Dodging Death and Bad Decisions: A Travel Story

This is a story about a girl named Lucky… Just kidding. It’s about me, stumbling through foreign countries, racking up medical mishaps like Pokémon, and somehow managing to stay alive. Truly a Christmas miracle.

Komodo, SCUBA, and the Birth of the Blister from Hell

On October 24, 2022, I made my way from Indonesia to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, fresh off some of the most breathtaking SCUBA dives of my life in the Komodos. Picture this: coral reefs straight out of Alice in Wonderland, colors so vivid they felt fake, me fist-pumping the water in pure joy. Absolutely life-changing.

But, of course, paradise came with a price. Turns out, when I gave my shoe size as an American 9, the shop used American men’s sizing instead of women’s, so my fins were too big. Three days of diving later, I had a nasty blister on my right heel. No big deal, right? Slap on a Band-Aid, use some antiseptic, let it air out—it’ll be fine.

Spoiler alert: It was not fine.

The “Oh No” Moment

Fast forward to my flight from Bali to Kuala Lumpur a few days later, and I start noticing my ankle is not okay. It’s red, swollen, and hurts. My immediate thought? Great. That’s cellulitis.

If that seems like an overreaction, let me hit you with some backstory:

Freshman year of college, I got cellulitis so bad I spent four days in the hospital on IV antibiotics, followed by two weeks of oral antibiotics and months of recovery. A year later—on the exact same date (sort of)—my leg randomly swelled up again. Long story short, that infection wrecked my lymphatic system, leaving me with lymphedema. Basically, my left leg is high-maintenance, and I refer to it as my “kankle.” Super sexy, I know. Just kidding—it’s visually annoying, and honestly, it’s not even that bad.

So when I saw my right leg pulling the same nonsense, I knew I had a problem. Also, I was not calling my parents because they would absolutely fly out and cause a full-blown international incident.

Medical Tourism, But Make It Stressful

As soon as I landed, I grabbed a car straight to my hostel, Googled medical clinics, and hit the streets. Fun fact: It was a holiday in Malaysia, so most clinics were closed. After wandering around like a lost puppy with a death wish, I found one open. They took one look at my foot and were like, yeah, that’s probably cellulitis. They prescribed me antibiotics (which I remembered from last time) and a topical cream. Problem solved? Not quite.

I had to trek across the city to find a pharmacy that actually stocked the antibiotics. By the time I got them, I was exhausted and frustrated, so I parked myself in a Starbucks, clinging to overpriced coffee for emotional support. Also, Malaysian Starbucks had the best drink—an iced Americano with Matcha Cold Foam. DIVINE.

As I sat there charging my phone, I outlined the infection with a pen (like a proper neurotic person/responsible citizen) to make sure it wasn’t spreading. I also kept checking in with the clinic over the next few days. Did I annoy them? Absolutely. Did I care? Not even a little—I was terrified.

Thailand: The Land of Muay Thai and More Terrible Decisions

After surviving Malaysia for three days, I hopped over to Phuket, Thailand, to stay at a Muay Thai fitness camp—specifically, Tiger Muay Thai. You know, because when your body is actively trying to betray you, the logical next step is intense combat training. (I booked this before the infection, and also, I learned early on that I am not a fighter—I laugh too much.)

I arrived late at night, immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of protein powder and six-packs. Everyone was either a fighter, a bodybuilder, or a macro-tracking machine. Even the restaurant staff asked about my “protein goals.” Cool, cool, cool.

The next morning, still rocking an open wound infection, I signed up for the beach workout. Smart? No. But I was on antibiotics, and I figured, why not? I got through the workout, and on the ride back, a fellow gym-goer took one look at my foot and said, Honey, you need to get that checked out.

Cue me Googling more clinics, finding one a mile away, and refusing to rent a scooter (because I know my limits, and they include not crashing a motorbike in a foreign country). I walked there, had an awkward lost-in-translation moment with the staff, and was ultimately referred to the local hospital.

At this point, I was so used to medical drama that I just shrugged, ordered a Grab (aka Uber), and rolled up to the hospital in an 11-person van. The doctor numbed my foot, scraped the infection out (love that for me), bandaged it up, and told me to come back daily for wound care.

Cost? $200 for the first visit, $20 per follow-up. Worth it, because, uh, my life.

The Universe Was Not Done With Me Yet

Feeling victorious, I strutted out of the hospital and thought, screw it—let’s hit the 2 PM Abs class. (Wearing slides, obviously, because tennies + open wound = nope.)

Afterward, I was walking back to my accommodation on a narrow road, where pedestrians constantly roam, when out of nowhere—a truck mirror absolutely clocks my shoulder. I just stood there, laugh-crying, because at this point? I was convinced the universe was trying to kill me, and I was just… barely escaping every time.

Existential Crisis, Party of One

That night, I sat in my room, questioning every life choice. Wishing I had a normal, simple life. Wishing I had someone—anyone—watching my back. In that moment, I was ready to renounce feminism, independence, and every single solo-travel decision I’d ever made. I wanted a damn knight in shining armor.

It’s been over two years since then, and yeah… still haven’t found that person. And funnily enough, I’ve gone back to that funny little fitness street multiple times. Because although I’m not a fighter, I do dig the fitness classes.

I still dodge full-blown disaster, still laugh through the chaos, and take any cut, scrape, or nick very seriously—but hey, I value my life.

Stay golden, my dear.