It was paradise—until I got sick
Thailand was our dream.
Affordable beachfront living, delicious food, warm people.
We read articles calling it the “ideal retirement haven.”
So we packed up and moved to Chiang Mai.
And for a while, it really was paradise.
Then I got sick.
It started with stomach pain. Then fever. Then vomiting.
My husband rushed me to the nearest hospital.
The receptionist didn’t speak English. Neither did the nurse.
The doctor finally arrived—30 minutes later—and asked us to pay before any treatment.
We had to swipe a card at a kiosk. No one explained how.
The staff were kind—but overwhelmed.
We later learned the clinic was short on antibiotics.
The nurse said, “You may have to try another hospital... if they have supply.”
I was dizzy, scared, and dehydrated.
And I realized—this isn’t the Thailand from the glossy brochures.
Back home, I’d have been seen in minutes. Here, it was hours.
Back home, I could ask questions. Here, I couldn’t even understand the answers.
Later, at the pharmacy, the clerk handed me a bag of unmarked pills.
No dosage, no English. Just a smile and “Take two.”
It hit me then:
We moved here thinking we could “age gracefully” in paradise.
But paradise doesn't help you when you're weak, confused, and alone in a waiting room that smells like bleach and fear.
Medical tourism is one thing.
Living through illness in a foreign country is another.
We still love Thailand.
But we’ve added one word to our retirement plan: reality.
