Cessation of Praise in Favor of Truth

It’s an interesting phenomenon, the human characteristic that leads us [humans] to speak highly of others during times that we’re in want. A perfect example of this is the high praise I had a few days ago for the health care people in the hospitals over here. I built them up a little because I was worried about G’s surgery, and by overstating nice things, I was manipulating hoping to influence the outcome. I want G to be healthy, therefore, these apathetic nurses who need prodding to do their jobs are really top notch.

The truth is that many of them really do a fine job and several of them really don’t. Should a patient be in pain and execute the offense of ringing for the nurse, for example, that patient may well be greeted with the words “Who is bothering me?” spoken through a mouthful of still-chewing food. The patient has their revenge, however. Upon this nurse’s departure, G’s roommate asserted that the nurse “was probably from the South.” Some Italians from the North think quite poorly of those from the South. Racism exists here, just as it does elsewhere. G’s other roommate is much less subtle in her ignorance and doesn’t hesitate to use what we’d consider profoundly offensive terms. Maybe that’s why she got hit by a car and ended up in the hospital. Maybe her inability to say nice things manipulated her own outcome.

Perhaps this “speak nicely” characteristic is a cultural thing. It might not exist everywhere. But as I think back to the time that former President Richard Nixon’s death was announced, I was surprised that for the first time (other than my 11^th grade humanities class) people were actually talking about the good things he’d done. Now that he had died, he was no longer fodder for ridicule. You’d think a civilized culture might see fit to make note of the good while the fellow was still among us rather than to appease his next of kin with an abrupt change in our collective tune. At least that’s what I’d think. I guess we badgered him his whole life until he passed, and at that point we realized we’d badgered long enough. Hm. Guess we made our point. Time for a new scapegoat.

Yesterday we spent another day at the hospital. G is doing well, and was spending her day in the transition from “fully sedated” through “having a fine time on Morphine” and into “base level pain management.” The first thing she asked is “how much longer until the surgery,” and it took some convincing for her to believe it had already happened. Then it took a little more convincing for her to believe that it was Friday and not Thursday. Shortly after, she wanted her wedding ring back (D had kept it on her necklace), then her wristwatch. It’s a tiring process, this healing-your-recently-opened-self, and the doc told us that starting now, we have to follow the 1 Guest At A Time Rule. It was shortly after this (our following the rules laid out by the doc) that we encountered a snotty little thing of a woman who must be Italy’s own version of Nurse Ratchet. (Or is that “Ratchett” with two “Ts?” Can’t remember.)

The elevators in this hospital open into a pretty big hallway – probably twenty feet across and eighty feet long. On each end are entrances to different units – Gynecology on one, Pediatrics on the other. Along the sides of the hallway are entrances to the stairway, some service elevators, a window, and doors leading to two other wings – the “Day Surgery” wing (which is the only sign in the whole building that’s in English) and the “Surgery” wing (which is where G is). At our end of the hallway (which is shared with Pediatrics and Day Surgery, there are four plastic chairs, one of which is broken so it’s really more of a stool posing as a chair. At the other end (where the only ward is that for Gynecology), there are twenty chairs, eight of which are upholstered, and a coffee table. Nice comfy squares of foam rubber under heavily stained and well-worn red fabric that had the pleasing feel of an old potato sack. Designer Burlap.

As we were the only people in the entire hallway, D and I sat in these red chairs next to the only coffee table so that we could read while we waited our turn to go inside and visit. It was then that we encountered Signora Ratchet. She didn’t ask us to sit in the chairs nearest G’s wing – she scolded us and told us to get out of those chairs because those were reserved for the Gynecology patients. D pointed out that there weren’t any other people in the hall and said we’d be happy to make the seats available if any came along and this only increased Ratchet’s hostility.

At times like these, it’s probably a good thing that I don’t speak Italian very well. Once in a while someone does something that really isn’t that big a deal and I find myself instantly in the mindset that I’d very much like to meet them head on, and provide triple the hostility they’ve offered as their opening volley. It doesn’t happen much, and thus far, I've managed to not follow through on this primitive urge.

For the next hour, D and F switched off visiting and sitting on one of the three unbroken chairs. As the day progressed, more people came into the hallway and pretty soon there were fourteen of us, some of whom were pulling those IV stands that look like coat racks around, tubes sticking out of their arms. Each had been scolded out of the empty chairs near the elevators and ended up gathering together, standing, at the far end of the hallway. This made things really tricky for the people wheeling beds and wheelchairs in and out of the service elevator, as we couldn’t help but block every door in or out of our end of this long and relatively narrow room. The elevator door would open, the word "Permesso" would waft out, and like a sedated school of fish, we'd all bundle one way or the other to make an opening from one door to another before filling the void once more. 

Fortunately, the Gynecology chairs remained empty for those patients who must certainly have been waiting right outside to suddenly burst into the room and need them right away. Not wanting to be part of the “ousted” crowd, I stood in the narrowest part of the open area – between the phone booth and a row of empty chairs – in order to provide an obstacle to cheerfully greet everyone who passed. Being courteous as I am, I moved out of everyone's way. And being economical with my calories, I moved only just enough to allow their passage. Whenever anyone said anything (which might have been “why are you blocking the walkway, idiot?”), I smiled and said “E o no pARlay e-tall-e-ON-o.” Which probably led them to think something like “uh-mer-i-KAHN-o stoo-PEED-o.” Everyone wins.

Eventually, nurses from other wings (and doctors and orderlies and paramedics and an old guy in a wheelchair and a woman with one of those strollers that holds twins plus a 4 year old with a soccer ball) got tired of us all blocking the way and one of the nurses asked the crowd to make use of the empty seats on the other end of the hall. Everyone explained, all at the same time and without taking turns talking (this is how things are done here), that we’d been given the boot by the mean lady over there. So then the head nurse was alerted, and she came out to see for herself. By now we numbered over 20 people squished together, some of us too old to walk without assistance, and all of us wanting to rest our feet. The head nurse went away and returned with a doctor. Doctors are the bosses of Italian hospitals. Lots of people who work there squabble and fuss, but Doctors only have to say things once. Boss.

D went and spoke directly with the head nurse and the doctor. If you know D, you know that she’s completely fair minded, and not one to whine nor complain (she also doesn’t put up with whining or complaining, not that I’d know this firsthand or anything). She also has a very strong sense of justice and zero tolerance for people who needlessly treat others poorly.

She explained to the doc our experience, with the assertions that we didn’t mind being asked to move but we didn’t like being spoken to so rudely; and that we’d have been the first to surrender our seats to anyone who needed them.

Others wanted to join in the conversation to help D make her point (obviously, they didn’t realize that the best thing to do is stay out of her way) but the doc had heard enough. They told us not to worry, that they’d take care of it, then they went and talked to someone, who did something, and we didn’t see Mz Ratchet for the rest of the day. She doesn’t realize how fortunate she is. Then again, neither do most of the rest of us.

Today I'm staying in the Residence Hotel while D and F drive past the prostitutes, park in the bargain shopping lot, and spend the day with their Mom. Things have quieted down nicely, at least from an emotional perspective and we can finally live out of our suitcases in our college dorm sized room with a bit more calm than we've had for the last few weeks.

Best,

Cameron