It’s got to be said, there is something a little weird about a ‘mothers intuition’…
I had chuckled when my mum cried as I left the family home to get to the airport, convinced after “nightmares” that something awful was going to happen to me on this trip. Truth be told, I had felt a little foreboding feeling too; but I blamed her conspiracy theories.
When I eventually arrived in Ao Nang, Krabi, all my concerns were swiftly forgotten about. I felt free, happy and excited to see what awesome memories the next couple of weeks had in store for me.
I spent days exploring the area and beach-hopping with new buddies from my Hostel. Friendly faces from across the globe, chucked together into a dormitory. I always love it.
On New Year’s Eve, with beers in hand, we watched the firework display on a packed end of the beach, before staying out til the early hours. Lanterns floated gracefully, released by Thai families and tourists alike. It was a fantastic first week, all in all… Until it kind of wasn’t.
I texted my parents one afternoon: might have sciatica. how annoying!
Earlier I had laid on the beach, pain beginning to radiate through my lower back and right hip. I wandered into a Thai massage place, where I am always confident all my ailments will be fixed.
I left the massage feeling worse, and indeed spent the rest of the day in my hostel bed. I writhed, hot then cold, until I realised I was going to be sick. Returning sheepishly from the shared toilets, I went back to laying intermittently with my curtain open, then shut, to match my fluctuating temperature.
I texted again: maybe a bug too, I’ve thrown up twice.
That night was rough. I was sick every 3-4 hours. I couldn’t keep water down and hadn’t been able to eat since breakfast. The benefit of the UK time difference meant my friends could comfort me, even googling local doctors and pleading me to get checked out. It didn’t open until 10am, and the wait was agonising.
I tried to downplay it, posting playfully on my Instagram story a poll for people to vote whether I would make it to Koh Phi Phi by ferry the next day.
In the morning, I scooted down to the doctors. The breeze under my helmet was about the only thing offering me relief. The doctor diagnosed me with gastroenteritis, and I left with medication in my hand and an injection in my booty cheek. It was enough to get me on the ferry to the beautiful nearby island of Phi Phi. I checked into my hotel, paid my deposit to the Dive Company, and managed about 5 bites of rice for dinner… the first real food I had stomached since the previous morning.
That is when the plans went awry. What had meant to be the staple portion of my trip – six days on Phi Phi with three of those diving – disappeared quite suddenly.
On FaceTime to my friends that evening, I hung up to be sick again. One of their comments stuck with me though: go back to the doctor if you need to, you know your own body.
I tend to be stubborn in treatment of pain, reluctantly taking ibuprofen when my period pain finally gets too annoying, or continuing my workouts on sore knees. But she was right, I knew my body… And Jesus Christ, it was not alright.
In my backpack, I shoved all my paperwork, passport, a few pairs of pants and pyjamas. A phone charger and a book. The essentials, I thought, for maybe an overnight stay. Practically crawling round the island, I eventually made it to the 24hr clinic…
I have long trusted in ✨the universe✨ and retrospectively I think that it was working for me when that Doctor misdiagnosed me and I managed to get to Phi Phi. The clinic here was rated 5* and, had I stayed in Krabi, the doctors would have closed by now. I hate to think what that night would have looked like without that 24hr clinic.
Again, I downplayed my pain to my parents, who I knew were probably already having kittens when I told them I was staying overnight with an IV. But, in some self-pitying desperation and loneliness, I posted a picture of the hospital bed to my Instagram story. It felt like a sad plea to the public – I’m here and I’m alone and everything hurts.
The nurses were genuinely great and, I think, had even more pity for me than I had for myself. My whole body shook intensely and uncontrollably as the pain pulsated through my stomach. I cried, threw up, writhed, repeated.
Painkillers via IV got me through the night and, although I wasn’t allowed to drink anything, I was still vomiting nothingness- it was the only thing to give me respite from the pain, weirdly. I can’t really summarise how much pain and defeatedness I felt that night. I would have done anything for it all to stop. To my friends, a simple: hurts more now.
At about 4-5am, the doctor suspected appendicitis and a nurse kindly went back to my hotel to pack and collect the rest of my belongings: there would be no diving, I was to be speedboated to Phuket hospital to be checked and potentially be operated on.
Can I have pain relief? The doctor shook his head, citing that it might cover my symptoms. I begged twice more and presumably my crumpled face was enough to make him give in- with one last dose I headed out to a speedboat, accompanied by a nurse. They were truly lovely there.
Streetlights lit the pier, which was eerily quiet apart from one man jogging. It was before dawn. I took a picture, as if to serve as a reminder that technically I did make it to Phi Phi once.
Eyes closed, I laid there. The nurse held a life jacket behind my head and regularly took my blood pressure for an hour, as the boat skimmed waves to get me to Phuket. The painkiller saved me I think, and I remember getting to land and thinking it was wonderfully peaceful. It was sunny, and a white bellied sea eagle circled above.
I came back to reality when I had to stand up, body shaking, propped up by an ambulance team into the back of their vehicle, before being blue-lighted to hospital.
I was bloody out of it. I later found out my fever was about 38.5. As they wheeled me into Thai A&E, I was reminded of the classic movies and tv shows: the shot of bright white hospital ceiling lights as the patient opens their eyes.
The next 8hrs were a mixture of ultrasounds, vomiting, CT scans, sorry texts home – all made bearable by morphine. On some dreamland, I was wheeled from scan to scan with my eyes barely able to open, body feeling warm and fuzzy. My parents had contacted a tour operator we had visited as a family (The Tuk Tuk Club, they’re amazing). When I regained some composure after that morphine hit, I caught up on their email thread about how they could support me out here (my parents couldn’t make it, and I didn’t want them to).
I replied humorously – not sure what they put in their painkillers here but they might be magic.
The results of the scans, however, didn’t show my appendix at all. Instead, a 4cm ovarian cyst… which had consequently twisted from the right side into the middle of my abdomen. Google tells me 4cm is about walnut sized. We need to operate, they had said. You need to sign this, because if the ovary is damaged, we will have to remove it.
Not even that particularly fussed me. As I said, I would have done anything for it to stop. It was only when they told me it was a general anaesthetic that I suddenly felt a pang of fear- and remembered how alone I was out here.
Being carted through, a nurse asked Have you had surgery before? I told her no, and that I had never been under anaesthetic. She squeezed my hand and smiled.
Now, I don’t want to boast, but I waking up from surgery I looked pretty fresh. The glint in my eye, which I’m sure was just pure elation as to no longer feeling crippling pain, reassured my tired parents slightly.
I slept all night, probably high as a kite, nurses came and went throughout the next 12hrs to check my vitals. Everything is ok? I had asked them. They said yes, and I was pleasantly hopeful that I did indeed have all of my reproductive organs still.
The surgeon came back in the afternoon. I asked him if I still had two ovaries…
Yes, two ovaries. But we took your Fallopian tube, it was twisted and damaged. The other side is healthy and you can still get pregnant. The way he said it was casual, which was weirdly comforting.
The way that the fact amused me surprises me still actually. It may have been the generic relief at the end of the ordeal, but I actually didn’t feel I minded that I was one Fallopian tube down. The surgeons latter sentence, about still being able to get pregnant, was probably a huge factor in this.
It wasn’t until I read the pathology report that I learnt the tube had actually ruptured; a far more serious occurrence that can be life threatening according to Google. The language barrier may have meant that bit of information was missed before… I decided to stop Googling it.
I joked about it online, and made a stupid TikTok. Throughout the two days of my stay, I looked out of the window of my (absolutely lovely) hospital suite at a gorgeous view. I watched Netflix, napped, told friends about this weird travel story of mine, and ate about three spoonfuls of hospital food… Not only was it disgusting but my stomach hurt to be filled with anything. I signed paper after paper and paid copious amounts of money that I will now chase my insurance for, for weeks no doubt.
I replanned the rest of my trip, which now included no swimming, let alone diving. I was determined not to let this ruin the whole of my holiday, and I was impressing myself at my recovery.
My parents kindly paid for two nights in a more luxurious hotel in Patong Beach, Phuket, after which I planned to relax in Phi Phi again. The first sunset on my release felt like the most gratitudinal moment of my life.
The two days of luxury flew by and, just by walking two or three times a day, my stomach would ache intensely. I had clearly overestimated my abilities to move around, and accepted I should probably stay in Patong instead of trying impossibly to lug my suitcase on a ferry to Phi Phi. At least I’m in Thailand, I thought, even if I can barely sit up on my own.
Moving to a private room in a hostel was the perfect compromise. I rested in my own big bed, but chatted with random other travellers in the common areas upstairs: a faux grass rooftop with a tiny sunken pool that seemed like an elongated jacuzzi.
I got back to enjoying my holiday, albeit in a much more restful way. I went to eat lunch by the beach, where some Australian friendliness landed me with plans for the evening. We wandered the beachfront that night to get food, and experience the Walking Street of bars – before curfew called it a night at 9pm. The police rolled by, and I was secretly glad to be able to go and rest.
A couple of days more and I didn’t even need my painkillers, although I walked applying pressure to my one wound: the belly button incision. It was easier to walk when it was braced.
I decided to take a trip for one night to Phi Phi, so I could at least experience it, but leave my luggage in my room in Patong. Early the next morning, I boarded the boat with two guys from my hostel who were making the same journey.
We were headed for the same hostel on the island, which turned out to be a porch and three big 8bunk rooms and nothing more. Together, the three of us relaxed at a beach bar and lightheartedly discussed how normal it is to just kind of stick with random people you bump into. You just have to kind of do it, don’t you? You’re welcome to stay with us but we won’t be offended if you want to go off, one had said. I assured them that I was happy to continue stalking them.
I know I spoke about feeling gratitudinal before, but I really felt it that day. The poet in me felt all cosy and I started to think up phrases as to how to summarise the strange, immediate familiarity you get with other travellers out here. Without knowing more than a name and nationality, sometimes, you can begin to poke fun like old friends, plan tomorrow’s activities like tour buddies, and feel effortlessly relaxed around people who are essentially strangers. And that they still are, as I didn’t get any of their contact details at all. You’re just a group of people forever locked in a memory of a good day.
We laid there in the shade all afternoon, with cocktails. Later, a group of boys they knew – one of which I had previously met at the Patong hostel – joined us too. Adding random stragglers throughout the night, our group grew as we sat until the early hours of the morning on the beach.
I stayed sipping the same drink all night so not to drunkenly reverse any healing, watching the others enjoy copiously alcoholic buckets and slur their words. It ended with a classic trip to 7-Eleven, which is the sign of a great night out in Thailand if you ask me.
Back to Patong the next day, my holiday was drawing to a close. I had been whizzed to my check up at the hospital from the pier, on the back of an old taxi mans scooter. I was assured I was healing well, given cream, paperwork and off I went.
Paddling up to my hips for the remainder of my trip was fine. It wasn’t ideal and I dream about my next opportunity to come back and dive, but I reminded myself daily of a quote I had seen on somebody’s Instagram story the day after my operation: wherever you are, be all there. It felt as though that quote had meant to find me.
Be all there I was determined to be. I thought about getting it tattooed and decided against it.
Despite this being the most crazy trip I have ever been on, and not in the most fun way, I am still happy. Even now as I write this, prepared to fly home tomorrow, small feelings of disappointment and guilt at not having had the most incredible time are washed away by the realisation that… at least I’m here.
In fact, the only genuine upset I have felt is at the state of my newly sewn belly button. It was weird before, but trust me it is ugly now. I shed my first tear when I saw it, but life will go on.
Wrapping up the holiday, I’m focusing on the wins. The amazing people I have met. The pride I feel for my confidence at 25 years, enabling me to make friends with ease and navigate a healthcare system on my own. The strength I feel for getting through it with a genuine lightheartedness.
The unity I felt with the numerous other women who messaged me to tell me they had gone through similar. Either out of the blue like me, or after years of ‘period pain’ being underplayed by doctors until things progressed.
RIP my right Fallopian tube, anyway.
I’m sure I’ve learnt lots of things this trip. I’ll probably suss them all out on the long journey home.
But I think the most valuable lesson is the importance of travel insurance, kids. Because, Christ, who knows what’s going to happen.
P.S. this is my public thanks to my friends and parents who undoubtedly kept me more sane throughout that whole crazy stint, and to the people in my life (close and acquaintances) who checked in on me, or at least put up with my silly coping-mechanism internet posts… You all made me feel a little closer to home.
More Words, More Jess 