It’s like a space ship in here,” Ozge said, remarking on the ultra-modern look of the Amerikan Hastanesi.

Indeed, it was an impressive facility, located in Istanbul’s fashionable Nışantışı district.

We were both excited, and a little bit scared, Ozge more so than me. She hates hospitals. But it was, as the doctor had said during my examinations the week before, a routine operation. I had a hernia, an old injury from Navy days, that I had let go for many years. It had grown into a giant hernia. Dr. Koçer, who Ozge had found online, was said to be one of Istanbul’s leading surgeons in this field.

Routine – that means knock on wood.

Why had I let it – the surgery—slide for so many years? Many reasons. For one, there was no pain, the hernia didn’t interfere with my life or work. Secondly, in the years I lived in Prague I didn’t have any health insurance. Finally, there is the daunting prospect of going to a foreign hospital.

But here in Istanbul, things were different. My school provided private health insurance, and I had a girlfriend who cared enough to push me to get the operation. “If you don’t the problem is just going to get worse,” she reasoned. As I said, Ozge did the research, found the doctor. I had had the examination, the insurance company agreed to cover the costs, and we had set the date fort he operation. Now the morning of the knives had come.

On the sixth floor, the orderlies were all young and friendly, and a few of them spoke English. They seemed to regard Ozge and I as a kind of novelty.

“How strange it must seem to them,” I joked to Ozge. “An American at the Amerikan Hospital.”

The room was spacious, immaculate, even a tad homey. Aside from the hospital bed, there was a wide sofa, a televison with cable, a bathroom and shower, and a window with a handsome view of the Bosphorous.

“We could move in here,” Ozge said, looking out wistfully at the rooftops of Nışantısı. She set my bag down and we sat on the sofa pensively.

A nurse by the name of Tunay came. She took some blood samples and chatted with Ozge about the pre-op procedures. My blood pressure was taken, as well as my temperature, and they listened to my breathing and checked the level s of oxygen.

Dr Koçer arrived, flanked as always by his assistant Merve.

“Good morning,” he said, shaking my hand. He was dressed business casual, with an earring in his left ear. “As I explained before, you have what is called a bi-lateral hernia. I will try to use the periscopic method on both sides. But the right side – where the giant hernia is located – there is a small chance that I may have to use open surgery. I will see you in the operating room soon.”

After the doctor left, I changed into a hospital gown. An orderly arrived with a gurney, and I was taken out onto the elevator and we went down to the operating room. That’s when the reality hit. I never had any kind of surgery before. It was surreal and a bit scary, laying prostrate on the gurney and being wheeled into this colorless, cool basement-type room. I was wheeled past other patients, who were invisible behind green curtains.

I lay there for a while, until presently a man came and introduced himself as the anesthesiologist. A woman came and had me sign a form approving the anaesthesia. I remember the woman inserting a tube into my left arm …

… and then I woke up … woke up … woke up … Instinctively, I knew that the operation was over, had been over for some time. I had no memory of anything. I moved slightly, and there was a tight pressure around my belly, some pain. They had operated alright.

Then I was being moved, and suddenly I was in my room again. Ozge, kneading her hands anxiously, was there.

“Is the operation over?” I asked stupidly, still feeling drugged and ghostly.

“Yes, it’s over,” Ozge said. “How do you feel?”

“OK.” I did feel OK. Wow, it was really all over. Dr. Koçer was nowhere to be seen. He had come and göne. I was impressed. The man knew his work. In and out like a ninja.

It was about two-thirty in the afternoon. I was supposed to stay overnight. Already I was bored by the hospital, by the antiseptic atmosphere, and wanted to go home. We turned on the TV. They were replaying the Oscars from the night before. We watched that for a while and then switched to CNN. They were talking about the situation in Crimea. Somehow these scenes from the outside world seemed even more vivid and alive then if I were actually there. A hospital feels a lot like a prison in some ways, except the difference is between the sick and the well.

Plus, I had Ozge. She relaxed on the sofa while the nurse Tunay came and gave me a painkiller shot and an antibiotic pill. Later dinner was served. Mine looked like baby food, all crushed and blended, devoid of any flavour. But I was hungry, and so I ate all of it. Later, a bow-tied waiter came to get the trays. “You want another?” he asked kindly. “Sure,” I said, and he brought me a second dinner.

I was supposed to get up and walk every hour. With Ozge’s arm around me for support, I did so, slowly, gingerly. There wasn’t too much pain, just a lot of pressure and tightness. This was caused by gases in my belly. This was a common result of periscopic surgery. It would take a few days for the gas to be expelled from my system. That’s why walking was important.

That evening an orderly brought blankets for Ozge and made up the sofa.

“We could get used to living like this,” Ozge said, settling in cozily. “We have our balcony view of the Bosphorous, we have Nışantşı, we have a nice small apartment, and servants bringing our meals.”

“All we need now is the cat,” I joked.  

“Seriously,” Ozge said, “I have never seen a hospital as nice as this one.” Like most Turks, Ozge has state insurance and uses state hospitals. “I mean, they are not bad,” she said, “the doctors are good, but the facilities in state hospitals are nothing like this. You should see the cafe downstairs. It looks like the cafe at Istanbul Modern!”

The night-shift nurse came and gave me another painkiller injection. I watched the CNN reports on Crimea – out there in the world things went on, people fought, took stances, escalated, de-escalated, negotiated, reacted, positioned themselves, stood in spotlights, worked, reported on the news. All of it went on. I dozed … at some point I looked over at Ozge. She was asleep on the sofa, a look of peace and relief on her lovely face. It occurred to me that she had been even more worried than I had been all along. What an angel.

In the morning, Dr. Koçer arrived. He had me stand up and take a few steps around the room. He seemed pleased with the results. I was to report to his office in two days’ time for a follow-up exam. Meanwhile, I was free to go home.

At the Outgoing Patient desk, I signed the release forms. The insurance had covered virtually everything. We were relieved, expecting to find all sorts of hidden costs. I just had to pay 98 lira, about 50 dollars. Without insurance, it would have cost 28,000 lira, or 15,000 dollars.

Outside we got a taxi. It was a busy Istanbul afternoon, and the traffic was terrible. We crossed the bridge back to the Asian side of the city.

“Well, we’re home,” I said.

“Oh, I want to be in Nışantışı,” Ozge said gloomily. “My flat is crap.”

“No, it’s not. It’s home.”

It felt good to be out of the hospital, and on the road to recovery. It felt good having only paid 98 lira. It felt good having the surgery behind me. It felt good being with Ozge.

James Tressler was a reporter for The Eureka Times-Standard. His books, including the recently published “Lost Coast D.A.,” are available at Lulu.com. He lives in Istanbul.