Makainsh mushkil?

Most days, I feel pretty good about my Arabic skills. Basic, everyday things like grocery shopping and taxi rides are makainsh mushkil (no problem). I’ve even gotten to the level where I can sometimes eavesdrop successfully. But the past few days have been a severe blow to my Arabic ego, largely because of a persistent medical condition that I finally sought treatment for after almost a month of self-medicating.

My past few weeks have revolved around a pretty much constant UTI. Wait, wait. Before you freak out on my behalf, let me clarify: This isn't the horribly painful, peeing-blood, kidney infection type of UTI (Al hum du le lah!). The only symptom of my particular variety is that I have to pee pretty much constantly. Which, you know, isn't the end of the world. But it is exhausting and frustrating to constantly battle your body: "No, self, you do NOT have to use the bathroom. We just went 10 minutes ago. Shut up."

My biggest UTI-instigated setback has been travel, or my lack thereof. Since travel in Morocco generally means non-existent bathrooms (buses don’t have them), embarking upon a voyage with a UTI is a cruel misadventure that I've avoided for the most part (with one notable exception that I’ll blog about later, in sha allah). Even the seemingly simplest of excursions (exploring the medina right outside my house) can go south quickly. And so I’ve generally been staying in the house, where there’s a toilet I know and trust, which means that I’ve missed out on some cool adventures with fellow Fulbrighters.

With an Independence Day vacation looming and a trip to Spanish Morocco in the works, I decided that enough was enough. I found a well-recommended doctor in the Ville Nouvelle, Fes’s new city, and gave her a call. Unfortunately, she couldn’t fit me in until the 28th. So I decided to walk-in to another doctor. This is where my problems began.

The doctor was a French woman, with no knowledge of Darija. This made our communication next to impossible, since, while I can understand French pretty well, I can't speak it. At all. I never realized just how much I rely on a combination of basic Darija, even more basic French, smiles, hand gestures, and “makainsh mushkil.” This did not fly with the French doctor. She looked at me like I was crazy when I responded to her questions in Darija (a natural reaction, after 10 weeks of Darija class). After a few botched attempts at communication, she then summoned her male, Moroccan assistant, who spoke to me in Classical Arabic, even after I begged him not to. And so they both spoke to me at the same time, and I understood maybe 20% of what they were saying. Things were not makainsh mushkil.

Despite my general lack of comprehension, I was able to understand that there are no labs attached to doctor’s offices in Morocco. The patient goes to the lab on his or her own, then gets the results later, and brings them back to the original doctor for analysis. I was told to do this by the French doctor.

As I obediently walked to the lab this morning, it dawned on me that I was remarkably close to the original, well-recommended doctor. I guess a little of Morocco has rubbed off on me, because I decided to stop by and plead my case for an emergency appointment. Surprisingly enough, they agreed to squeeze me in today. The doctor was Moroccan, understood my Darija, and, most importantly, didn’t make me feel like a complete idiot. Al ham du le lah!

While I haven’t gotten any lab work back yet, I'm a lot more comfortable with my new doctor, and I feel well enough to take a trip this weekend, in sha allah. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my chronic UTI experience, it’s that your health is NEVER makainsh mushkil. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way, and I’ll think of this experience in the future, since I’ll almost certainly encounter health problems again. After all, I’m in a country where even fairly complex medical care is affordable; I might as well take advantage while I can.