As an ER doctor for many years, I recently retired from medicine to write and explore the world. My husband and I sold our lovely lake home and downsized to a three-season cabin in the woods, smaller than a school bus, and got a tiny RV and a place in Thailand. COVID be damned, we froze our assets camping on the Rio Grande, wintered in Corsica, hiked in the Atacama, cruised to Antarctica, and ate and drank everything in sight, living life with gusto.

However, life had other plans for me. After kayaking between icebergs and chasing penguins, I discovered that my life as I knew it was over, and my life as a patient was about to begin. At first, I ignored it and went back to my penguins. When ignoring it was no longer an option, I sought care where we were at the time, which happened to be Thailand. Lucky me.

You may not know much about Thailand’s medical care, but it’s good. Besides offering dreamy white beaches, friendly elephants, and even friendlier people, Thailand is a medical tourism destination not only for those in pursuit of perkier selves and slimmer noses but also for those looking for detox, rehab, and memory care. Its internationally accredited private hospitals feature U.S.-trained doctors, luxurious accommodations, holistic treatments, and reasonable prices.

Within a week, I’d seen three doctors, completed my workup, and had a diagnosis. A week later, I was home, recovering from surgery. I wouldn’t call it fun, but it was fast, accessible, and transparent. In Thailand, there’s little room for financial misunderstandings since most procedures are packaged, so you know exactly what you’ll have to pay. For example, the total price of a colonoscopy package, from the initial visit, including labs, screening EKG, and X-ray, to the laxatives and after-care, is posted in the elevator. The same with sleep studies and vaginal rejuvenation. But I digress.

Fast forward a few months. I’m still a lousy patient, but maybe a wiser doctor. So I thought I’d share a few insights:

You can be numb and still hurt. For years, I thought that was nuts. “Is it numb, or does it hurt?” I’d ask. “Yes,” they said. “Which is it?” I insisted. “Both.” It turns out they were right. I remember that every time I get my cursed treatment.

When someone says: “I know my body,” sometimes they really do. Between stress, pain, and them taking my meds to make me NPO, my blood pressure went through the roof. The nurse tried everything, including taking it over and over. It didn’t help. When it was time to go home, it got even worse, so they decided to keep me. Are you kidding? I decided to go. Two hours later, after a hot bath, a drink, and laying in my own bed without beeping alarms and somebody busting in every minute, (and taking my meds), I was all better.

When symptoms make no sense, think neuropathic before psychiatric. If anyone came to see me for the symptoms I’m having, I’d think they’re nuts. I wouldn’t say it, of course — I’d conjure some PC mumbo-jumbo about the effects of stress and fatigue on the body and offer them some Ativan. And who knows? It may even help. My doctor gave me some, but I didn’t take it. I told you I’m a lousy patient. But truth be told, the sparkles under the tongue, the spasms in the back of the scalp, the icy heels, and the eye twitches and lip curls that make me look like I have Tourette’s, especially when I sputter obscenities — they’re all real, even if they make no sense. But only the obscenities are voluntary.

Disimpaction hurts! On a scale of 0 to 10, I’ll call it a 16. It’s not quite impaling, but it’s higher than flaying, which is just a 12 since it’s not that visceral. Be humane to your patients. Sedate. Relieve the pain. That way, they may be spared the tenesmus, which is a curse, and it will bring them back.

Kindness trumps meds. Warm blankets, a glass of water, killing the bleeping alarm — oh, God — the bleeping alarm — can turn the snappiest curmudgeon into a happier camper. Trust me, I know.

Respect their time. You’re God awful busy; I know you are. But remember, their time is just as important to them as yours is to you, especially if they’re running out of it.

Transparency trumps good medical care. Facing an unexpected bill they can’t afford will turn the most grateful patient into a fire-spitting dragon who’ll ruin your Press Ganey and bankrupt your RVUs. As a doc, I never cared what things cost. CTs? Insulin? Inhalers? Not my problem. I was too busy saving lives. I hope you do better.

Talk to them. Explain. Repeat. I loved my nurse when she came to tell me when the treatment would start and why, how long it would take, and when I’d go home. I loved her more when she came to say goodbye at the end of her shift. When she returned to tell me again the following time, I loved her even more.

Nobody cares what you know until they know you care. I know you’ve heard this before, but it bears repeating. My lovely nurse who kept me informed, brought me extra toilet paper, and killed my alarms didn’t recognize my stridor, even when I could no longer talk. That alone should have had her worried! But I didn’t care. I loved her anyhow because I knew she cared.

Be kind to your patients, but don’t forget to be kind to yourself. Eat that ice cream. Spend time with a friend. Do that thing you always dreamed of. Because if there’s one thing sure, it’s that tomorrow is not guaranteed. Live life now.

Rada Jones is an emergency physician and can be reached at her self-titled site, RadaJonesMD, and on Twitter @jonesrada. She is the author of Overdose.