at least she didn't have to amputate

I'm not sure if the series of medical disasters in the last month or so are a sign that I need to leave Armenia, or if it means I shouldn't even consider it. Either way, I'm getting on that plane Sunday morning and, so far, I should be getting on it in one piece.

The latest medical drama: Monday night I noticed the index finger on my right hand becoming a bit swollen and sore. At first I figured I was dehydrated as my other fingers were also a bit swollen, so I went home and chugged some water. On Tuesday that soreness hadn't passed and continued to worsen until yesterday when I finally asked a doctor friend from the US working here for a month to take a look. She gave me some neosporin and assured me I didn't have some rare strain of finger cancer (after rolling her eyes, of course.) Then she checked off the other ailments I couldn't possible have, including (to my horror) an ingrown nail (!), arthritis (!!), or gangrene (!!!). Instead she concluded it probably got infected as a result of all the dust and dirt that's swirling in the city nowadays, which probably entered my system via an open wound from a hangnail.

The pain continued today when I was visiting my friend Armineh, a surgeon who know runs an NGO specializing in early intervention for special-needs children. And who was the subject of the documentary I worked on here with Harry.

I informed her of my own special need. Immediately upon removing the band-aid, it was apparent that the infection was worsening -- a greenish color had formed around my nailbed. She looked at me and said with all the seriousness of a surgeon: "We have to cut it open and draw out the puss."

I nearly fainted. Protesting did no good. Begging for my mother didn't help. The other women in the office simply laughed and told me to toughen up.

(Here I should note that Armineh lost her leg in the 1988 earthquake and I was whining about my finger.)

A warning for the squeamish: I couldn't even look while she was doing this. You may not want to read it.

She had just gotten a case of supplies from Doctors Without Borders (God bless the NGOs), including sterile kits with surgical scissors and syringes. I gripped the hand of one of their therapists and choked back the tears as she cut and drew out the yellowish puss that had gathered in my finger.

It was over in a few minutes, my finger throbbing somewhat less. She sent me home armed with a kit of iodine, cotton swabs, bandages, a big hug and an order to email her upon arrival in the U.S.

I love Armenia, but I'm really looking forward to going home.

Me, post-op, with my saviour.