Convalescing...
Archive post November 27, 2019…
…and other belly-aches…
The memories of my recent hip op are fading into oblivion. I hope for ever. 27 days have passed since I was poked, pried, flipped and unconsciously ripped open for the surgical insertion of a spanking, brand new prosthesis for my left hip. The constant, nagging pain & discomfort of resting still, moving about on crutches, turning in my sleep or, submitting to the able ministrations of a competent & professional physical-therapist exists no more. Now, I am presently left with the minor irritations of using a single crutch… how do you rest it against something so it won’t fall?… and making drives of short duration & distance in my ripristinata SUV after extensive mechanical work performed by our Local Mechanic during my absence and costing me a whopping $2,000… I am feeling invigorated with optimism that… Yes!… l will be free and all will have been forgotten. Is there no better sensation to experience?
Maybe but, there are old habits to contenance.
I must confess… the intention of the five-part series I subjected my readership to slugging through was actually to complain & compare the difference between cost and nuisance of health care in America compared to Italy’s, free-enterprise versus a state health system. One You is an active participant. Let me interject…
My Mother’s hip op cost her insurance company… and we are talking of just the preparation to and the subsequent hospital surgery of about $80,000. Mine was supported by the Italian income taxes I have paid to the infamous Italian State… and yes, it can burn in Hell for what it requires… yet, my out-of-pocket expenses came to the minor tune of Euro 272,21 or, $300.72. You risked the comment that my hospital surgery, stay of 6 days plus 10 days in a rehab facility… I was totally right in attempting to arrange an escape… might have cost the infamous Italian state of about Euro 20,000 or, $22,009.10… if that. Sorry. Would you need a hankie?
In the end, the five posts were a blow by blow accounting of my recent trials & tribulations, and which I am actively DELETING the adventure.
Then, DELETING was suddenly suspended. Last night, an acquaintance at an intimate pre-Christmas aperitivo and hosted by a dear mutual English friend innocently asked me about details of my surgery. I was asked because she actually wanted to know, if I had been so lucky to enjoy the latest LESS INVASIVE procedures emanating out of Canada, another country with a once WONDERFUL & PRISTINE state health care system now being slowly skewed… or, do I intend skewered?… by the power & competition & innovation… damn-it… from the profit-motive health care system of the United States of America. I suspect. No, was my reply. The acquaintance said a client of hers had just undergone a hip op with this new and less invasive technique. Bet she didn’t have 13 people with her in the operating theatre. I quickly felt second class. A lesser sort. Deficient. Bereft of the latest opportunities to avoid the barbary of surgery. You thinks I am absolutely ridiculous. I AM NOT!!! Just forward thinking. Cutting people open to dig into a leg bone to insert a titanium thingy resembling a wine bottle stopper IS BARBARIC. And, ridiculous.
So, convalescing in a small though plush mono-locale… plush for all the carpets and comfy furniture & furnishings judiciously selected & purchased by You and, heated by the Joy of a firmly stoked fireplace… cohabitating with two crazed Weimaraners, who cannot be taken elsewhere to run off their neurosis, hobbling about with two then, one crutch, eating quickly prepared meals often burnt… Thank God for cheese & crackers & white wine… and tackling all sorts of mundane tasks on the laptop is, without a doubt, NOT FOR THE WEAK OF HEART!!! And, to add to my Cabin Fever, Nina barks at me for any little tiny thingy she cannot abide by. Oh, let me list them for you…
it’s cold, it’s hot, Croesus is in My Comfy Chair, I want to go out, I want to come in, I want to sleep now on the mattress, I want you to scratch my head, it’s time to eat, it’s time to go out… again, it’s cold outside, it’s time to do my ear, I don’t like it here, why can’t we go for a drive, I want a treat, I want another treat, I want yet another one and now!!!… and so on and so forth.
Croesus, Bless is Thug Heart, is affectionate, obedient, singularly CRAZED for a run in the local wildernesses. I too am CRAZED to run in the local wildernesses to photograph their beauty, and rendered sodden by a month of consistent rain. Everyone is in a bad mood, Thanks to the H2O, or, are under the weather with a cold or, flu. No surprises there.
Friends have stopped by to see how I faire. One brought my laundry nicely folded and a couple of times food!!! Another brought me her Good Company and a wonderful book to read. And the English friend from last night’s aperitivo brought me very dangerous English butter cookies filled with stuff that makes you Joyous with expellations of aires and, an even better book to consume late at night. And one or two brave souls have taken me out to run errands or, for an unburnt meal in a local bistro.
But, Cabin Fever is a plague. Convalescing is not for the weak. I cannot wait for Normal Life to return to my precincts.
The two crazed Weimaraners resting after a hard day of bothering the patient during his forced convalescence at il Poggiolo.
Health care in Italy: Part 5...
Archive post November 11, 2019…
I have a new left hip.
The worst is behind me. I was thoroughly tested. The pre-op anxiety, the post-op pain & discomfort and authoritarianism of rehab were difficult to bear. They were all constant reminders of why I had ardently avoided the operation for 5 years. However, that stance is short-sighted. I have much to gain, like walking upright without pain or, lower back wobble. Let’s hope, OK?
I am now happily installed in the Apt. Azzurro at il Poggiolo with a lovely fireplace blazing away, several good books, my laptop and two very crazed Weimaraners. No w-a-l-k-s drives them to annoyance. The constant rains for the last 10 days have not helped either but, gives me a ready-made excuse for an afternoon nap. Dogs permitting. If allowed, what a treat. I am living off home-made soups, quick pasta’s, chef’s salads and scrambled eggs. My appetite has returned. Cannot shake the desire for pancakes with maple syrup or a MacDonald’s Double Cheeseburger. Calories are saved since I cannot drive yet. I will not starve or die of thirst. Certainly not thirst. You loaded up on wine.
Crutches furnished by my dear English friends here in Codiponte are paar for the course. Unfortunately, the Apt. Azzurro is an obstacle course of furniture, the Dog’s mattress, carpets, short hallways, tight corners. I can often forego the crutches and just crawl along holding onto counters, chair-backs and walls but…. shhh!!! Don’t tell anyone… I’m not suppose to that. Must be upright.
I have to wear stockings to avoid unwanted trombosis. They stink. I cannot take them off. Too hard to get back on. And they make washing beyond a sponge bath impossible. So, I stink somewhat too. The first thing I would like to do, when permitted, will be a long hot shower. Not until the staples are out.
I have to give myself a shot every evening at 5PM. An anti-coagulant. The idea is far worse than actually doing it. How lovely, two options… pick a shoulder or, tummy. Luckily, I still have an abundant tummy. Dott. You taught me a trick… lightly dab the selected area with disinfectant, quickly slap the spot, then poke the syringe pushing the plunger of medicine into your flesh… yeah, a bit disconcerting to say… and you will hardly notice even a pin-prick of pain or, discomfort. More fun when You does it. Makes me laugh. He’s not around.
My immediate post-hip op situation briefly updated.
Previously, I was not much in the mood to post and certainly not during my two week’s stay in hospital & rehab. All too fresh, too raw… a nightmare… to write in Real Time of struggles with severe pain & discomfort, the insistent Rules & Regulations… Signore! Before you even think to touch the floor YOU MUST HAVE your slippers on… the absolute dominion of the nurses, and I can tell you, they rule for better or, for worse. A kind of boot camp… and the tasteless & dull food. Food may not be the appropriate term for what was served, in my opinion. Always a relentless potato puree and a baked apple served with UFO’s posing as chicken, beef or, fish. A couple of times a delightful roast chicken breast or, the 1950’s American feel-good of fish-sticks would be found hiding under a plastic plate’s cover, a happy spoiler to the typically unappetizing bill-of-fair. Lost 7 lbs.
Before I ever got to the hospital…
the pre-op anxiety built its momentum in the days after the call from the Capo Sala. Dealing with fantoms of worry and logistics. Errands to provide enough water, food, clean clothes, toilet articles for my return to the Apt. Azzurro… importantly, a residence all on one level… at il Poggiolo from rehab. Bed made? Dogs set up? Had to drive to Sarzana to buy dog food since, the store in Aulla was, typically, out of Nina’s & Croesus’ dog food. That chewed up an entire morning. Stress. Apt. Azzurro cleaned & organized? Water heater checked so You could have a secure h-e-a-t during his Tour-of-duty as Florenz Nightengale, while I’d be flat on my back in a hospital bed. La Casa Grande cleaned & sorted for its Winter hibernation? Bills were paid, cash pulled for You’s travel & food expenses plus mine to cover my three week convalescence at il Poggiolo. Bag packed for the hospital with slippers, athletic pants and T-s’, etc.? Most done yet, the anxiety persisted weighted by the fantasm of the anticipated hip op, a heavy ball & chain around my delicate consciousness.
Kuddo’s for Florenz Nightengale. You redeemed himself marvelously. The threat of not coming down from Genoa for my op was another fantasm. Of course he was going to come. He arrived at il Poggiolo the Saturday before. We drove and deposited the Dogs with their sitters Sunday morning, continuing on to a birthday party for You’s brother, who had knocked upon 60 years. A distraction. Mountain trattoria specializing in funghi. It’s been a grand season for funghi in Italy this year. Ordered a lasagna packed full of funghi porcini. Could not eat another thing afterwards. Maybe a salad. Drove back to il Poggiolo only to head out for a pizza at You’s preferred pizzeria in Pieve San Lorenzo above our village of Codiponte. Our favourite lady pizzaiolo was manning the palette at the hot brick oven. She did good. A golden calzone for You, pizza bianca con un’uova for me. Eating seemed to assuage anxiety somewhat and until I took a pill to sleep.
You drove me to the hospital Monday morning. The appointment was for 8:30. Neither of us, and one is an Italian doctor working within the Italian national health scheme, could figure out why I had to lay in a hospital bed for a entire day. You patiently sat while I was interrogated by the Admitting Nurse on who I was, my medical history… previous operations, allergies, transfusions… and what was supposed to happen to me in the hospital. What? You don’t know? My left hip! Just checking, Signore. A test? Then, You stayed to accompany me through a saltless lunch before excusing himself to drive back to il Poggiolo for an afternoon nap. He deserved it. I couldn’t nap and instead, tried to distract myself with an afternoon of reading. You returned to watch me not eat a saltless dinner. The tray retrieved and You gave me a quick kiss and a Buona Notte to head for home to rest up for tomorrow’s ordeal. Sleep? Got a pill without the asking. Thank the Good Lord.
I was awakened at 6:30AM. Temp, blood pressure and a last minute check on my heart-beat. All OK. Two nurses arrived with brisk instructions on how & where to shave myself and the intricacies of slipping on a transparent coat?… and covers for my feet and head… in a bright green synthetic material. Rather chic, leaving aside their requirement. Like a beach cover-up with no interest to cover-up. Once done, into the bed for the trip to the operating theatre. A long voyage once past the automatic double doors protecting the inner sanctum.
Darn if it wasn’t nearly the same crew I had five years ago for the op on my right hip. An intermediate stop for one last interrogation… a test?… before submitting unconsciously to the saw. Lo’ & behold, there was my surgeon chatting with a colleague in an adjoining room. We smile, waved and exchanged in bocca lupo separated by a glass partition. Felt a bit superstitious. Like not seeing the bride before the wedding. The surgeon came out to introduce me to a few members of his staff. Beside himself, there was another orthopedic surgeon, a general surgeon… to stitch me up, I discovered later… a technical consultant from the manufacturer of the prosthesis… defects have arisen for prosthesis installed between 2000 and 2011. Whew!… the capo sala operatoria, 2 anesthesiologists… a guy and a girl… and 6 nurses. 13 people in all!!! A convention of health care professionals assembled on my behalf. WOW!
The operating theatre was rife with nervous energy to get-going. The get-going got stopped when neither of the 2 anaesthesiologists could find the sweet-spot between the vertebrae of my spinal column to slide the needle in with its drug to deeply numb all below my belly-button. This wrecked everyone’s nerves.
Other nerves were wrecked when a blackened mole was seen at the base of my back. Staff was concerned and affirmed… to me in my semi-drugged state… that I would be visited post-op by an in-house dermatologist to have a look. Back to the needle. Doubled over myself and crunched down by two attending nurses, the spot was eventually found and off into la-la-land went any sensation from my tummy down. I was gently rolled over onto my right side to expose my left hip, a mask was put over my face. The next thing I knew was the gentle pat on my shoulder from the gal anaesthesiologist to tell me the final stitches were being sutured and all would be done. It all went splendidly. I did good. Gosh. Thank you, dottoressa. Occasionally, blood would rush down a tube close to my face. Reminded me of the ads for products to unclog drains. Sani-flush? I was wheeled out and could manage a regal wave to Staff, liberally dispensing my thank you’s for those who tagged along… everyone is fascinated that I am an American, thus, the groupies… my surgeon included and I was promptly given his benediction with a thumb’s up… and a nice, big smile.
Once sensation had returned and I could talk and be understood in my American accented Italian, a nurse… I remembered her, Daniela, from the last op five years ago. A garrulous force of nature with a sense of humour and a heart too… came to me to ask if I had made arrangements to laterally move to rehab after a few days in hospital. Don Gnocchi? No. I thought it was automatic. No, signore. Ci vuole una richiesta. La seguo io. Non preoccuparti. Grazie, Daniela. She ran into a brick wall of bureaucracy, poor thing.
One of the absolute elements of living in Italy is residency. It’s essential. You can’t move without it. Residency defines you, corrals you, attaches you to the Italian State and all of its many branches, like the ASL, the Italian national health scheme. Big ASL health stuff, like an op, can happen anywhere in Italy since, you are given the right to choose your attending dottore, chiurugo, expert, wherever in the country. The small ASL health stuff… rehab, therapies, post-op checks & controls… has to be done where you have your residency. Mine is in Genoa. No way man. I’d get lost, overlooked, forgotten there… and wait a life-time for an appointment. No problem for me to have been operated upon in a hospital in the town of Fivizzano by a Tuscan surgeon. Fantastic. Humane dimensions, good people, superb surgeon. But, I got a…Eeets not possibile la riabilitazione qui, signore. Lei deve andare a Genova. The Bureaucratic Wall.
The local rehab is housed in a newly built palazzo next door to the Fivizzano hospital. The facility is actually a sub-contractor to ASL, partially funded by the Catholic Church. Don Gnocchi. A real person, a priest, who did lots of Good, was made a Saint, then, financing quickly followed after Beatificazione to create a foundation. There are Don Gnocchi’s all over Italy. Think the cookie-cutter reliability of a Holiday Inn, only there are bunches of nurses, doctors and therapists bustling about at all hours of the day & night and each in their own color-coordinated uniforms. Blu per i dottori, verde per gli infermieri, azzurro per gli assistenti and bianco per quelli adatti alla pulizia. A big, modern, professional health care business. However, Don Gnocchi has to obey the Rules & Regulations, ie residency or no residency. The B-wall.
The nurse, Daniela came back with the Bad News… no Don Gnocchi. Oh? Well, that’s crummy. What next, Daniela? Let me see what I can do. Non preoccuparti. OK. Molto grazie.
She took pity on me. She had help. I know on Earth and, I suspect, from on High too. There was no way the hospital could send me home, barely able to move on crutches or, with a walker, and dependent on pain-killers & anti- biotics… I had a recurring and often high temperature… plus constant anti-inflammation drugs 24/7. I appreciated the concern, the responsibility of the hospital and its staff towards its patients. Daniela went to speak with Dott. Vaselli. A bald, smiling gentleman and the hospital’s il capo for orthopedics and its care & treatments. He took pity on me too.
Daniela came back with a proposal from il Dott. Vaselli with the idea of moving me to an extended stay ward where I could stay, receive physical-therapy visits, until I was able to go home and care for myself properly. Sounded like a fine proposal. I enthusiastically gave my approval and thanks.
An hour later in walked Daniela with a dottore I had never seen before. Tall, thin, smiling, gentile. 10 years in the Lunigiana utilising its health care facilities, I have come to know most of i dottori. He was introduced to me as Dott. Barilli, like the pasta but, sadly for him, no relation, and is the head of Don Gnocchi-Fivizzano. He had a new proposal to….yes, move me on over to rehab. Apparently, Daniela, Dott. Vaselli and Barilli were in cahoots to make something necessary happen for my better health. They had ingeniously gotten around ASL’s residency requirement. I asked no questions. Anonymity serves in certain happenstances. Hip-hip-hurrah!!!
Four days after me op, I was transported next door to Don Gnocchi. I gave my heartfelt thanks and gratitude to all the nurses present and, lo & behold, to Dott. Vaselli who appeared as I was pushed to rehab. Nurses & doctors are a wonderful species, don’t you think?
Rehab was rehab. Work in another word. 2 hours in the morning of being manipulated, exercised, bicycled till I cried… Mother!!!… and in time to be seated in my room for yet another tasteless lunch followed by a nap, if lucky, only to return for another 2 hour stint of the same in the afternoon. Day in and day out. I thought I was destined for massages, hot medicinal baths to soothe the pain & discomfort and torment of a hip op, alternating with laps around the facility on crutches. Nope. No pain, no gain. Gym work. On my off hours, I read all my books and watched The Crown for the umpteenth time, took photos of the juniper trees outside my window, felt bored and pined for my Dogs and Roberto too. I wanted to run-away from rehab. I got my chance on the following Saturday. Roberto went to retrieve our canines after two weeks with the sitters. Their time was up and thus, mine too. Rehab did not want me to leave. The nurses seemed bit miffed that after a week I was ready to hit the road. Begging their pardon, I road off in You’s old AUDI into the rain to be happily installed in the Apt. Azzurro, You, the Dogs, refrig, and fireplace ready for me. Hallelujah!!!
How about a photo-medley?…
P.S. I have spend out of pocket on my hip op Euro 272,21 or, $300.72.
Health care in Italy: Part 4...
Archive post October 18, 2019…
Got an hip op date! This coming Tuesday, the 22nd of October. The phone call came through last Friday before pranzo. I had a hunch. And, it came true! And, finall-yyy!!! The nurse… il Capo Sala… was a whole lot nicer than from the last time I spoke with her. She talked as if awarding me a prize. She was. I thanked her enthusiastically. She seemed to appreciate in having made my day. Always willing to oblige whenever I can. Then, my stomach went into YIKES!!!
First thing I did was check the 10 day forecast. It’s supposed to rain the entire time I am out of action in the hospital and in rehab. Fine for me, not for someone else: You will be miserable. Hope he has an interesting book to read while keeping me company post-op. His presence was nick ‘n tuck there. You launched his BOMB over the cellphone from work…
always hectic these furtive telecommunications in the spaces between patients and not particularly conducive to receiving Bad News and/or, of taking A Position contrary to another’s innocent expectations…
that he might not be able to come down for my hip op. WHAT??? Here’s our tele-conversation…
Previous commitments? What previous commitments? More IMPORTANT than me? Had I known a date for your operation, I might be able… YOU!!! We’ve known about this hip operation from the first of June for October! Listen to me, I am not asking you to care for the Dogs. No. I am not asking you to stay the entire week, while I hobble around on crutches and confront the challenge of finding absolutely delectable a boiled chicken fillet and a baked apple for breakfast, lunch & dinner 8 days straight. No. I’m not even asking you to take me to and retrieve me from the hospital. No. I AM ASKING, however, FOR YOUR ESTEEMED PRESENCE on the day of the hip-op, staying the night at il Poggiolo, in case I FREAK-OUT or something, and then, you may go away, to return 6 to 7 days later with Our Adored Canines brought down to GREET ME upon my happy arrival at the Appartamento Azzurro from their sojourn in Genoa with the Dog Sitter. I will liberally dispense Big Kisses to all present… you included… but, No Show, No Big Kisses, kiddo. 3 days max. Not the 10 from the previous hip-op. You managed to cough out… Vediamo…. then, he signed OFF.
I immediately confided with the 2 Best Persons around… My English Friend and My German Friend. There aren’t any Frewnch Persons about in my part of the Lunigiana or, I would have included 1 to form a pan-European triumvirate of Moral Support. The 2 Best Persons I had were enough. They applauded my formulated Plan Of Action: I would say nothing. Let the cards splatter all over if they must, just like My Sister pulled on me when proposing a new, fun card game: 52 Pick-up. I’m such a dupe. I wasn’t amused then and, I was holding back from being seriously not amused this time. My Innate Christian Patience once again came to the fore. Now, with the op date, You changed his position: he is supposed to arrive this evening, Friday, for the weekend… Golly!… take me to the hospital on the Monday, and be around when I am wheeled back into the hospital room gassed happy on morphine. A miracle drug, by the way. You may retire for ONE NIGHT ONLY at il Poggiolo, if I happen to FREAK-OUT or something.
Bag is packed. I will be dressed similarly to a low-cost airline attendant from 1 of those Central Asian countries: blue or, black pull-on pants, white T- or polo-shirts and the ugliest pair of black slip-ons to have ever escaped a Chinese shoe factory: plastic clogs which, the 10 1/2 I had ordered off amazon.it are a bit more than just slightly shy size-wise. And, you cannot stretch plastic like you can leather. But try to find a leather slip-on costing less than the GPA of an, again, 1 of those Central Asian countries. I have all my meds, soaps and socks too. Crutches, the elevated toilet and the all-important pappagallo are at the ready. Oh, and The Odyssey, my chosen book to see me through. Currently, Odysseus is dealing with the Dead. Should never have offended the Gods.
Dogs are packed. Dry and canned food galore. Nina-beenas has her meds. Crackers & Emmental cheese for treats. You & I will drive them North on Sunday morning…. in the predicted rain… to leave them with the Dog Sitter. We will be back by late Sunday afternoon. Enough time for me to get nervous.
You will be supplied with groceries, Euro’s and the heat will be ON in his BR.
Next transmission and I… will… have… a… new… left… hip!!! Wish me luck?
Health care in Italy: Part 3...
Archive post October 9, 2019…
We are not rockin’ and a rollin’ toward my hip op! Take a number dude. And wait!
I called the nurse responsible for scheduling surgeries at the little Fivizzano Hospital last Monday. I really needed a date. One, to stem the growing op-anxiety, and secondly, I must organise The World before I am wheeled into the operating theatre on a Tuesday morning. Roberto with €€€’s and food and a Beeg Kissses, the Dogs with food… canned and the dried stuff… their leashes, mattress, rain slickers and Beeg Kisses too at the Dog Sitter’s, and me with establishing a Recuperation Base Camp post-op with food, water, firewood, winter clothes and rehab gear of crutches, potty seat and… now get ready… un pappagallo or, parrot… a most wonderful convenience for pee-pee in the middle of the night. And yes, it really does resemble a parrot.
Well, I was super polite even when I had to repeat my name three times to be identified. An annoying problem is there’s nothing recognisably coherent about my first and last names, sound wise, to an Italiana/o/e/i. Especially over an iPhone. The nurse, who could have cared less who I was or, what I wanted, shot back the standard Italian Formal Form of defence… Mi dica… or, Tell me. I detest it. A mock stance of politeness. She should have replied with… Come potrei essere utile?… or, How may I be useful? Hell! She’s a darn public servant. In the service of her clientele, the Italian People and a few extraneous residents of foreign origins, i.e. io. I proceeded to remind the person of her verbal commitment made to me just the week before to 2 dates for my hip op: Tuesday, October 8th or, Tuesday, the 15th. Oh, I cannot possibly tell you when. It may happen in November. Wait our call. She rang off. WHAT??? I called You immediately. He must have gotten my crazed vibes telepathically. He replied on the second ring. Si, si… your surgery is not life threatening, those types have the priority. And the hospital needs to keep a couple of slots for emergencies… and I broke in… sorry, I can be mean when thwarted or, stalled!!!… Yeah, an idiot 18 year old on his dirt bike collides with a guard rail. Si, si, him too. And then… certain surgeries take more and some less time. The nurse has to take that into consideration. Give her a break. I did. I relented. You rang off.
I went on to the 3rd Most Demanding Day of My Life since Time Memoriam.
Bad news comes in buckets. Our Esteemed Mechanic was the custodian of my aged Japanese SUV. Perennial problems with the radiator over-heating. Got stuck last Saturday on the traffic jammed autostrada with the water temp heading rapidly towards redlining, the Dogs inside, and a hot day on the outside. Of the 400+ automobiles which passed as I sat in the Emergency Lane, The Croesus-person hanging out a back window with his slobbery tongue flapping in the breeze, ONLY one car stopped to ask if the Dogs were OK, that I had water for them, could they do anything for me? That was so nice. I called Our Esteemed Mechanic during the hour’s wait for the SUV’s radiator to cool down to request an immediate resolution to this radiator issue. His advice in the meantime was to keep pouring water into the radiator to maintain a proper water level. Got that, thank you so very much. See you on 8:30AM Monday. My hypothesis was the radiator was defective. Or, the attachments. Neither was the case. A head or, cap, which maintains proper water pressure for the radiator was heading towards TOTAL DESTRUCTION. Ready to… There she blows for all of Kingdom come!!! Our Esteemed Mechanic prefaced his explanation of the situation by saying… Non e’ una cosa simpatica. Sure wasn’t. Ball park estimate of €1,000. Ouch!
Decided to head home. Key was left in the car for the Mechanic. Dogs were put inside and I summarily slammed the door behind them, locking them inside. No other key but, the one locked inside the SUV. I… could… not… believe… what… I… had… just… done!!! However, My Saviour was about though staring at me in equal disbelief. Another small but effective bit of luck was the Driver’s window was cracked just enough for My Saviour Mechanic to insert a metal rod curled to catch and lift the anti-theft knob, and thus, freeing My Adored Pooches!!! I thanked My Saviour Mechanic, his wife and the 7 other persons gathered to watch my spectacle. I give Good Drama. I drove home.
Thought I’d work on the laptop. Writing. Posting. Stuff. The mosquitos were something fierce. I lit a couple of citronella candles to ward the buggers off, placing them on the floor under the table where I like to work on the Loggia of il Poggiolo. My ankles are a buffet. Both the laptop and iPhone were out of juice. Connected the two necessary tech-equipment with extension cords to the nearest outlet. Moving my feet to the rhythm of the beat of my typing must have moved them for, shortly afterwards, I started to smell something wicked and hot. OH, MY GOD… A FIRE!!! THERE’S A FIRE!!! WHERE? THERE!!! under the table. The cords were engulfed with flames and smoke. Doused the conflagration and detached them from their respective equipment. And into the recycled plastic bin the blackened things went.
The iPhone worked. The laptop too. Then, the laptop didn’t. It was ON and lit as always but, the trackpad did not click. It did not move. It made weird growling noises too. No way to operate the damn thing, growl or no growl. Re-booted. No deal. Dead to my commands. What did I do next? I fed the Dogs. Petted them and drove to the nearest Apple Store in La Spezia, an hour’s drive away and with the dead laptop on the passenger seat. Before departure. I check and added water to the radiator. Hobbled into the store and walked out with a new Apple Macbook Air and a receipt to see if the old Macbook could be repaired. The nice young man behind the counter… dressed in the Apple Summer Uniform in an Italian Azzurro… a bright Blue… polo with a gigantic Apple embroidered badge where the young man’s chest would be… mentioned that some parts of my vintage laptop are NO LONGER AVAILABLE. Ouch! I made the Executive Decision to risk the €20 fee to find out if the darn tech-equipment could actually be restored to functionality. Back home I drove in Rush Hour traffic. And to navigate the new laptop’s set-up while sipping a regenerative and chilly white wine. The Dogs were glad to have me at home.
So, I feel to be in a Surgery Holding Pattern Hell. I also find it apt that I am reading… by coincidence… The Odyssey. A Random House edition. I can count my Blessings while poor Odysseus tackles Cyclops ands Sirens and tossing dark seas.
Health Care in Italy: Part 2...
Archive post October 9, 2019…
We are rockin’ and a rollin’ for surgery.
In Part 1, I had met with the Good Dottore Chirurgo. To get me to the head of the line for a surgical appointment with him in the hospital in Fivizzano, when those sorts of procedures are re-booted after the Summer Recess on the 1st of September… Italian dottori, hospitals, the medical profession in general, do not like to do surgery in the Summer, when the healing process slows and the risk of infection grows… he gave me a signed doc basically stating… Full steam ahead for Mr. Spears! My instructions were to personally hand it to the Capo Sala, the infermiere responsible for arranging surgeries at the Fivizzano hospital. Since it was too late to consign the doc that very evening… I was anxious to get this ball rolling before I dashed to the USofA for my Mom’s 90th Birthday Bash Weekend… I went the next day. The Capo Sala smiled and said to expect a call after the 15th of September. A day later I was on Delta for NC.
A call came right after my return for a pre-hospitalization appointment at 7:30AM. Blood work on an empty stomach… with a breakfast break afterwards for un cappuccino e una brioche which, I thought terribly thoughtful… then, an interrogation about my Medical History. I got a packet of papers to sign and return… mostly disclaimers or, requests of consent to spread your info around the hospital complex… and instructions on what to pack and what to have at home upon your return to Semi-normal Life post-op. This was followed by x-rays, MRI and an electro-cardiogram. Here, I am on a first-name basis. The waiting room crowd gave me looks as to how come I get all hugs & kisses. Well, as I wrote… everyone knows me. I stick out as the ONLY American about. I was in my car for home at 10:45AM.
In America, no one EVER, EVER, EVER talks with the other patients waiting to see the doctor. They either play with their iPhones… 90 percentile… or, flip through the latest copies of fashion or, interior decorating magazines… though rarely is there World of Interiors… and People magazine, well thumbed. The waiting rooms are functionally plush, colorful artwork grace the walls… signed to give distinction & value to their cheap sense of creativity, such as, splashes, geometric shapes or, bizarre landscapes with micro-figures stranded in them…and the air is filled with Muzak, so coughing, farting or groaning with pain won’t disturb. I HATE IT. So inhuman, unfriendly, dry.
In Italy, THE ONLY WAY YOU WILL SURVIVE or, know what in the Hell you are supposed to do, go or, be, comes from talking with the other patients. On a more expansive note, the chat will also cover local gossip, the political news… notices to exasperate you into pulling what little hair you have left after taxes… and the Five-day Forecast. Yeah, yeah, yeah, some try to play on their tablets…though most are iPads, Italians prefer the more universal term of tttabbblettt. These contraptions are cool. A very few dally with their iPhones, however, they are not considered so cool. You also are sort of obligated to be interested in the ongoing discussion though you may want to text your loved-one, who has just texted you to know how things are moving for you in the hospital. The waiting rooms are more than auster. Stalinist in the extreme. Drastic to an American sensibility on the topic. The seating is, 9 out of 10 times, a design first introduced in 1977. An individual seat… attached to 5 or 6 others with a metal bar running below them… which resembles a brown coffee cup sculpted just-a-tad so you can park your butt in it. They are more than uncomfortable… there is ONLY 1 position to sit in them. This is most unfortunate for me and others who are trapped in one waiting to discuss a hip op. No magazines EXCEPT in the X-ray waiting room. Trash journals with semi-naked TV stars of both sexes cavorting on beaches or, stroking a ghastly sofa in a ghastly salotto in a ghastly apt. in Roma or, famous couples holding their new-born infant with its face clouded out by foggy boxes to disguise its identity. If there is artwork, it is usually a photocopy of a photo of some locale of interest. Usually a church or, a highway. And, something America and its Religious Right ought to get on is a mini-altar, a mini devotional with the Virgin Mary draped with more chains than Coco Chanel sported and a mini-bust of Padre Pio, the Pugliese priest who, apparently enough, gained the Stigmata. Your are supposed to genuflect upon this news or, say something like, WOW!!! He cured disease and dis-ease of everyone. Became a charity industry so many were travelling to consult with him, naturally, leaving generous donations to The Church. One friend’s mother was taken by her mother to ask which of two suitors the mother should choose to marry… a rich Venezuelan playboy or, a prince. Padre Pio pointed to the prince. The rest is history.
Another aspect of these adventures in pre-hospitalisation is you end up passing from the Formal Italian Form to the Informal Italian Form for conversation. From Lei or, Voi, to tu. Mussolini KILLED the Voi. Thought it too French with its Vous. Voi makes sense to me. Lei does not. It’s like talking to a person but, you are actually not addressing them, instead, you could be talking to a glass on a table. If the conversation is friendly, animated, simpatica then, you can risk asking… Diamoci del tu? Once, someone said NO! to me. Did take me by surprise. Rather like a door being slammed in your face. I got over it. That bitch! You have to do something to completely dissolve distinctions of class, age, perspective since, you bump into your companions at every stage of the process on that day. Then, what happens is you run into them again for Stage 2. Got to be friends by then.
This happened to me for the all important meeting with the anaesthesiologist. You are hoping for a Thumbs Up for Surgery. Before though, the crux is to hear how the dottore wants to knock you out for the duration of the op and an infermiere wants to know your Medical History, again… previous ops, allergies, intolerances, etc… and gives you a review of your stats. Mine were OK so, I was sent on my way with a hand-shake, a pat on the back and a… Looks good. Wait for our call for the op date! Called You immediately. He congratulated me.
By the way, I have spent Euro 130,00 so far or, about $143.40. Dig it.
Health Care in Italy: Part 1...
Archive post October 3, 2019…
I have a hobbling walk. I teeter in four directions. Quite a feat. Sounds and looks like… Ta-da-ta-dump. Ta-da-ta-dump. Ta-da-ta-dump. Ta-da-ta-dump. The upside of this is I may have a career in Hollywood, if the magi there find it in themselves to produce another Harry Potter movie, one calling for a character requiring a wide berth. Or, perhaps a new rendition on Sherlock Holmes. A clever though physically-impaired one. Could be new. And come on, time to unseat those versions of Roberto Downey Jr. and that Benedict Cumberbatch. Too much social media hoopla. The downside is everyone notices and makes comments. Of concern, they say. I wish they would leave me and my funny walk alone.
Well, I had thought that until I found myself in serious difficulty. My limp had remarkably deteriorated. A bent-over limp, if ever there was one. Teetering to topple over. I resoundingly blame it on the ramps & stairs of il Poggiolo, extensive yard work, and the Summer’s EXTREME heat. I began to live with constant pain, solid discomfort. And, the drugs didn’t work anymore! A dire situation, if I may so.
Five years ago, and against my natural & lazy wishes, I had a hip operation. The right hip. From barely walking back to plain ol’ walking. Then, as Fate chose to dictate, we got a Weimaraner puppy, Croesus. A companion for Nina-beena when Moses, THE MOST FANTASTIC DOG EVER, passed away. The New Entry was an atomic bomb of a puppy. Cute, affectionate, perhaps overly attached to me, Croesus pulled every bad-dog trick out of his pouch. I won’t list them. Too long. But, as he grew, one defect of character came to the tragic fore… pulls like Hell on his leash. Wrecked my back. Wrecked my left hip too. Plain ol’ walking turned into today’s bent-over feeble, teetering-to-tumble limp in no time at all. By the way, Croesus pulls less these days. He even stays put for me to lasso him with his leash. God Bless, for certain favors.
I insisted upon a practiced and callow disregard for my physical incapacities, despite the increasing quantity of comments of concern from family & friends and the every-now-and-then admonitions from You, il Dottore You. Beware of doctors though. They require that their messages be heard AND followed. Otherwise, they get cranky. You, of late. I continued to choose to resist. My feelings were these… It’s 2019. I think surgery is barbaric. I expect a miracle cure will be developed soon so I may avoid an operation all together. I can wait. Oh, no, no… no! When I crashed and burned after falling off a Milanese sidewalk, it became unavoidably evident that the proverbial writing had been scribbled across the wall… of My Life. I surrendered. Good that I did. The waters promptly parted in my favor.
A simple procedure.
First, I went to my general dottore. Told him of my decision to have the left hip operated on and my need for his help to do so. Wrote out a prescription for an appointment with an orthopedic dottore in a jiffy. Got in my car the following day and drove to the little hospital up in Fivizzano. Cover photo. There I sauntered up to the window at the ASL, L’Azienda Sanitaria Locale or, The Health Office!!!… for the nice lady with the jet-black hair, tons of bracelets and phosphorescent finger-nail polish on the other side to Search & Find me ASAP an opening in any local orthopedic dottore’s schedule. Choices were Fivizzano, Pontremoli or Massa, the Mother Lode of hospitals in the Lunigiana. The first appointment available was a surgeon in Pontremoli 7 days hence.
The hospital in Pontemoli is an example of Italian Communist filo-Stalin hospital architecture: cement, metal, ugly pale paint colors of Pee-pee-Green, Baby-Blue and Pepto-bismol-Pink but, mostly the Grey of reinforced cement. Strangely enough, the staff are rather congenial, if not outright friendly. Oh, and the in-house bar produces one of the best coffees in all of the Lunigiana. Who knew? The waiting room on the 3rd Floor was packed. 25 to 30 sick & infirm with orthopedic issues. I feared a long wait. God Bless, the Good Lord Above and his Host of Angels floating around Him for His invention of the iPhone. A life savor for long waits. Had to keep up with Brexit, you know? How was it? I was the first to be called!!! Imagine that? I sat down in front of a very grumpy dottore, belly-aching to his squadron of nurses about the waiting crowd outside. He had already been furnished with my details and had already punched them into the PC. There, on the screen were my series of X-rays and MRI’s of my left hip. Without a howdy-do or, a Buon Giorno Lei, he looked up and squared me directly with his eyes and shot out… No c’e’ nessun motivo per Lei di pensare di non fare un intervento sulla Sua anca!… There is no motive for you to think of not having a hip operation. Got it. Additional shots aimed in my direction were about who and where I would care to have this necessary operation, was given dry assurances the paperwork would be initiated to embark upon the road to surgery post-haste, and then, finally, a Buon Giorno as il dottore indicated with the inclination of his bald head that I should follow the attending nurse into a nearby consultation room. Finding the attending dottore e chirurgo un po’ antipatico, I decided there and then to seek a surgeon to do the deed. It’s the Italian way. The great thing about the national health scheme is you may go anywhere on the peninsula you’d care to… and, AT PRACTICALLY NOT COST AT ALL!!! I chose Fivizzano. Small, intimate, everyone knows me. I knew what to do to find My Surgeon. I was really, really nice to You. Marvelous dinners, listened to his convoluted stories and, scratched his bare back and wispy hair head as per goolie-goolie.
Sometimes something awful must happen for something wonderful to occur. Shortly after my encounter in Pontremoli, You’s Cousin from Torino arrived to pass the August Summer vacation, Ferragosto, with us at il Poggiolo. We had planned a large dinner party the night of. Our house is no place for this woman. Wears sandals, hates stairs & ramps, not keen at all about the local flora & fauna, especially, spiders and stinging bees. But, I was not consulted. Only commanded to be ready and able for her arrival. I rallied. You & I went to fetch her at the train station in La Spezia. Crazed Americans mixed in with Chinese hordes heading to the worst tourist site in all of Italy, le Cinque Terre. We brought her to il Poggiolo, giving her an apartment all to herself. Stairs included. I served an amazing meal of a delicate tomato & sausage risotto, a tossed salad full of fresh vegetables and a lemon pie for dessert. One tiny flaw to our intimate reunion meal was a small infestation of calabroni bees. The B-52’s of stinging flying insects. They were very concentrated at the lamp-light in the corner of the Loggia. Lethal if you dare to swat. Relatively benign if you don’t. She did. They threatened. She got up and promptly fell wrenching her wrist. She screamed. She screamed more. She screamed a whole lot. Then, she threw up. Neither You nor I together could get her up off the floor. She maintained screaming. We redoubled our efforts to position the screaming Cousin into a vertical position to then escort her post-haste to the Pronto Soccorso in Fivizzano. You drove and I followed after calming the dogs and cleaning the place up a bit. The Cousin was dealt with by the Pronto Soccorso staff with the utmost courtesy & attention. She had stopped screaming. But, since her tragedy had occurred at Ferragosto, the on-duty orthopedic dottore was in Pontremoli. The Cousin spent the night in the hospital… Thank The Good Lord. Her stay was assisted by a heavy dose of pain medication and a sleeping pill to boot. The next day, she was transported to the hospital in Pontremoli to be attended to by the on-duty orthopedic surgeon. He is now My Hip Op Orthopedic Surgeon.
You was instrumental in this. He can be a Chatty-Cathy at times. Usually when he knows who he is dealing with. When he doesn’t, he’s mute. Maybe more than mute. Who he was dealing with at the Ospedale di Pontremoli was a friendly, competent, and efficient surgeon, who braved The Cousin’s screaming… drugs had worn off and the new ones hadn’t had enough time to take effect… to tell her surgery was not necessary. The appropriate job was to re-position the wrist into its natural position. She wanted surgery. A drama queen. You tried to calm her drama by inquiring if the Good Dottore Chirurgo would be available to do my hip op. Ma certo!!! Dargli questo numero per fissare un appuntamento e ne parliamo… Why sure. Give him my number to make an appointment and we can talk a bit. He did. I did. We met. Spent an hour with the good dottore chirurgo. Thanks to him, I am now one with this impending op.
More to come…
An operative interlude…
Archive post January 26, 2019…
In other words, Il Poggiolo Grand Projects are temporarily held up. We hope…
I dottori said the tumour needed to be removed. Located at the nape of the neck. A day- hospital op. Simple. OK. D-hospital was booked until late May-June. No way to bring the op up towards January? February, maybe? Il dottore said… Listen, we do the op as a normal surgery. No exams. Just show up with an empty stomach. Could happen in a couple of weeks. Wait for a call. OK. Call came. Appointment for 9:00AM, Wednesday, 23rd of January. Great!
It was said the tumour was fatty. Touching the lump, I thought cottage cheese. No problem. Easy. Let’s do it! OK. Spent an hour plus face-down on an operating table. Could only see the plastic clogs of il dottore and nurses. Thanks, to the All Mighty God, numbed where I needed to be numbed. Horrifyingly, could hear everything else. The conversations of il dottore and the nurses… and visitors!!! Had heard there was an American in Sala 3. Worse were the noises of extracting what did not care to budge. The tumour. Consistency of cement. Stone. Very hard stuff. The thing had grown off my cranium and around a top bone to my spinal column. Dottore had to dig to China. He sweated. A jackhammer would have helped. Not enough room for that. OK. Ghastly experience. Not what I had imagined at all.
Op done. Il dottore left to do paperwork. The nurses kept me company. Asked me questions of why, how, when I had ended up in their part of Italy. Am used to this sort of congenial interrogation. The entire staff saw me to the door. Gave Thanks. Felt nothing. Drove home.
Two crazed Weimaraners were desperate to see me. Could have nearly cared less. The local had worn off. Can deal with noble stoicism and patience any discomfort. You would disagree. Nobility is not just a tag or title. OK. I CANNOT DEAL WITH PAIN!!! You would definitely confirm this. OK. What evaporated left me with the distinct sensation someone had attempted to decapitate me. It got worse. And who thinks aspirin is an adequate pain-killer should be shot. On sight. No questions. Just shoot. Called You… a general dottore, surgeon, a head of ophthalmology at a hospital… to consult and, more importantly, TO COMPLAIN!!! An aside…
My name is Forrest Charlton Spears, Esq. My father used to say Charlton was another spelling for to complain. Pegged that correctly. Had had lots of experience with Charltons.
The Kind & Goodly Dottore You reminded me that I had in my medicine basket a supply of what is a hydrogen bomb posing as an anti-inflammation drug. Volteren 75. Cryptic name. But all medicines have spooky names. And their spelling!!! Thought to chuck the aspirin down the toilet. Quickly reached for The H-Bomb. Pain didn’t vanish. It did subside. OK. Was able to walked the Dogs without giving injury to anyone or anything, anywhere.
More problems… the architecture of padded bandages detached… thanks to my .003 high five o’clock shadow at the back of my head… and flew away. Into the Winter winds. With it went the silk drainage tube of the incision. OOOPS!!! High risk of hematoma. Dealt with it all night long. Went to the Emergency Room at 6:30AM. No-one around at home to help me. Back of my head thing. Holding a mirror in one hand… etc. The available E-staff could not do anything about the lost tube. They did re-build the padded bandages reinforced with more adhesive tape. By Noon, the engineering had flown away… again!!! I was only getting out of my car. Into the Winter Winds. Got back in and drove to see our pharmacist friend for a big band-aide. No more padded bandages held with tape. Simplicity ought to be a viable medical art. Got a big band-aide. The Hydro-Bomb could not deal with the pain of the hematoma of accumulated blood inside the stitched-tightly incision. No escape. PAIN!!! DISCOMFORT!!! REALLY BAD MOOD!!! Felt my blood-pressure climb too. Sure sign is a frontal lobe headache and icky nausea. Pharmacist confirmed this. Off to my general dottore for new meds on that. Felt everything. Drove home. Exhausted. Hysterical. Called You to…
Dawned on me that there was ONLY ONE TRUE THING TO DO: watch The Sound Of Music and drink white wine. Took more of every pill, tablet and drops… tranquillising drops… in my house. Built a fire, Dogs arrived to share the sofa and off we went…
Worked like a dream.
My Plan was after cottage cheese, I’d begin to hit the list of il Poggiolo Grand Projects. How about the ramp pergola to start? Thought… Sun’s been shining too long, mildly not freezing outside, got all the materials, let’s do it! And I will when the feelings of an axe at the back of my neck takes a hike… forever!!!