Sunday, 1:30 p.m.

“How’s your health?” Mom asks, as she always does, although notably more so since I’ve been living in West Africa.

“Great, I haven’t been sick in ages!” This is newsworthy in the tropics, bounteous land of mosquito-, food-, and water-borne infectious diseases. I forget to knock on wood. I will regret that.

Tuesday, 4:00 a.m.

I am slumped on the toilet with a wastebasket in my lap. I am sicker than I’ve ever been, but just coherent enough to think, Wow, this is the sickest I’ve ever been! Even in my puking delirium, I am awed by the violence and impatience with which my body is ridding itself of toxins. I am sort of grateful that my body knows how to do this, but mostly, I am miserable.

Tuesday, 10:00 p.m.

I spent the last seventeen hours horizontally and feel much better. Gastrointestinal distress is not uncommon among expats in Africa, and I see no reason to worry about my case. I make myself a chalky glass of Smecta, down it, and climb into bed.

10:30 p.m.

My legs itch. I get up to shake the mosquitoes out of the sheets, only there are no mosquitoes. There are, however, little blister-like bumps on my legs, and on my back, and in my armpits, and in my ears. They burn and itch, especially the bumps inside my ears. I sit on my hands and try not to think about it.

My ears turn a deep shade of scarlet and swell to several times their normal thickness, filling the small silver hoops that normally dangle from their lobes.

“I believe I’m having an allergic reaction to something,” I tell my husband. I pretend I’m not freaked out. I take a cold shower to relieve the itching, but afterwards I am just cold, wet, and itchy. And miserable.

11:30 p.m.

At the Polyclinique Pasteur we shuffle through the dark reception area, step over someone sleeping on the floor, and are shown into a small office with a flickering fluorescent light. The soft-spoken Malian doctor promises an antihistamine shot to relieve the reaction. He notes my dehydration and urges me to stay the rest of the night, getting intravenous fluids.

The nurse brings a wheelchair, which seems excessive, but after all, it is my first overnight hospital stay, and it will be my first IV, so why not make it my first wheelchair ride? He rolls me outside, down tiled, covered walkways.

11:45 p.m.

My veins have always been painfully elusive. The routine is the same wherever I go: The nurse enters. I warn her of the difficulty ahead and show her the last vein that has been successfully mined. She always smiles and assures me she can do it. After two tries in one arm -- she sometimes hits a vein on the second try, but after a few drops, it runs dry -- she is no longer smiling. She calls in the reinforcements, a Nurse Ratchet look-alike who is known for her skills with a needle. She cinches the rubber tourniquet tightly around my other arm, and hits gold.

The Polyclinique Pasteur is no different, except the nurses are almost all men, and they speak French to me and Bambara to each other. Once the needle is finally in my hand (two tries on the left, one try on the right) the IV is not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. Saline solution and ciproflaxin slowly drip into my veins as I sleep. My husband spends the night on the other bed.

Wednesday, 6:30 a.m.

This is not so bad: Three meals a day and all the TV I can watch! Too bad I can only watch about ten minutes of CNN (the only English-language channel) before getting bored. I’m glad I brought my book.

10:30 p.m.

It takes three tries in two arms to draw blood for tests. The nurse, trying to make conversation, asks me who I like better: Yassar Arafat or Ariel Sharon? Frankly, my French is not up to this level of conversation, so I tell him it’s “trop compliqué” and leave it at that.

10:45 p.m.

While they were drawing blood I jerked out my IV, so they have to reinsert it. It takes four tries in two hands. I cry like a baby and say some nasty cuss words. In English. I sure hope the nurses don’t speak English.

1:00 p.m.

The good news is, I don’t have malaria. The bad news is, I have typhoid. Okay, I haven’t actually come down with the fever, but the bacteria are in my system, and the French doctor wants to stop it before it starts. More ciproflaxin, saline solution, and vitamins drip into my veins.

1:30 p.m.

The nurses come back to apologize for sticking me so much. We watch John Kerry address the Cincinnati VFW. They ask who my preferred candidate is (Kerry, of course). I don’t have to ask who theirs is: The rest of the world hates George W. Bush.

9:00 p.m.

Getting ready for bed, I decide to actually make myself comfortable (last night I slept fully dressed except for my sandals). As soon as my bra is unhooked I realize that there is no way to get it off, since my right arm is connected by tubes to a tall metal IV rack. Then I realize I can’t re-hook it behind my back with only one useful hand. Oh well.

11:00 p.m.

I am worried about air bubbles in the IV tubes. What would happen if there was a bubble in the tube, and it went into my vein? It would go to my heart and kill me! Or would it go to my brain? Or my lungs? I’m not sure, but I know bubbles are bad.

I force myself to stop inspecting the IV tubes for tiny, killer bubbles and devote myself to finishing The Fourth Hand. I finish just before midnight.

Thursday, 6:30 a.m.

The phantom bubbles did not kill me in my sleep.

9:00 a.m.

It is sunny outside and my husband is waiting for me to get ready. We had pain au chocolat, tea, several bills and a lab report delivered to the room. I even had a visit from someone claiming to be the director general.

The nurse disconnected my IV, and now I don’t know what to do with my right arm. I comb my hair and brush my teeth for the first time in two days.

10:00 a.m.

Home again, home again, jiggity jog. There is a wedding in front of our house, so we park down the street and weave through the crowd. I am a little dazed by the people, the colors and the noise. The griots sing themselves hoarse.