Sylvia's Journal

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Last night we had a late and outrageously expensive dinner (mostly because of the wheat- and grape-based beverages but also because the restaurant’s location) at the Dubai Mall overlooking the famous dancing fountains. The mall closed at midnight and was still full of small children who appeared more awake than we were.

This morning was my day of medical tourism. We took a taxi to a part of Dubai that is called Dubai Health Care City. The place is chock-a-bloc hospitals, specialized clinics, group practices and pharmacies. My appointment was in building 55, which made me wonder whether there were at least 54 other buildings.

I was swiftly diagnosed by Dr. Ali, a young surgeon from Pakistan (I think) who trained in Toronto and at Brigham and Women’s in Boston. He has scheduled me for carpal tunnel surgery on the 11th. He also ordered an X-Ray (done) and an MRI (Monday) to find out what is wrong with my painful knee. If there is something to be fixed in the knee he will do it right after the carpal tunnel surgery on Thursday. And so, this medical visit to Dubai is as much mine as it is Axel’s.

My new orthopod works in a medical group practice that made me reflect on care in Afghanistan. This place has everything Afghanistan doesn’t have: for starters, a large number of well educated nurses. All of them have been trained by the government of The Philippines, after which they left for greener pastures. The education of nurses has thus become a significant subsidy by the Philippine government to the UAE. It really should be the other way around.

And then of course there is the infrastructure of this place – uninterrupted water, electricity, salaries paid on time, internet at lightspeed, integrated machines that check your temperature, blood pressure and god knows what else with one push of a button. All the while I am thinking, why? Is this only about money or is there something else?

After our doctor’s visit we played tourists. We took a bus tour, a dhow trip along the creek and then a meal at one of my favorite restaurants with its cantilevered deck overlooking the Creek.

Returning at our apartment complex I marveled how we could just walk in from the street. No sandbags, no razor wire, no sign that says ‘No Guns,’ no metal detector. Things used to be like that in most places of the world – now this may be the only place left where the assumption of innocence and goodwill is assumed and trusted.