What Else Could Possibly Go Wrong?

The Union hospital stands tower-high among the green hills of the Sha Tin district in Hong Kong’s New Territories. Jungle winds between luxury condos, car lights wend their way to glittering mansions, the neon of the city shines below us in the velvety dark.

It’s harder to find a bigger contrast to our normal Hong Kong haunt, the grimecore John Woo stage-set of Tsim Sha Tsui, and, as Zac is wheeled through vast glass doors into an air-conditioned whirl of dark woods and heavy drapes, I’m on the verge of forgetting The Union is actually a hospital.

Hell! Even the receptionists look and feel like luxury concierges, pristine, rapid and very Cantonese, quite the contrast to the “computer says no” tones and tired eyes you’d expect in any London hospital.

A dark drape rustles around us, invisibly sealing the area, and Doctor Rama, our escort on the air ambulance that brought us from Mongolia, begins the registration process. It’s after midnight, but The Union is expecting us, and there’s a private room waiting on the eleventh floor.

“Hello,” he says. “Hello,” Zac says. “How are you doing, son?” “Fine,” Zac says.

We’re en route to the lift when Zac’s dad appears. It’s been rising a year since Zac last saw him, in Paris and London, because neither of us got our shit together while he was in Australia and we were in Harbin, and it’s been longer since I last saw him, in Australia, the Christmas before last.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” Zac says.

“How are you doing, son?”

“Fine,” Zac says.

Zac and I are so used to these nomadic encounters, where friends from one place pop up in another place, where we’ll arrange, for example, to meet friends from Singapore in Turkey, or British grandparents in Malaysia, or Dad in Vietnam, or an English cousin in Beijing, that there’s absolutely no weirdness here for us. It’s just…. life.

I wonder what it’s like for S. It seems – no different. His family live scattered across the globe, as well. We are, none of us, geographically fixed.

And, as we head up to the room, Zac’s babbling about computer games, a topic for which his father has considerably more enthusiasm than I, as if no time has passed.

Larger than many HK apartments, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out towards the sea, it’s quite the contrast to our last non-hospital accommodation, a reindeer herder’s tepee which would probably fit into our en-suite bathroom.

Our private room is quite ludicrously luxe. I have, for the record, stayed in better hotels than this, back in the day when bar reviewing could include reviewing the odd luxury hotel, but for Hong Kong this room is gigantic.

Larger than many HK apartments, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out towards the sea, it’s quite the contrast to our last non-hospital accommodation, a reindeer herder’s tepee which would probably fit into our en-suite bathroom (with space left over for the complimentary Kiehl’s).

I goggle at the real wood floor, the enormous desk, the white leather three-piece suite, the remote control on Zac’s bed that enables him to operate everything within the room, the gigantic fridge, the double-drapes, the coffee – yay! — and thank my lucky stars for travel insurance.

God only knows what this is costing our insurers, but I very much doubt I could afford so much as our room at The Union, let alone the tests and surgery.

A series of friendly, hyper-efficient nurses, their pastel uniforms colour-coded in order of seniority, come through and move Zac from his gurney to the new bed, draw blood for pre-surgery tests, administer an ECG, and dress him in a nice new hospital gown.

“There’s nowhere in Mongolia that can do it.” Doctor Wong’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “The clinic we landed up in didn’t even have running water,” I add. Doctor Wong’s eyebrows virtually loop the loop.

Enter Doctor Wong, a neat, Cantonese guy of my kind of age with a clipped British accent, British and Hong Kong medical training, and a discreetly sardonic air of mischief that I associate more with louche barristers, or particularly hard-partying judges, than medical professionals (maybe I should meet more doctors?).

“He’s come from Mongolia, is that right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “They can’t do the surgery there. There’s nowhere in Mongolia that can do it.”

Doctor Wong’s eyebrows shoot skyward.

“The clinic we landed up in didn’t even have running water,” I add.

Doctor Wong’s eyebrows virtually loop the loop.

“Horse-riding, wasn’t it?” he remarks, with a note of disapproval verging on contempt. (I suspect paediatric orthopaedic surgeons see even more horse-riding injuries than SOS Medica, Mongolia.)

“He was wearing a helmet,” I say, defensively.

S, who can’t sleep on flights and is now knackered, and I, who’ve been running on adrenaline for the last five days, and am still in flat, fast calm, agree that I’ll do a McDonald’s run at 5am, and then he can sort out things like SIM cards while I sleep.

S and I slide naturally into co-parenting mode. We go through the X-rays, and the treatment plan, with Doctor Wong, taking it in turns to ask clarifying questions.

How long will the plate stay in?

That depends how fast Zac grows and how fast the bone heals.

When will he need to go on nil-by-mouth?

No food or liquid after 6am. Surgery is scheduled for noon.

Where can we get food? We’re both worried about keeping Zac’s strength up. He’s naturally extremely slender – he gets it from his father — and between the morphine vomiting, one-handed eating and general sleeping through meals, it’s imperative that we get nutrition into him.

The hospital canteen is closed, but there’s a 24 hour McDonald’s we can go to.

S, who can’t sleep on flights and is now knackered, and I, who’ve been running on adrenaline (not to mention nicotine) for the last five days, and am still in flat, fast calm, agree that I’ll do a McDonald’s run at 5am, and then he can sort out things like SIM cards while I sleep.

I notice that Zac seems to have found something really interesting on the ceiling behind his head. “What are you looking at?” I ask. “Oh, nothing,” Zac says. “My eyes just keep turning to the ceiling.”

Doctor Wong leaves, headed, I hope, for bed. I notice that Zac seems to have found something really interesting on the ceiling behind his head.

“What are you looking at?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing,” Zac says. “My eyes just keep turning to the ceiling.”

His neck’s at an odd angle, too, stretched out and back, and to the right, for all the world like he’s craning to look at something really, really fascinating.

S and I look at each other. This isn’t normal. This is, frankly, a bit weird.

“Shall I get Doctor Wong?” I ask.

“I think so, yeah,” says S.

I head to the reception desk and ask for Doctor Wong.

A paediatrician is duly roused, but Zac’s eyes and neck remain resolutely normal. “This sounds like a known reaction to a drug called Stemetil,” the paediatrician says. “Has he had Stemetil?”

It is sod’s law that, by the time Doctor Wong returns from the bed he’s presumably only just hit, Zac’s eyes are behaving normally again.

“I think it’s worth getting the paediatrician out to take a look at him,” says Doctor Wong.

A paediatrician is duly roused, but Zac’s eyes and neck remain resolutely normal.

“This sounds like a known reaction to a drug called Stemetil,” the paediatrician says. “Has he had Stemetil?”

I’m 95% certain it was Stemetil they gave him back in UB, but it’s not in my notes. “They gave him some sort of anti-emetic to counteract the morphine before the flight,” I say. “And I’m pretty sure it was Stemetil. The name sounds familiar. Is it not in the notes that Doctor Rama gave you?”

It isn’t.

Bugger. Anywise, whatever it is, it seems to have stopped. S and I agree that if it happens again we’ll video it on his phone to play to whoever gets here. And back the doctors head to bed.

Zac’s neck is at a really odd angle, now. It looks sort of strained, swollen, pinkish, like something out of The Man with the Golden Arm. And his eyes are trying to roll right back into his head.

It’s long after 1am, and S and I are just debating – in the “No, no, I insist, you first” “No, no, you’re more tired than I am, you have it!” mode — who gets the big bed and who gets the small bed, when Zac sparks up.

“It’s started again!” he says. “I can’t stop it!”

His neck is at a really odd angle, now. It looks sort of strained, swollen, pinkish, like something out of The Man with the Golden Arm.

And his eyes are trying to roll right back into his head.

“Watch my hand,” I say. “Follow my hand. Can you follow my finger?”

I move one finger across his range of vision and, while I can see he’s trying to follow it, his eyes keep rolling back.

The movements of his eyes and head are now outside Zac’s control, although he’s well aware of what is happening. He’s trying to fight it, and it’s frightening him.

“You’re alright, son,” says S. “You’ll be alright.”

We hit the buzzer for the doctor, and I make some lame gags about Mongolian horse disease to try and calm Zac down (Mongolian horses roll their eyes a lot, which is why my jokes were totes hilarious, honest).

He’s muttering, in a ‘how-could-I-not-have-thought-of-this’ interior monologue, things like: “Blunt force trauma! Of course, blunt force trauma. 2cm displacement! Immense force! Immense force trauma!”

Doctor Wong beats the paediatrician to it, takes one look at Zac and goes into, with hindsight, the closest I’d imagine a surgeon gets to panic.

He’s muttering, in a ‘how-could-I-not-have-thought-of-this’ interior monologue, things like: “Blunt force trauma! Of course, blunt force trauma. 2cm displacement! Immense force! Immense force trauma!”

He will tell me, later, that sometimes the only sign of a massive bleed on the brain is something as infinitesimal as a slight lean to one side when you walk.

“I think it’s the Stemetil,” I say. “It’s a known reaction, right? Is there any way we can establish whether he’s had the drug?”

S is by the bed, soothing Zac’s fevered brow, and saying calming things. Zac’s face is turning pinker and pinker, the muscles in his neck straining.

I make more Mongolian horse disease jokes. None of the chaps are remotely impressed.

“He needs an MRI scan,” says Doctor Wong. “I’ve asked for the radiologist to be woken and the paediatrician will meet us there.”

“JUST GET ME THE FUCKING ANTIDOTE ALREADY,” screams Zac, now scarlet, his head tilted at least 45° back from normal, veins popping, tears sprouting from pupil-less white eyes. “I WANT THE FUCKING ANTIDOTE.”

Down we go into the lift, into the bowels of the hospital, a sterile UV-lit enclosure with PET tomography, MRI scanner after MRI scanner, the kind of kit you don’t see on our British NHS.

As Zac’s wheeled into the preparation room, his neck continues to strain, for all the world as if his neck is trying to break his whole head off his body.

I’m still in flat calm, while simultaneously wondering if it’s possible for a reaction like this to actually break Zac’s neck, because it does look like that’s what’s about to happen, as the paediatrician rushes in, so hastily woken his bow-tie’s askew, a shocking matter for any Cantonese professional.

“JUST GET ME THE FUCKING ANTIDOTE ALREADY,” screams Zac, now scarlet, his head tilted a full 45° back from normal, veins popping, tears sprouting from pupil-less white eyes. “I WANT THE FUCKING ANTIDOTE.”

S makes soothing noises.

“I think,” I say to the paediatrician, in flat, fast calm tones. “The antidote is the best first-stage treatment. That will help us to establish if it is a Stemetil reaction, and it will also mean the MRI scan works better if it is indeed the Stemetil. Do you have the antidote in the hospital?”

They do. An orderly is sent to the pharmacy. Zac is now in full-blown panic, screaming for the antidote and turning the air absolutely blue. The second orderly stands there, looking bemused.

“WHERE IS THE FUCKING ANTIDOTE?” Zac yells again, his neck now so arched I’m scared for his spine. “It’s coming,” I say. “It’s on its way.”

The antidote seems to take aeons to come. “WHERE IS THE FUCKING ANTIDOTE?” Zac yells again, his neck now so arched I’m scared for his spine.

“It’s coming,” I say. “It’s on its way. They’ve got it in the pharmacy, so they don’t have to leave the hospital, and someone’s just bringing it for you now.”

The antidote arrives. “Did you flush the cannula?” I ask.

The paediatrician looks at me, unnerved, asks a nurse to flush the cannula, and injects the antidote into Zac’s hand.

“He’s giving you the antidote now,” I say. “How long before it works?”

“Five minutes,” says the paediatrician. “Maybe ten.”

“JUST MAKE IT STOP!!!!!” yells Zac. “JUST MAKE IT FUCKING STOP NOW!!!”

S does calm in a crisis much better than I do, because he does genuinely-calm calm, rather than fast, flat, scary, brittle really-not-calm-at-all calm.

Within possibly 60 seconds, the straining’s eased, the eyes are rolling back into place, and Zac’s subsiding to the peaceful, zonked-out calm I now associate with megadoses of IV sedatives.

S, the paediatrician and I all look at each other, faces mirroring exhaustion.

“It’s a known reaction,” says the paediatrician, calmly. “It looks as though he’s allergic to Stemetil.”

“I’m sorry,” I say to S, thinking how glad I am that Zac went into what medics apparently term an oculogyric crisis in a hospital with a well-equipped pharmacy rather than on an air ambulance en route to Hong Kong with a mandatory stop for refuelling in a Chinese city for which we had no visas. “It hasn’t been quite this dramatic all the way. It’s actually been pretty plain sailing.”

S does calm in a crisis much better than I do, because he does genuinely-calm calm, rather than fast, flat, scary, brittle really-not-calm-at-all calm (and, I suspect, for that matter, may actually remain genuinely calm – like I said, he’s from Brisbane, and I’m neurotic). But I’m still incredibly impressed that he’s stayed so, well, calm throughout.

“Do I get to see the pictures of my brain from the MRI scan?” asks Zac, quite remarkably recovered.

He does! I leave S to handle the MRI scan, and head upstairs in search of coffee and a cigarette, both sorely, sorely needed. I figure he can handle anything else that comes up.

Because, lord knows, after this, nothing more can possibly go wrong. Right? I mean, seriously. What else could POSSIBLY go wrong?