Dave woke up on a Thursday morning with a dull, mysterious ache in his lower abdomen. He lay in bed, analyzing the variables. Was it the raw oysters Ploy had practically force-fed him last night to “boost his manly power”? Or was it the athletic, 2:00 AM physical demonstration of that power she had demanded afterward? It wasn’t exactly pain; it was just a sinister discomfort.
Before he could process it, Ploy appeared in the doorway, fully dressed.
“Dave. You promise we go massage today.”
Dave had completely forgotten. But he figured a good massage might actually fix his stomach. He nodded, put on some shorts, and they walked down the soi.
The Massage Parlor Misunderstanding
Inside the dimly lit parlor, the allocation of labor was decided. Dave was assigned a rather cute, incredibly strong 25-year-old masseuse. Ploy, much to her visible annoyance, was assigned a sturdy, veteran woman who looked like she could bench-press a pickup truck.
They lay face-down in adjacent cubicles. Naturally, Ploy left the dividing curtain cracked open exactly two inches at eye level—just enough to run full surveillance on Dave.
For the first thirty minutes, Dave was in heaven. The young masseuse had magical elbows. But the moment she reached his lower back and applied pressure, a shockwave of pure, unadulterated agony shot through Dave’s abdomen.
Dave involuntarily let out a sound. It was a bizarre, high-pitched hybrid of a gasp, a groan, and a whimper.
In the next cubicle, Ploy’s radar instantly locked on.
The masseuse, terrified she had hurt him, immediately stopped pressing. The sudden release of pressure caused the pain to vanish, leaving Dave’s face washed in a look of absolute, exhausted, sweaty bliss.
Through the two-inch crack in the curtain, Ploy’s Isan soap-opera imagination took over. She couldn’t see Dave’s lower half. But she saw a cute masseuse, she heard Dave groan, and she saw his face looking completely satisfied. The math was done.
When they stepped out onto the street, the air was freezing. Ploy’s face was made of stone.
“You sleep with her in front of me?!” she hissed.
Dave tried to laugh at the absurdity of the accusation, but another sharp stab of pain hit his side. He doubled over. “No… Ploy… I just… had a sudden pain…” he grunted through gritted teeth.
Ploy rolled her eyes, turned her back, and crossed her arms. “I hope you not catch disease from her.”
The Village Medical Intervention
By the time they got back to the condo, Dave was rapidly deteriorating. The pain had migrated to his lower right side and was radiating like a reactor meltdown. He checked his temperature: 39°C.
Ploy stood over the bed, smirking. “You still sure you didn’t catch STD from the massage girl?”
“Goddammit Ploy, it’s the oysters!” Dave cried out, clutching his stomach.
Seeing him actually suffering, Ploy’s maternal instincts finally kicked in. She felt a twinge of guilt. Applying traditional village logic—if something hurts, make it hot—she filled a rubber hot water bottle with near-boiling water and placed it directly onto Dave’s inflamed, highly pressurized appendix.
The heat hit the organ. Dave’s spine arched backward like he had been struck by lightning. He let out a blood-curdling scream, and the world went entirely black.
The Gurney and The Blood Test
Dave floated in and out of consciousness. Sirens wailed. Fluorescent lights passed overhead. He vaguely realized he was on a hospital gurney.
As they wheeled him through the ER doors, Dave briefly opened his eyes. He saw Ploy aggressively tugging on the sleeve of the emergency doctor.
“Doctor… is it STD? You think he cheat on me recently?”
The doctor looked incredibly confused. “I highly doubt it, madam… but please, let us draw his blood and get him to surgery.”
Dave blacked out again.
The 300,000-Baht Awakening
Dave woke up the next morning. For a second, he thought he was in a boutique hotel room, until he noticed the IV line taped to his arm. He turned his head and saw Ploy curled up, fast asleep on the visitor’s sofa.
She stayed the whole night, Dave thought, a warm wave of affection washing over him. She really loves me.
He felt his stomach. There was a thick surgical dressing on his right side.
Ploy heard him stir. She woke up, saw his open eyes, and burst into theatrical tears. “Daaave! I worry so much! I think you die!” she wailed, lunging at the bed, throwing her arms around him, and planting her elbow directly onto his fresh surgical wound. Dave groaned into the pillow.
Just then, a nurse walked in holding a clipboard. The logo on her uniform read: Bangkok Pattaya Hospital .
“Ah, Mr. Dave, good morning! You had emergency appendicitis,” the nurse smiled brightly. “Here is your invoice for the discharge. Do you have insurance?”
Dave weakly took the paper. His eyes focused on the bottom line.
Total: 300,000 THB.
Dave felt his soul leave his body. He was about to pass out for the third time in 24 hours.
“Dave, you have insurance?” Ploy asked, her eyes wide.
“No…” Dave whispered, his brain frantically trying to figure out how to sell a kidney he was currently using.
Ploy looked at him, took a deep breath, and grabbed his hand. “It okay, teerak. I will sell my gold for you.”
Dave was stunned. This was it. True love. She was willing to liquidate her ultimate safety net for him.
But suddenly, through the heavy fog of anesthesia, a memory pierced Dave’s brain. Three years ago, he needed health insurance for his visa extension. He had lazily clicked through a broker—Global Insurance—picked the most comprehensive expat plan, and set up an automatic credit card payment. For three years, he kept telling himself, “I really need to cancel that, I never get sick,” but he kept forgetting.
His laziness had just saved his life.
He frantically called his Global Insurance broker from the hospital bed. Ten minutes later, it was confirmed: Emergency surgery, private room, all medications—100% covered. Direct billing.
Ploy literally jumped up and down in the hospital room. Her gold was safe. Dave had never been so happy to be an irresponsible procrastinator in his life.
The Final Diagnosis
An hour before discharge, the surgeon walked into the room to say goodbye. Ploy stood at attention, listening to the post-op care instructions.
“No heavy lifting, keep the wound dry,” the doctor instructed.
Ploy nodded, but her eyes narrowed. “Doctor. What about Dave’s blood test?”
The doctor stopped. He looked at his clipboard, flipped a page, and adjusted his glasses.
“Ah, yes. I am glad you reminded me. Actually, looking at the bloodwork panel… there is one slight anomaly we probably need to discuss.”
The room went dead silent.
Ploy slowly, mechanically turned her head to look at Dave. The affection in her eyes was completely gone, replaced by the cold, unblinking stare of an apex predator.
Dave looked at the doctor, looked at Ploy, and suddenly reached for the nurse call button. He desperately wanted to go back into the medically induced coma.
Don’t wait for your appendix to explode or your girlfriend to sell her gold. Talk to Global Insurance Broker and get yourself covered. Because hospital bills in Thailand are the only thing scarier than a jealous Thai girlfriend.
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