So yeah, I got bedbugs last week, and, feeling confessional, I thought I would let you know about the delightful fun this caused me at the hospital.

I presume the bedbugs were hanging out on my bed having a thoroughly good time, when one of the little blighters decided to have a bite of my right ankle; it became worryingly infected and didn’t look like it was going to heal in a hurry. So after putting it off for days, I plucked up the courage to go to hospital.

Entering Beijing Chaoyang Hospital (北京朝阳医院) it was hard to recognize exactly where I was supposed to go. People were running between counters waving white pieces of paper at staff, while others were running up a confusing myriad of staircases in all directions. I paused a minute to take in the chaos and tried to find my bearings. It was ok though, I had Pleco as my wingman for when my Mandarin failed me. Amongst the bedlam I located the dermatology department (pífūkē – 皮肤科) on the 9th floor – the very top.

Approaching the escalator, a stern-looking security guard asked guàhào ma? (挂号吗?) – “Have you registered?” It seems this is the first thing you have to do in a Chinese hospital and it set me back 20 RMB ($3.20). Yup, the meter was running.

Registration card-in-hand, I headed back upstairs and slunk past the surly security guard from earlier; he seemed to be remonstrating with an angry group of pensioners (just why are pensioners always angry?).

Back on the 9th floor, I optimistically waited outside a door labelled “Skin Specialist.” Half an hour later some old chap waved me in. The doctor stared at me for a second, only to force me be back out, hollering guàhào guàhào. Registration, again?

I noticed a sign saying “Dermatology Department Registration Counter” in perfect English and figured I was in the right place. I handed over the bundle of documents, receipts, cards and other perplexing paraphernalia I had been given earlier; the nurse stared at me blankly.

Nǐ zěnme le?- “What’s wrong with you?”

Pífū yǒu wèntí – “I have a skin Problem”

Not my Mandarin’s finest hour, but it seemed to work.

I was presented my second registration, this time with the dermatological department of the hospital – it clocked in at 49 RMB ($8)- the meter ticking, I wondered where I would have to register next. Apparently this process is quite normal, everyone wants a slice of that sweet registration pie. The countless documents were piling up too, and began spilling out of my hands like something out of a bad comedy; Chinese patients looked on and chuckled. Reluctantly paying the bill, I was given a number and sent through a door to a waiting area.

Once again it was pandemonium. People were clambering over each other, and arguments were breaking out everywhere over who was the most ill and therefore most urgently needed to be seen. I wondered if my bedbug attack was going to make the grade. The number system was completely irrelevant as people pushed and shoved their way to the front of various queues. The check-up rooms doubled up as waiting rooms, giving any patient about as much privacy as a goldfish in a bowl.

The number system was briefly restored and, finally, I was called to a room. I pushed my way through the numerous crowds and was redirected to some doctors with tenuous grasps of English. Eventually, I found one able to understand that I had been bitten by an insect, but we were unable to determine what type (‘bedbug’ was a bit of a stretch for Pleco). We settled on “bitten by mosquito.” Close enough I thought, a couple of antihistamines later and I’d be out of there, surely?

A short examination ensued:

“Have fever?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“No.”

“HIV?”

“No…wait. What the f*ck!”

“We need to do a blood test for HIV and syphilis.”

HIV… Syphilis! Outrageous I thought, but ever the Englishman I didn’t cause a fuss. Instead I tried politely explaining that me having AIDs or Syphilis was probably off the menu, but the more I protested the more anxious she became to carry out tests. Feeling this would take a while and with a couple of eager patients breathing down my neck, I simply gave in. And I was presented with my third, or was it fourth bill? Eighty RMB ($13) – this was starting to get expensive, that meter was not going to stop for the small matter of an AIDs test.

“Third floor, blood test, NEXT!”

On the third floor I approached the “Blood-letting Zone.” Yup, a whole zone dedicated to outdated, indeed pre-Christian, medical practices. I pined for the benevolent nurses from back home, who would pin-prick me but only after maternally telling me, ” It’s just like a scratch, dear.” No such luck in the sinister sounding “Blood-letting Zone.” A tube was hurriedly wrapped around my arm, which was aggressively pinned down by a nurse. And, without a word, BLAM, a needle was produced from nowhere and viciously stabbed into my arm. Again, I pined for motherly British nurses.

Unpleasant blood tests over, a quick urine test was thrown into the mix and I anxiously awaited the results. Had this little bedbug given me full blown Aids or was I to escape with mere Syphilis?

For a period of five minutes but which felt like five days, all rationality went out the window. What if, what if? I thought over and over again. Wasn’t it possible that, feeling randy, this particular bedbug bug had slept with another bedbug, neglected to use a condom and then decided to bite me? Maybe I did have AIDs… It was all getting too much; I was losing it. Three hours passed and my mind continued to race.

The agonizing wait did little to settle my nerves. I was ushered over, my heart was thumping – the diagnosis shocked me:

“Nothing irregular.”

Phew! Embarrassed at my earlier nerves just because someone in a white coat had nonchalantly strung off a list of serious illnesses, I decided to leave, forgetting the reason I had come in the first place.

“Please sit down, we will need to run more tests.” Crikey, here we go again! What awful diseases were they gonna test me for this time, cancer, the plague, perhaps death itself?

This time I was to undergo a routine blood test but would have to come back the following day. According to the doctor, they closed at 6.30 pm. Why on earth was I still here?

Six hours after arriving, I was on my way home with no answers for the small bite that I had assumed routine. I imagined the bedbugs clinking glasses and celebrating.

The following day, every man and his dog in Beijing was having his blood tested in the “blood extraction center” (one of the more discernible Chinese hospital-sign translations), and after paying another 20 RMB ($3.20) (the meter had been going a full day now) and waiting two hours, I collected my results.

“A small infection” – Prognosis: a course of antihistamines and a tube of antibacterial cream, 40 RMB ($6.50). Fantastic, beats chemotherapy any day of the week.

My hospital misadventure had taken eight hours spread over two days and had set me back 130 RMB ($22). I didn’t know what to be angrier about, the bureaucratic nature of Chinese hospitals, or the cocky little bedbug that had unwittingly started the whole mess.

Why had it had taken so long, was it my fault or the fault of the system?

Was it an overarching worry about infectious diseases – AIDS has become the deadliest infectious disease in China -, or a money-making ploy – many of these hospitals rely heavily on independent funding – that turned a routine visit into such an ordeal? Was I simply being naïve by walking into the hospital with no idea about how the system works? Probably a bit of both I guess.

Whatever, I’m praying not to have to return soon; I never want to set foot in a Chinese hospital again. The hospital had taken me on an emotionally scarring roller coaster and, much like bedbugs, I’m really not a fan of roller coasters.

Cover image courtesy of Chaoyang Hospital