One night in a Russian hospital

Since moving to Moscow I have always enjoyed the best of health, until recently that is. Two weeks ago I needed medical treatment for injuries sustained during an attack (A local drunk struck me on the head with a beer bottle; I fell, breaking my finger; he snatched my bag, which contained my passport and house keys). Here is an account of how I spent a night, alone, in Moscow's Botkinskaya hospital.

11.30 pm - My neighbour, who happens to be a gynecologist from Chechnya, alerts the emergency services, and after giving a statement to the police, I am removed to hospital in an ambulance by a paramedic named Vera. Whizzing up Tverskaya, even without sirens, is exhilarating.

12.30 am - I shamble through the hospital's swing doors. Vera tries to convince the hospital staff to take me, despite my lack of identity papers and proof of citizenship. I am lucky today - they admit me to casualty. In the dusty waiting room I observe other patients. Tramps lie motionless on rusty trolleys. Ragged pensioners crouch under blankets. Beside me, someone is limping and pleading: "Doctor, my hip hurts, could you have a look at it?" "No I can't," retorts a woman in cobalt robes, "I only do arms and legs."

1.30 am - Word has got around that there is a British patient. Two guys in ER outfits erupt into the room, laughing raucously. The goofy one is a nurse; the debonair vivacious type, who wears a floor-sweeping trench coat over his operating robes, is a doctor. He guffaws: "My name is Zhenya, I am doctor, what happened with you?" It occurs to me that he looks tipsy, but I dismiss this idea as improbable - surely doctors do not drink on duty? He staggers into my broken finger.

1.45 am - Time for stitches. I am told to carry my coat and belongings - despite my broken finger - into another room. The nurses are wearing diaphanous uniforms and silver sandals. When I lie down on the lumpy couch, four people peer down into my face. Dr Zhenya, giggling uncontrollably, injects my forehead with local anesthetic and swills antiseptic about, blending it with the flowing blood. Everyone laughs uproariously as he darns my forehead, and I swear with the pain, which delights him. "Would you like to marry me?" he asks. It turns out that the blondest nurse is his fiancee and she does not understand English; so I am his accessory in a private joke. She swaddles my head with bandages. I look like I've had a lobotomy.

2.00 am - I need hand and skull X-rays. I wait in a corridor without lights, between a youth with facial burns and a girl with a crushed foot. I resolve never to watch another medical drama.

2.30 am - The radiographer looks at my notes, looks at me, screams : "Why have you had stitches BEFORE your X-ray?" She thrusts my head against the X-ray machine. I have 2 suspected fractures of the left hand; she forces it flat to X-ray it.

4.00 am - Dr Zhenya has to sign my medical certificate, but somehow he just can't.

FIANCEE: Zhenya, just sign.
DR Z : I can't... F***...
FIANCEE: Zhenya! Just do it!!
DR Z : Hey baby, when are you and me going to the registry office for our wedding?
FIANCEE: Zhenya!!!
[repeat 10 times]
DR Z : You know I haven't slept for 3 nights! I'm just coming down from those 6 caffeine tablets...

My stitches begin to hurt.

4.30 am - I get my certificate. A week later, the doctor at my local clinic is unable to read it.

7.00 am - After a refreshing nap in the waiting room, I go home by metro. A woman gives up her seat to me because I have blood-soaked bandages around my head, a cast on my hand, rivulets of dried blood on my clothes and face, and two black eyes. No teaching for me today then.

After informing the school of my indisposition, I settled down at home alone to recuperate for a week. I was called to the local police station to give more statements and I'm proud to report that I went there, all by myself, and managed to deal with it alone. And I had plenty of time to ruminate on possible morals of this story, which, if I may be so bold, I should like to share with you now.

1. Please do not think that I wish to heap criticism on Russia's health service. It is a fact that conditions in Moscow's local hospitals are different from those in some other countries. This is something that I think teachers should be made aware of, in case you should ever have to go through something similar on your own.

2. If you feel that your teenagers need some subduing, adorn your person with bandages, bruises and Band-Aids before class.

3. If you are intending to undergo a situation similar to the one that I was in, ensure that you do so whilst still on a contract, as this may entitle you to some help and support. And don't learn to speak Russian, as this may hinder your chances of obtaining assistance from those normally employed to translate and organise for non-Russian speakers.

4. Finally, thank you to other teachers for your concern, your help, and your kind phone calls! I appreciate it! (ok this isn't a moral but I'll put it here anyway).

And I still haven't told you how I got my passport back! so here goes...

Charlotte Gawthorpe