Blood-letting, leeches, treatments dating back to 1500 BCE and being intimately massaged by Ivan Dorn: the state of medicine in Ukraine

I’m not a fan whatsoever of alternative medicine: for me, it’s evidence-based, scientifically-proven conventional treatments all the way.

But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

I’ve already been down this road, in extreme detail, in a post from nearly 7 years ago, in the early days of my first blog (7 years? Honestly?). I hate to quote myself, but nevertheless I will:

One doesn’t truly learn to appreciate living in lesser developed countries (am I starting to sound like an Orientalist yet?) until it comes time to deal with the typical and ever-present bureaucratic rigmarole of everyday living. In other words, the things most of us take for granted, such as healthcare. I’ve found that some of the starkest differences are to be found in three areas: hospitals, post offices and internet cafes. For me anyway, these have been the scenes of some of the most frustrating, enervating moments, though in retrospect I do laugh from to time. I suppose I can laugh as long as I survive.

(Note from the present: I think the reference to internet cafes is just a tad dated)

You’re probably better off reading that post - A bit of rigmarole and palaver, April 2009 -

in its entirety – it’s far better written than whatever drivel that will thus follow, and covers my medical history in far greater depth than the cursory, even derisory commentary below.

On the other hand, I hope I’m at least a bit less condescending in my beliefs these days than I used to be. Never mind ‘lesser-developed’ countries: I’ve had some pretty shaky medical care in the US and Spain. Many people fear going to the doctor. I actually don’t. Frustrating though it may be, there is more often than not some sort of adventure at stake.

Before I delve into my latest medical shenanigans in Kyiv, some brief highlights from previous doctor visits:

Nigeria 2004: even though I had very few problems health-wise – amazingly, even my tummy barely gave me trouble – I did have to get blood drawn. I was offered a couple of choices: a nice new, unused needle for around $3 or for half the price, a used (but sterilised, I was assured) for half the price. Obviously I went for the cheaper one – hey, if I can save a buck or two, why the hell not? Always opt for the cheaper version in cases like this.

Lviv 2005-6: never had to go to a doctor, not even once. I’m somewhat disappointed by this, in retrospect. The more case studies the better.

Spain 2006-7: the biggest quacks around. Despite what I suspected – and was later proven to be right – was a broken metatarsal, various doctors repeatedly insisted I had tendonitis or a neurological problem in my foot. Idiots.

Latvia 2007-8: one doctor thought that the 3-inch birthmark on my leg was the cause of my metatarsal ‘problem’, which was still lingering some 18 months later, while for my cracked rib hospital visit, where I saw various fingers, toes and other extremities lying about on floors and rubbish bins, I was blasted with a full-body x-ray with only my hands to protect the family jewels. I’m probably infertile as a result (go on, read the old post for a juicy, detailed rundown of this experience, it’s well worth it!)

Kyrgyzstan 2009: the inspiration for my original post. Doctors prescribing boiled eggs for just about every ailment, and trying to convince me that my ear infection was arthritis in my jaw.

My back and neck have been an endless source of bother over the past few years with no end in sight to your humble narrator’s suffering. I’m starting to run out of options, though I am always open to any and all suggestions (and by the way, I’ve received dozens of pieces of advice from caring friends/colleagues, which is all much appreciated, but a bit overwhelming, so I’m attempting new tricks bit by bit – be patient: at this rate, I’ll eventually get to try just about everything). A couple years back I had something akin to electro-shock therapy in a large, decrepit state hospital with barely functioning electricity.

I’ve had massages and physiotherapy sessions with all sorts of people in all sorts of locations.

I’ve had injections of liquefied insects and other mysterious concoctions and salves in some back-alley, borderline legitimate places where the only way to get there was by being blindfolded and bundled into the back of a van in the wee hours of the night.

I don’t trust the charlatans at the absurdly-overpriced (thank goodness the insurance pays) ex-pat friendly medical centre, but it seems I have little other choice these days.

So for my latest attempt to finally cure dear old Pedzo from his troublesome ailments, I’ve been subjected to an ancient form of Egyptian torture that has resulted in this:

I showed this to a student – she’s a neurologist – the other day, and she exclaimed ‘where is this doctor from, ancient China?’ (Hell, I’m so desperate that I’m taking off my shirt in class and asking my students for help!)

Though having leeches sucking on my blood might seem a bit ‘alternative’, the doctor assures me that it’s a tried-and-tested technique. I’m not so sure: a google search for ‘cupping therapy’ fails to convince me of its merits.

So for now, this guy sets to with feverish intensity, first pricking me all over with what feels like a retrograde staple gun and then setting the leeches upon me, even all the way down to my backside. He then prods and twists and manhandles me in various bear-hug type positions. His English is also far from perfect, and at times I’ve got no idea what he’s saying to me.

While I’m lying there being man- (and glad-) handled, I do what I can to take my mind off the agony I’m having to put up with. My thoughts start flowing in all sorts of wild directions. Naturally I’m not wearing my glasses as I’m lying there and I can barely see a thing with my near-blindness, and so lately I’ve been opening my eyes every now and then and I find myself staring into the eyes of Ivan Dorn.

Ivan…who? (my non-Ukrainian readers, will ask)

Back in November, I spent a couple of hours with Ivan Dorn, a popular Ukrainian singer, helping him with some song lyrics in English, mainly pronunciation but also with a few word choices and some grammar. My attempts were almost fruitless in trying to explain the importance of using present perfect in some situations, or an indefinite or definite article in others, or a particular preposition here or there while he lambasted me over how it screwed up the flow and rhythm of his melodies. But actually it was tremendous fun, though a potential partnership never materialised and my fledgling song-writing career came to an abrupt halt after just one session.

Anyway, a few people were quite excited over my ‘collaboration’ with Mr Dorn and asked me loads of questions. I remained fairly non-plussed: my days of fawning over singers and asking for autographs are long past. I’m still upset with myself over the time – when I was 19 -  I saw my all-time favourite band Suede having pizza across the street from the venue they would play that evening and was too chicken to ask them for as much as a photo. Instead, I waited till they had left and then took a photo of where they had been sitting, before the waitress had had a chance to clear the table. I’ve never been so star-struck since.

From a slight distance, my current blood-letting cupping physiotherapist friend bares an ever-so-slight small resemblance to Mr Dorn. Up close, he looks almost nothing like him. Minus glasses and a feverish imagination and desperate desire to ignore the pain, he’s the spitting image of Ivan. At least in my imagination he is.

If Ivan Dorn’s cupping and massage techniques are as good as his singing, well then…