Today I hesitate to offer anything up. Nothing’s wrong. It was an unremarkable day filled with each of us taking care of business. There weren’t any insightful moments. I think we’re just doing some of the work that family does at these times. And the writing I enjoy most is that in which I’m able to offer up with a solid dose of humor. This humor element is important for “writers” like me. [Perhaps those quotation marks are unneeded. In fact, I do make my living via the written word.] In the (unending) quest (as we aspire) to perfect our art, we (writers like me) use more words than needed (like I’m doing now) to (eventually / finally / hopefully) make a point (pshwhew!). There’s an irony in my habit of using too many words at the same time I find my own vocabulary lacking. Truth: I don't know enough words. Ian, who I’ve already mentioned, has a talent for aptly choosing his words and also relying on [perhaps forcing] each one to carry its own weight. Less clutter. Greater impact. The reader is beckoned to infer without being allowed to misinterpret. You might think that fewer words would allow you to read his prose more quickly – and you’d be right except for the time you’d spend deciphering said prose with a thesaurus. Another friend, Scott, seems to use words more readily understood by we common folk but has a knack for arranging them such that, for example, voicing his frustration in being moralized by doctors or the reassuring yet untethered connection between man and canine seeps into the readers’ understanding as if it were poetry. Each of these gents can say in ten words more than I manage in twenty. My hat’s off. This ability is my aspiration and yet I allow myself (who am I kidding?) have no choice but to push the wordy gurdy in a different direction.
We hustled through the morning, dealing with last-minute errands, so that we could leave Cremona (fun fact: this is the town where Stradivarius used to make those fancy stringed instruments) and bring G to the proper hospital that’s outfitted with the proper stuff to deal with this fistula thing. That proper hospital is here in Milagneno, which is basically a suburb on the south end of Milan.
The health care industry here is really different than that in the US. I mentioned some of the ways this is true already and today we noticed some other differences to which I hadn’t yet been exposed.
First, the hospital looks like it was built in the 1950s. It’s a big brownish square thing with an almost Eastern Bloc kind of feel. The parking lot is crammed with little cars (no surprise there) that are all pretty neatly parked angle-in, side by side, in fairly straight rows. What’s impressive about this is that there aren’t any lines painted in the parking lot. This is the instinctive method by which visitors park there. I wonder if anyone ever sets a different standard when they’re the first one in. Hey, today I’m going to park perpendicular to the curb instead of at a thirty degree angle. That’ll learn ‘em!
Inside the hospital we found things really clean. The beds, desks, chairs and other furniture are the same age as the building but it’s all in pretty good shape. I’m guessing that’s because it was all built to last forever.
There’s no art on the walls unless you count the Fire Escape Maps or directory that shows where the various departments are. The place is markedly void of color or aesthetic quality (unless you’re a fan of the little known “DimBleak” movement now several decades obscured) and I wondered if I’d ever seen fluorescent lights that cast so little illumination. There aren’t any seats for visitors other than those on the ground floor, near the main entrance. I stood in the hallway while G and her sis shared the only available chair - one cheek apiece, arms around shoulders - we’d seen all afternoon and answered questions posed by one of the nurses.
And this is where I noticed that, in fact, the hospital spans decades. The loudspeakers on the walls were made of bakelite – clearly a relic of the 1930s, while the computer on the desk couldn’t have been more than ten years old.
G’s room is a typical one – 3 beds, each with a patient. No walls nor curtains to separate them or offer any measure of privacy. These three elderly ladies suddenly became more than roommates. The two already berthed in room “6 7 8” sat pleasantly and listened in on our conversation, watching the whole while, as we got G settled in.
We brought lots of pajamas for G, as the only provided togs are those embarrassing bare-ass-ing gowns with the opening at the back. So our Mammy is decked out in the finest pastel flannel – and is certainly the most colorful thing inside the whole building.
Art isn’t allowed in the rooms, nor are televisions or fresh cut flowers. Apparently these are things that can get dirty and harbor bacteria, which makes the place harder to clean and the guests more prone to catching a nasty bug. This struck me just a bit ironic as I gazed out the ancient wood frame windows – windows without screens - that had been opened to let the fresh and unfiltered air into the room.
I really need to clarify. While I’m poking fun at some of the elements of this hospital, the truth is that my frame of reference comes from a very different place. A place where health care like G is receiving isn’t free like it is here. Italian docs get paid the same whether they do a good job or not and the only thing they have to gain by taking on more cases is a heavier workload. They’re not getting kickbacks or any of the other corrupt bennies we so readily throw around in the US. These are people who have chosen their profession with care and navigate their careers with selflessness. The simple truth is this: the hospital isn’t new, fancy or comfortable. And the nurses that tended to G shortly after her arrival were gentle, kind, attentive and thorough. Shortly after, the entire team of physicians who will be involved in the surgery – seven of them – stopped by to pay her a visit. This is not a half assed affair.
The lead doc isn’t satisfied with G’s weight (she’s well below a size 0) and tomorrow he’ll give her an IV filled with a high zoot cocktail that’s going to help her be physically [more] ready for surgery, which is slated for Thursday morning. In order to maximize the effectiveness and distribution of this cocktail, the IV goes into her jugular vein. Strikes me a tad hardcore.
We’re all in good spirits and G made fast friends with the other ladies in her room. She’s got some light reading – Tolstoy – to stave off the boredom and is now in very capable hands. Everything is as it should be at this moment. We’re grateful for the kind words of support that have come in from around the world; we’re grateful for entire churches full of worshippers offering prayer. We’re grateful for family and friends. For community.
Your google homework: amphorae.Sogni d'oro -
Cameron
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