“Do you know where you are going now?” I ask with an irritated annunciation to the word now. He shakes his head in half yes, half screw-you manner. “Where is it?” I question. “Straight,” he says as he points over yonder behind a few cows and past a huddle of people doing who knows what. This seems promising until about the fourth time our tuk-tuk driver pulls over to ask someone where block K is. I’m already late for my repeat brain scan, which I missed on the 7th because I was stuck in the hospital for two days vomiting uncontrollably. Now, we have been circling the A block of South Extension in Delhi for what seems like forever.

The air pollution finally got the best of me (and my ever so healthy lungs) so much that I broke down and took some cough medicine to sleep the night of the 6th. I wanted to be ready for my scan, able to stay still as required for an accurate reading. I am allergic to decongestants and this particular cough medicine contained one, unbeknownst to me. Three hours after my fateful sip out of the cap started the hell of being sick in a foreign land where there is no carpet to kneel on while you hang over the toilet, and three nurses stand over you all debating what to do. “She look so sick,” they chatter to each other in their small, kind voices. “Ohhh, I no see make up,” one quickly points out to the rest. They soon become less worried that I’m dying once they recognize for the first time this entire trip, this is what I really look like -- stripped of mascara, and seemingly, any eyelashes. Still, it is a carousel of nurses and doctors and anti-vomiting medication until things calm down. It seems like endless torture, and far beyond the harm that one little capful of cough medicine could do, allergies or not. I slept sitting up to ensure decent jumping time off the bed and into the bathroom if need be.

Dr. Geeta Shroff thinks I had Deli Belly -- the dreaded curse caused by eating contaminated food. I survived eight weeks with the haunting smell of street vendors and didn't cave in to taste a single thing. I peel, boil or bake everything I put in my mouth. I wash my hands obsessively. But, no one is safe. If that is really what Deli Belly is like and everyone knew, it would be the world’s most sought after biological warfare weapon.

I consider the chance that my body had simply said “enough” to IV and oral antibiotics. Or, perhaps I was having some sort of physical detox. I imagine all the Lyme bacteria is dead and my body wants it out, however so violently. Whatever it was, I am happy to report I am alive, well and eating like I’m pregnant with twins again. No harm done.

Finally, we arrive at the scan. Tim, a 19-year-old patient from Australia has kindly been sharing his sweet mother Wendy with me since my own left. She couldn’t fathom me going alone to South Extension, dealing with the challenges of getting anything done in India. When they ask for the previous month’s scan, I don’t argue. I know the doctor who did them at this same facility has them, but I have copies in my backpack and feel prepared, like it is somehow a make-up opportunity for my irresponsibility last time. The doctor is probably still disappointed from then that I didn’t have my reports from the states, and I don’t want any trouble again.

I am escorted back to the little closet-like room they use to inject the dye into my veins -- after I wait 45 minutes for them to boil it. I am used to this painstakingly long process by now: boil, wait, inject, wait, scan. It’s familiar to me, which is actually a bit sad but more so, comical. I sit and pray in my spare time, hoping this will be the last one for awhile. I know next time, I will be back in San Francisco’s fancy digs in a quiet, dark room where I can relax without the sounds of Indian music and the buzz of burnt out fluorescent lights. The dye is injected and I am instructed to “Close eyes and stay still for one hour.” They pull the curtain and I try to follow directions. A half-hour later they come to get me up. It seems they need the room. They take me into a brightly painted orange waiting area lined with chairs, and lights that make it all that much more stimulating. Wendy comes to keep me company. I don’t question if being awake, eyes open and stimulated will affect the test. I have been in India long enough to know the answer -- “no problem.” I trust my brain will behave accordingly and all will go well.

Another half-hour passes while a baby screams in the injection room. I try not to let my brain register the piercing cries. Wendy and I reminisce about our times here, as she is leaving the next day and I have been cleared to leave on Valentine’s Day. Before we know it, it’s my turn in the testing room. I’m strapped to the table, the scan is taken and I’m deemed free to go. The results will come via e-mail later. I'm surprisingly not anxious for them at all and think nothing more of it after my head and arms are unstrapped from the table that I realize my body doesn't fit quite as well on as last time.

When I was sick for the few days, the scan wasn’t important on my get-done list, or Dr. Geeta Shroff’s. But the night I finally felt back to normal, I had a dream that I got the scan and it came back improved from January's scan. So, I decide to go for it, regardless of what most literature says about how long it takes for these test to show improvements after the patient notices a difference in their symptoms.

Wendy and I leave the scanning building after dark and find there isn’t a tuk-tuk on the road that wants to take us. It’s an entertaining city experience, trying to get a ride here. Drivers seem to either, a) not want to take you, or b) have a list of reasons why it’ll cost more than they know you know it should. I laugh out loud every time I walk up to a driver and say “Green Park Extension,” which is where the hospital is located. Nine times out of ten they stare at me in disgust, shake their heads with a condescending “NO” and drive off. I don’t understand it and no one can explain it. I have come to accept no one ever wants to take me there. Life goes on. The ones who do want to take me always have a reason why they have to add extra rupees to my fare. They look around after I ask (while they think of a price for a white person), and then disappointingly say (as if they feel bad), “Ohhh maaaaaaam…you seeeeeee…..dark out.” Or, “Noooooooo, this U-turnnnn” as they point somewhere I can’t see and make a gesture like they have to turn around. “Today weeeeekend” is another one that is on the frequent to-use list, and once I even heard it on a Tuesday.

Finally we catch a tuk-tuk, willing to drive after dark, make a U-turn and take us to Green Park Extension on a Saturday night. We jump in like children who have just won a trip to Disneyland. We don’t even get ripped off and end up home safe and sound. I tip the driver handsomely. He deserves if for driving two foreigners without charging whatever he wants; which he has no idea, we would have gladly paid.

I barely get in the room when Dr. Geeta Shroff calls. “I just got back,” I said, assuming she was just checking. “I know,” she replied. “I just talked to the doctor and there has been an improvement in the left side of your brain.” I’m ecstatic even though I have to wait until Monday to find out details. Even a tiny, itsy bitsy noticeable change on a scan is more than I could have expected. I know things are changing because I feel them, but to see proof is a sweetness hard to explain. The repeat scan was basically just to have two from the same lab before I left, according to what Dr. Geeta Shroff tells me. But I know how she works and there was definitely a “what if…” in the back of her mind. Great pioneering minds always think ahead of what science believes.

Tomorrow morning after physio, I leave to go to the old hospital in Gautam Nagar. I’ll be getting my first and only spinal procedure before I leave on Thursday. Two syringes full of stem cells will be injected into my tail bone area which will help boost power in my lower body. I have to lie down with bricks under the bottom of my bed for 6-8 hours and then I’ll be taken back to my regular room at Green Park.

My iPod will be my best friend tomorrow. Thank goodness for the tiny device that will allow me to keep my Bruce Springsteen and Michael Jackson craze of late to myself. My baby stem cells will forgive me, but I'm not sure the other patients at the hospital would.