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…