So far, I have had two experiences with the European healthcare system. The first was a lesson in how free healthcare works and the second…

Well, the second was a lesson in the incomprehensible.

My first interaction with a local hospital came approximately three hours after I touched down in Prague from Newark and I nearly cut off my finger. On the flight over I managed to drop one of my airpods into a glass of orange juice so I bought a cheap pair of headphones at the airport. The packaging of the headphones was impossible to pry open with my fingers, so my smart ass decided to raid the hostel’s knife cabinet for the sharpest blade I could find.

Ten minutes later I was in an Uber with my gushing finger wrapped in countless paper towels.

Growing up in the US the European healthcare system has always been a mystery. My trip to Prague’s Motol hospital did a fair amount to illuminate that enigma.

No insurance? No problem. 30$ patch-up and no questions asked.

Spent about fifteen minutes in the waiting room and the doctor had the bedside manner of a prison guard but it was nice not having to pay an arm and a leg for a simple mistake. When I did a free tour of Prague two days later my tour guide assured me that most Czech doctors treat their patients like war criminals awaiting trial, so I shouldn’t take it personally. I didn’t. I was just happy my accident didn’t include excessive paper work.

I thought I had a fun cultural experience. I thought I’d come home with a keepsake scar and spend the rest of my Central European adventure with my right hand wrapped in gauze.

I was wrong.

A week later, I type this message with fingers that bare no evidence of my accident. Back in Prague the doctor told me that it might take a couple months for me to regain feeling in my sliced fingers and that I should be ready for the possibility that those two fingers will always feel somewhat numb, yet as I type this message, they feel brand new. My whole body feels brand new.

My whole body feels brand new because tonight, I had my second experience with the local healthcare system.

So I’m standing outside of a pub in Olomouc, Eastern Czech Republic, enjoying a cigarette. It’s well past two in the morning and the pub closed down three hours ago but there’s still a sizable party going on inside. My cousin — who I’m visiting — knows the owner and insisted that the place stay open so that he could show me a good time. There’s enough plumb schnapps at the bar to drive the whole city blind and the patrons aren’t particularly concerned about their eyesight. It's a fun night — but these folks go hard and I need a breather.

So, I pop outside for a cigarette.

My parents used to live in Olomouc back in the communist days but escaped over to the West when the Soviets sent half a million troops to Czechoslovakia as a gift of “brotherly assistance”. My parents escaped the system, but I was raised on stories of their youth. I distinctly remember looking out at the lamp lit cobbled streets trying to imagine my mom and pops drunkenly strolling around singing anti-government songs.

My drunken imagination came to a sudden halt as I got punched in the stomach.

The guy was wearing a dark hoodie and was at least a head taller than me. That’s all that I could make sense of. He just rushed by me, socked me in the stomach and then continued stumbling up the street. A couple of feet later, the man in the hoodie came upon a street sign. He seized the metal pole in one hand and started punching the sign itself with the other. Three or four dull metal thuds later, my assailant turned the corner and disappeared down one of the alleys.

The punch had knocked the wind out of me. Before I could make sense of what had happened another figure grabbed me and shook me by the shoulders — a woman in her twenties with enough metal in her face to make a headbutt deadly. I barely speak the language, but from her expression and the handful of Duolingo classes I took on the flight over I could tell she was apologizing. She shook me, apologized and then ran off after the man in the hoodie.

‘No police, please’, she kept on yelling in Czech as she disappeared. ‘No police!’

I was drunk enough to not feel the initial impact of the hit, but as my breath returned a sharp pain started to spread through my abdomen. Once I was sure I wasn’t going to vomit I made my way back into the pub.

Again, I don’t speak Czech very well. My cousin, to match me, barely speaks English. It took a good amount of gestures and google translate work to explain exactly what happened. As I was pantomiming my random assault the party was in full swing, yet as my point started to come across the merriment slowly drifted from the pub.

‘Stranger man on street hit you belly?’ my cousin finally asked. Everyone was quiet. Everyone was watching us.

I nodded.

My cousin shook his head in disappointment, slammed some colorful bills on the bar and then put on his coat.

‘Time to go find man who punch,’ he finally said, standing in the doorway. My stomach was still in pain, but I tried to argue. I had no interest in getting into a fistfight anywhere — let alone abroad.

To all my arguments my cousin shook his head. ‘If man punch you and you let him walk away without fight or sorry, you will hurt for rest of life. Come, time to find man who punch.’

I don’t know how many of the pub patrons understood English, but they all nodded along in agreement. They had all decided it was best for me to leave with my cousin to go find the man who punch.

The sweet smell of liquor and sweat in the bar felt infinitely safer than the cold streets outside, yet I was a guest of my cousin’s. I didn’t question him. I just put on my coat and followed him out into the night.

As the door was closing behind us the owner of the pub shouted something to my cousin. Again, Czech isn’t my strong suit, so most of the sentence flew past me. I did, however, understand one phrase of the bartender’s message: Noční Doktor.

The Night Doctor.

I tried steering us off course and asking my cousin what the Night Doctor is then — but his aim was singular. He wanted to find the man who punched me. With some trepidation, I pointed to the street sign my hooded assailant had attacked.

There were specs of blood right next to the indented directions to the city center.

My cousin set out through the city in a confident pace and I, reluctantly, followed behind. The impact of the sucker punch had ballooned up to my chest and each breath I took made me twitch. I didn’t feel like I needed medical attention, yet I did want the night to come to an end. I figured it soon would, the chances of randomly bumping into the guy who socked me seemed minimal.

Yet, after about a fifteen minute journey, we arrived at a large open square with a haunting gothic column in the center. Next to the centuries old monument stood the hooded giant who had hit me and the woman who had begged me to not call the police.

They were arguing about something.

I have never been in a fist-fight and, judging by his physique, neither has my cousin. As chubby and short as he is though, my companion approached the situation with blind courage. With theatrical flare, he put out his cigarette against the back of his shoe and then started to shout at the arguing couple.

They quickly stopped arguing.

I was drunk and hurt, but seeing the giant approach my cousin sent a shot of adrenalin up my spine. He looked as if he was about to swing at him as well. That wouldn’t end well. There were no cops on the street. I had no chance of backing my cousin up.

I braced for the worst, but my panic quickly gave way to confusion. My cousin spoke in a low and assertive tone, occasionally pointing back to me, occasionally to the city beyond. Instead of throwing another punch, the giant’s shoulders slumped. He intently listened as my cousin spoke, outlining some sort of a deal. The woman who had been bickering with the giant listened too, but only for a bit. Before my cousin had finished talking, she rushed past him and began pleading with me directly.

Again, I don’t speak the language, so I couldn’t figure out what she was saying. I could make out the phrase ‘no police’ and she seemed apologetic enough, but her eyes were wild and she was way too close. Walking backwards I yelled to my cousin for a translation.

‘She say her boyfriend angry man. He catch her with other man. He get angry and he hit everything. No control. Nothing personal when he hit you. She says everyone sorry. She says do not call police because boyfriend criminal. I agree. Maybe we don’t call police but he must —’

‘Hit him!’ the woman yelled in English. She dragged her giant before me and illustrated her point by hitting him and making an equal sign. The giant looked at me from above, looking like a Slavic Moai head with puppy eyes.

He had been crying.

‘She say you hit him and then everything equal. But I say —’

‘Hit me,’ the giant ordered, lowering his head. ‘Hit me,’ he said, tapping his cheek.

Every ounce of self-preservation I had went against the giant’s wishes. I didn’t want to hit him. I was already in enough pain. For all I knew his ‘angry’ instincts would send another hit back in reflex and kill me. I didn’t want to hit him but there was alcohol on his breath and he was a head taller than me.

With a respectful amount of strength, I planted my fist in the giant’s stomach.

Throwing the punch sent a lightning bolt of pain up my abdomen and the giant barely flinched. The moment I pulled my hand back the woman grabbed the giant and started to drag him away from us. She considered the matter resolved.

So did I.

My cousin did not.

‘Ne!’ he hissed, and then, with a familiar low tone of voice, proceeded to make demands. From his speech I could only decipher a single phrase, repeated multiple times:

Noční Doktor — The Night Doctor.

With each mention of the name the woman grew more and more agitated until finally she started to yell back. She started yelling at me to hit the giant again. When that didn’t work she started to swinging her purse like a mace in the general direction of my cousin. The giant gently pushed her aside and shook his head.

‘She say you hitting make justice, but I say no. You are guest. Should be treated with honor. This man punch — you get justice. You can only get justice with Night Doctor,’ my cousin said, producing another cigarette. ‘So I make man call Night Doctor.’

‘What’s a Night Doctor?’ I asked.

My cousin puffed on his cigarette and thought. ‘He is man who…’ with frustration he pointed to the stars and snapped his fingers hoping for words to manifest. None did in English. He said a couple words in Czech which I did not comprehend. ‘He is man who help. Both help you and help get justice. You see. Don’t scared. Night Doctor working quick.’

He snapped at the giant and the giant’s head went low. In a voice strained with fear, the man started to recite some sort of a poem or prayer. I understood none of it, with the exception of one phrase:

Noční Doktor — The Night Doctor.

As the giant recited his prayer the woman took a handful of steps aside and turned her back. My cousin also inched further away from me and the giant, but he kept his eyes locked on us. When the giant finished his recital, the air grew still.

A piercing chill joined the numb aches that followed each breath I took. For a moment I saw my cousin puffing on his cigarette, but the ashes were travelling up the rolling paper far too fast. He breathed out a large cloud of smoke and with it, he disappeared.

Everything disappeared. My cousin was gone, the giant was gone, the gothic column in the center of the square was gone. All that remained was a sea of cobblestones beneath my feet and the wild stars above.

Then, out of the darkness, a terrible thing emerged.

It wore a long dark coat with golden buttons and had the facial features of a man, but it certainly wasn’t a man. It’s face was old and eyeless and possessed a thin moustache of white. The rest of its body was not of flesh but of an ethereal light that pulsed between a starlight white and a foggy blue. Without its formless feet touching the ground, the specter advanced toward me with its hand stretched out.

I was far too paralyzed with drunkenness and fear to do anything, but the ghoul’s hand touching my forehead shocked me awake. The touch of that terrible thing was colder than any winter I had ever felt. I screamed in pain and shock.

Or, at least, I tried to scream.

Nothing but a weak hiss came out of my mouth. A shot of ice ran up my jaw. The specter used its free hand to close my mouth shut. I stared on at the being in terror as it pulled its hands back and moved closer.

The Night Doctor pressed its frigid lips against my forehead.

My terror had reached to the point of nausea yet the moment the horror’s lips touched my forehead my stomach eased. The pain from the hit, the uneasiness from the alcohol — it all rocketed up through my being and exited without a trace. My perception cleared and I could only sense one thing:

The Night Doctor smelled like freshly roasted coffee in an infection ridden hospital.

As the specter pulled back my head grew light. The Night Doctor’s form disappeared beneath the weight of an incoming faint — yet when my vision cleared I was back on the square with my cousin. The body of the Night Doctor was imperceptible in the gaslight, but his coat remained.

The long formal coat of the Night Doctor was wrapped around the giant. The woman had her back turned away from the scene but in the quiet night, gently hiding beneath the whistling of the wind — I could hear her sobbing. Soon enough the soft cries of the woman got overtaken by guttural dry heaves. My hooded assailant fell to his knees and reached for his stomach. Just before the giant started to vomit, the Night Doctor’s jacket slid to the side.

It flew off in the night wind and disappeared into the darkness as if it had never existed.

The giant was holding his stomach in the spot where he had punched me. Not only did he seem to inherit my wound, he seemed to inherit my drunkenness. When the man finally finished emptying his stomach, the giant looked up at my cousin with eyes so glassy it was a wonder they were conscious.

My cousin nodded.

And with that nod the giant went on his way. He walked opposite the way in which the Night Doctor’s coat flew. The woman ignored him at first, but eventually she caught up with him and gave him some paper towels from her purse.

‘See? Justice. You no longer hurt. now only man who punch hurt,’ my cousin said, lighting up another cigarette. ‘Now, we go drink more?’

I told him I would prefer to go home.

He acquiesced; I was a guest after all.

My cousin passed out the moment we got home. He slept soundly like a baby and snored like a wood saw. The terrible visage of the Night Doctor kept me awake for a good chunk of the night, but eventually my exhaustion set in.

I slept, or at least I think I slept because at some point the sun had risen.

I was willing to catalog the whole affair as a drunken misremembering, but I can’t do that anymore. I had drunk enough the night prior to be put out of commission for at least a day, but I don’t feel hungover in the least bit.

My stomach, as well, bears no signs of injury. Last night I was having trouble breathing but today I feel more alive than I ever had. I feel as if every ache and pain from my back has been removed as well.

I feel great.

Yet it’s not just my soberness and lack of aches that makes me think that my ails were transferred by the Night Doctor. Had I simply woken up hungover and without bruises I would have found a way to ignore what had happened the night prior. I might have even avoided this whole corner of the internet all together.

But I am here. And I’m here for a reason.

This morning, as my cousin snored in the living room, I made my way over to the bathroom. I wanted to brush my teeth and my bandages were due to be changed. I had never changed them before and I haven’t had a chance to look at the wound properly since it had been sown up. I presumed the sight would be unpleasant, but what I found was shocking enough to make me feel faint.

Beneath the bandages there was no wound. My fingers, the same fingers that I type this message with, the same fingers that were nearly sliced off during my accident a week prior — they are completely whole.

I do not understand what happened last night. The concept of the Night Doctor completely escapes my understanding and I fear that with the language barrier I will never truly comprehend it.

My mind keeps reeling back to watching the woman and her giant walk away into the dark night. I have visions of sitting in an uber with my fingers wrapped in a mass of paper towels.

Even though he hit me, I hope the giant is okay. I hope that whatever scar he inherited from my misadventure with the headphone packaging doesn’t cause him too much of a headache.

I hope he’s fine. He should be fine. I hear the healthcare is pretty good here.