was in vials, identical to my former medication in all but the brand name. It was then that Cui Ying pointed out the small straws at the bottom of the box that had escaped my notice. She showed me how the straws easily poked through the caps so that the user could drink the medicine. The simplicity of it all had me slapping my palm to my forehead and blushing in embarrassment. With some parting advice to only drink warm water and to avoid walking around barefoot, Cui Ying and Karin exited as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me in a state of stupefaction. 

         It took less than two days for me to be up and running 100% again. I had survived the nightmare of frequent travelers, with all the credit due to the care and advice of the maid, Cui Ying, and Karin. But apart from learning about the right foods, medicines, and methods of using those frustratingly strange vials, I took away from the experience a much more valuable lesson. Though it had only been for a moment, I had known briefly the feeling of having not just one Chinese mother, but three. This momentary glimpse was surely one of the most unusual, overwhelming, and genuinely endearing experiences I have had thus far in Beijing.