When you go online and complain about jet lag, the universe responds in a way designed to remind you of your relative good fortune.
The universe replies, "I see your jet lag, and I raise you one stomach virus." (It helps if you imagine the universe speaks with a Russian accent. Or is that just me?)
Chelsea was the first unlucky victim of this karmic retribution. After she and I spent most of the night in the hotel bathroom, I decided she needed to see a doctor. Our traveler's assistance program (thank you, SDSU!) provided the name of a local hospital. All four of us piled into our rental car to make the drive to the Sahlgrenska Sjukhuset (that second word literally means "the sick house"). Driving there was a bit stressful. It's always tricky navigating strange streets when you can't understand any of the street signs. Add to that a child puking her guts out in the backseat, and it made for a tense ten minutes.
When we got there, Chelsea and I went into what we guessed was the emergency room, only to find no one there to speak with. There were a few folks waiting and many signs in Swedish. Finally, someone gestured to a "take a number" machine. We took a number and sat down to wait. Every so often, the next number was announced over a loud speaker and a nurse would emerge from a locked door to collect the next person. We could not understand the spoken numbers, but luckily they were also shown on a screen.
I was relieved when our number finally came up. We walked toward the nurse, who spoke to us in Swedish, and then some minimal English to ask what was wrong. Before we could make it to the exam room she said, "Oh, you are in the wrong place. This hospital is for adults only. You need to go to the..." and then she said a bunch of words we could not understand in Swedish.
It was at this point that I sank to the floor and started to cry.
Jeremy had come by this point, so he took over. He got the name of the children's hospital, and figured out how to get there. I cried most of the way to the children's hospital, out of frustration and exhaustion.
At the children's hospital, we started the routine over again. Entered a large waiting room, with a bunch of signs telling us what to do... that we could not read. At least there was a person who spoke (limited) English at the desk, but she told us to take a number and wait for our turn to speak with her.
When we finally were called, we spoke to a nurse who sent us to sit in a special waiting area: the kräkas och diarre room: the vomit and diarrhea room. We spent all day in there, trying to get Chelsea to keep down some electrolyte solution, but she just barfed everything up.
Savannah made a few excursions out of the room. First, she went with me to the hospital "cafeteria". It was really more of a counter than a cafeteria. Maybe 6 feet long, with a few sandwiches, pastries, and drinks. Coffee, of course. They had a little seating area, sort of like a very small little IKEA dining area. We were starving, since we hadn't eaten anything since dinner the previous night and it was about noon by this point.
When I paid for our food with a credit card, the cashier asked for my "personal number." Like a PIN? I asked, Four digits? No. She explained that every Swede has a personal number they are given at birth. I thought maybe my social security number? She said, no. It has ten digits. At this point, I was thoroughly baffled. Finally, she used my birth year, month, day, and the last four digits of my SSN, and I guess that worked. At least now I know what my Swedish personal number is, I guess?
Finally, around 5pm, the nurses gave Chelsea some anti-emetic (aka "stop barfing") medicine. And we were released a little after 6pm.
Our grand plans of exploring Gothenburg didn't work out the way we'd hoped. Guess that means we'll just have to go back another time.
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