Special Edition: Carter is Not Dead
Disaster Strikes at Lake Balkhash
~ This isnât the newsletter I imagined myself writing.
In light of recent events, however, I think itâs best we start by catching you up to speed on the last few days.
Note: Things get a little graphic. Youâve been warned.
In case youâve forgotten: our names are still Carter and Phil, and - until I ended up in the hospital - we were biking the Silk Road.
Shitting Blood:
4 days ago, Phil and I pedaled the last leg to Lake Balkhash, the first real waypoint of our adventure. I was exultant. A full week of biking (750+ km) under our belts, I was exhausted, sore, and a bit queasy, but so proud of what we had already accomplished.
3 days ago, my eyes were sunken. âDo I look as rough as I feel?â I asked Phil.
That night, I woke up at 2:30am, gasping for air. My insides were tearing themselves apart. Being colorblind, I had to ask Phil to confirm my fears. âThat is NOT a healthy-looking shit,â he observed.
2 days ago, we trudged to the tiny medica in Balkhash, each step a piercing knife to the gut. Phil waited patiently outside the infectious disease ward while a nurse ran some inconclusive tests. A child was screaming somewhere down the hall. Heaving open a bathroom door for the 7th time that day, I shuddered and looked over at my friend. âIâm shitting so much blood.â
That night, I lay on a table in agony, acid eating through my intestines. Frequent trips to shit more dark, watery blood only seemed to worsen my condition. The closest city with the resources to help was 10 hours away by car.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the garish overhead fluorescents, unable to ignore the ragged moans from a few tables over. Earlier in the day, we saw a woman experience what may have been her final moments. Her chest heaved, eyes wild with panic, as she cried out for âBaba.â I slept a total of 45 minutes.
Yesterday, I escaped with my documents to a taxi that Phil had arranged, and we made for the tiny runway outside of town. âGod, I hope this plane actually exists.â By some miracle, a wealthy Kazakh had chartered a flight to Almaty that morning - the only flight theyâd seen in weeks - and the unlicensed airline sold the extra seats on their sketchy website. Legs shaking, I boarded the propeller plane and doubled over in pain. I hadnât eaten or slept in two days. The engines were deafening. The rattling of my seat threatened to turn me inside out.
This morning, a specialist forced a thick metal tube down my throat. âSwullaw. Ah, swallow!â she demanded, frustrated by my inability to deepthroat the device. Gripping the other end, she rammed the endoscope down my esophagus and into my stomach. I gagged uncontrollably the entire procedure, and as the machine released pressurized gas to give its camera a better view, I began belching grotesque volumes of air as well. Saliva poured from the side of my mouth onto the table. I spasmed, alternating between strangled gasps and guttural burps. Straining to look at the monitor, I beheld the inside of my entrails and wondered if Iâd ever feel sexy again.Â
Wheeling me back to my room in a broken wheelchair, the nurse explained via google translate that they found a 6mm by 8mm hemorrhaging duodenal ulcer. I swallowed the pills they handed me and eventually gave up asking for English translations of the injections they stuck in my ass. Feeling at the inside of my lip with my tongue, I found imprints where I had bit down, hard. âYou stay in hospital until end of week,â they told me. âMaybe next week, too.â
Recovery:
Officially, I was never checked into a hospital in Almaty.
My friend and skiing compadre, Grace, just happens to know a Kazakh oligarch (weird flex but okay) who pulled some strings to get me treatment. Phil hasnât been allowed to visit as Iâm not on the books. Iâm a ghost, haunting a far off wing, deep within the annals of the hospital.Â
My guts burn a little less every day. Iâm only allowed to eat cold, mushy foods. Nothing salty or spicy or fatty or fried. No caffeine or alcohol or chocolate. But temperance is a small price to pay to keep my organs intact.
The culprit was probably a severe bacterial infection. It left my stomach lining vulnerable, and the anti-inflammatories I was taking for my knee burned a hole through the wall of my intestines, blood and acid pouring into the gap.
Had we stayed at the clinic in Balkhash, Iâm not sure what would have happened. The small-town doctor didnât know what to do with me. Despite all evidence pointing elsewhere, he insisted on putting his finger up my ass to check for hemorrhoids. There was an IV in my arm, but the drugs in the saline had no effect. It was.. unpleasant.
Phil, on the other hand, is fine. The man is built different. He didnât even throw up when Iâd accidentally poisoned us with cyanide last summer (PSA: donât make a smoothie with uncooked elderberries). So as I was flying to Almaty in a relic from the Soviet Union, Phil was organizing a 10-hour taxi ride with our bikes. The van got a flat tire on the bumpy, unfinished roads. Itâs all too easy to imagine a world where I had been forced to join him, shitting blood all over the back seat.
In short, I feel incredibly lucky to be on the mend. The outpouring of support and well-wishes has been much appreciated, but donât worry about me. We have some wonderful friends here in Almaty who are making sure Iâm properly cared for. And there are medical professionals from home (shout-out Dr. Byrne!) in our corner as well. Iâll spend the next few days in the hospital, reading and writing (and playing sudoku). From my windowsill, I have a marvelous view of the Alatau Mountains. I just wish I didnât have such an intense craving for chocolate cake.
Barcelona?
The thought of calling it quits is galling. I would be utterly crushed.
So weâve begun compiling expert advice/opinions and are hopeful to get back on the road soon. We might have to make some adjustments to our route and routine, but with a little rest (and a bag full of pills), Iâm confident that weâll find a way to make it work.
Letâs hope there arenât any more medical emergencies from here on out.
Cheers,
Carter đ¸
Check back soon for a separate post chronicling our first week of the expedition!
P.S. Follow me on instagram (@carter.life.crisis) for pictures and videos from the trip! Watch our stories to stay up-to-date.
P.P.S. If you want to support our little adventure, you can buy me a cup of coffee via this link :)
(Iâm not actually allowed coffee anytime soon, so Iâll get a mushy meal that my perforated stomach can better appreciate.)
Click here to read posts from earlier in our adventure.
Gmail likes to filter out our updates, so weâre probably in your promotions tab (or spam). Try adding silkroadbybike@substack.com to your contacts via web browser or contacts.google.com. You can also drag this email, kicking and screaming, back to your inbox.