She's as cold as ice...

 I had to do my nails tonight.  Do you do your own nails?  Most of my life I have...

I used to watch my mother and my older sisters "do" their nails on a regular basis.  I chewed mine, for the most part.  But that was then and this is now.

I don't like "nail salons"....not at all...hate the whole idea of it.  Hate the noxious smell.  Hate the subjugation of the women who "do" the nails....hate it, hate it, hate it.  

I never felt comfortable...ha!  Comfortable???? I felt like a freaking leper!!!  What am I doing here?  These women all staring at me...why?  It smells bad in here...am I being poisoned? 

Usually I went because I got a "gift."  Yep.  A gift.  So I had to use it.  Oy.  And vey.  I don't use nail polish....I tried, on some rare occasions....but I always felt like my nails were being suffocated.  And it always looked like crap in a day or less...so what was the point?  And...frankly, it's stupid.  Why?  Why? We aren't born with colored nails....why?  And before you compare it to clothes...we can take them off....this shit is painted onto your body......and has to be removed with MORE toxic chemicals.  No. No. Not for me.  Do men really care?  Do I really care if men really care?  I just didn't want to walk around with whore nails....had no desire or inclination.  I didn't feel like it made me "pretty."

So...I had to "do" my nails tonight.  I have to do them when big fat orange Percy isn't around because he is nuts about emery boards.  

I fed the beasts....so Percy is confined to his "bedroom" (don't worry, he likes it...he WANTS to be there, believe me) and then set about to "do" my nails.

Each one had a different nail salon.  I swear.  One nail was so bad, she was yelled at.  "How did you get so bad?"  Another was just a little "off" on top....."Tsk, tsk....it's ok, I fix"....Another one was raggedy...."OMIGOD!!"  Each nail went to their private salon and got themselves prettied up for the world. And then there were the ones who had behaved themselves......silence.

Together they may now enter the world at large yet again.

Hello Darkness, my old friend

 Winter never bothered me as a child.  The cold didn't seem to affect me badly and I had fun with friends and even by myself making forts and snow sculptures and standing at the bus stop with a runny nose and a homemade scarf waiting to see a glimpse of yellow in the never ending white landscape. Even as a young adult it didn't phase me.  I recall distinctly the time I was leaving work during a snow storm, completely unprepared...and cleaned off the windshield and windows of my car bare handed...I had no gloves.  No problem!  So, it's a little cold?  So what?

When my daughter was small I did my best to try and continue to "enjoy" the winter, for her sake.  Snowmen!  Sledding!  Oh yes, we went sledding...I spent an entire day with her going up and down an enormous hill in Ann Arbor.  But I was no longer enamored of the winter chill in general.

Michigan winters were long and dark.  There was a particular weatherman who managed to make me nearly homicidal...I wanted to throw a brick at the damned television every time he described a day as "drab."  Today will be drab.  Today will be dreary.  Today you will want to freaking crawl into a hole and cover yourself up forever and ever and ever.  I hated him.  I hated Michigan.  I hated winter.  I hated "Standard Time."  I wanted it all to end.

As things tend to do, eventually, it did all end.  And now I find myself even older but living in Italy.  The winters here are milder.  They aren't any brighter, per se...because the mountains to the west of us bring a rather abrupt ending to daylight once the sun sinks below the peak, quite dramatically in the winter  months.   But the temperatures are much milder and they bring the rainy season, which also brings the fabulous fog.  I love the fog.  I love "gothic days,"  Hounds of the Baskervilles.  Heathcliff and Catherine on the moors.  A foggy day in London town.  It's spooky and romantic and enchanting all at the same time.

 So once again, winter is becoming charming, in it's way.  A relief from the relentless heat, the lack of water....the sweaty nights.  Now we come inside and cook stews and casseroles to warm our innards....hot cups of tea in the morning to start the day.  Sweatshirts and lined socks... and the heavy winter quilt on the bed. Cats putting aside their petty differences and beginning to make "cat pies" as they seek the body warmth of one another. 

Inside, we are cozy....plenty of heat, if we want. Lots of warm clothes.  We are fortunate, indeed.  And lights.  We used to call them "Christmas" lights....or string lights...or fairy lights.  They have morphed over the years and people besides myself apparently love them.  I love them all year round, but in the summer the sun stays out nearly till 10 pm!  Now is the time for fairy lights and that gladdens my heart.  It makes the darkness less despairing.  It makes winter less forbidding.  A simple string of lights.  Or a few.  We seem to acquire more as each season approaches. We have dinner by "fairy" light.  We have clear bottles (sold all year round here for those who make their own wine or olive oil)..with strings displayed inside them in the living room...on the mantle, on the bookcase.  The daylight dwindles until the solstice.  We will have our lights to enjoy until the spring brings longer evenings once again.  

Nothing to kill or die for...and no religion too.

 I posted this on Facebook.  Social media is such a conundrum.  When I post ordinary, humdrum pictures or comments, I sometimes get loads of feedback.  Then, when I post something I think might spark some controversy, or at the VERY least, a bit of a conversation...some comments...I get.....crickets.  So, I posted this picture.  

It is a work of art done by a local artist here in my little hill town in Italy.  It is being displayed in one of the pharmacies in town because the municipality had a "drive" to showcase local artists....Penne has talent, if you will.  This particular artist's previous work ..the one displayed in the very same venue...was a rather brutal depiction of domestic violence.  It was difficult to look at, and yet, some very famous and important art has been "difficult to look at."  It wasn't my cup of tea, so to speak, but I appreciated the message.

Living in Italy for the last three years has opened my eyes to certain dichotomies.  There is a lot of magical thinking going on here.  Lots of churches, lots of people making the sign of the cross....while at the same time embracing "Babbo"...the Italian version of Santa Claus...and horoscopes....omigod...a really big thing here....and there are others..the Bufana..the witch of the Epiphany.....it's a long story....and makes no sense whatsoever.

So, here is the painting I shared to very little comment on social media.  I personally felt it merited some discussion, wonder, comment...especially emanating from a small hill town in nowhere Italy...so, I share it here.  Feel free to add comments to the blog if you wish.

The title is "It was raining outside."

Let's get right down to the real nitty gritty

 Part Two: 

The Covid test came back negative.  I was wheeled into an elevator and taken up to the 4^th floor.  I was left in the hallway while the transporter brought my papers to the nursing desk.  I heard “Americana!  Americana!” as I waited. 

Another freshly painted hall, spotless, gleaming floor…with the usual rolling carts of supplies and a ………….Madonna.  A rather elaborate Madonna, adorned with real beads and a shawl.  Centrally located mid hallway…by the nurses station. It’s something you just get used to in Italy.

In just a few  minutes a young girl came out and took me to my room, not far at all from the nursing station.  A large but very spare room.  No curtains on the one window…but one of those metal shades that rolls up and down outside, common in Europe.  No curtains between the two beds.  No curtains at all which translates into no privacy.  A small crucifix in the middle of the wall above the heads of the beds.  IV stands, but no infusion pumps.  Meal trays next to the beds, but nothing whatsoever on them.  By this I mean no water pitcher, glass, straw, tissues, toothbrush, toothpaste.  No hospital gown or socks.  Nothing.  I would have to stay in what I wore this morning, which, luckily, was just a tee shirt and loose pajama type pants.  I was wearing slip on Sketchers but no socks, so if I wanted to use the bathroom or get up for any reason, I would have to shove my surgically altered feet into my shoes each and every time.  Patients even need to bring their medications from home, they are not dispensed from the hospital pharmacy. Since the room was spacious but spare, every sound was amplified and bounced off the hard surfaces. After a while it hurts the ears. This is national healthcare.  No frills.

(There is a private hospital in Pescara, a 25 minute drive away, which likely has “frills” but there was no time for that nor would I want to impose upon my friend who was already going out of her way to help.)

I got as “comfortable” as I could.  There was a very old lady in the room with me and I had the immediate impression that she was going to be trouble.  “Buonasera, Signora” she said.  I nodded to her and replied in kind.  Perhaps she didn’t hear me because she repeated her greeting at the top of her rather able lungs.  Yeah…she was going to be trouble.

Before anything else, I grabbed my phone…realizing that it was running out of battery power, and texted my husband for soap, cups, socks, a towel, a hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, change of underwear and phone charger. The only thing I did have was a small portable pack of tissues.

Again, quickly and efficiently, two young ladies (student nurses) came in to do vitals, an EKG and set up an IV of saline solution.

The food staff delivered dinner, but nothing for me.  The old started with her questions ad infinitum.  “Why don’t you eat?”  This would be repeated every day, three or more times a day.  “What is your name?  No!  That’s a  month!”  Oy vey.  “Why don’t you eat? Aren’t you hungry?”

The call buttons for the nurses have a three tone descending ring in the hallway.  Something I would come to dread. My roommate used hers with abandon. 

Turned out she was 85 years old, never married, lived alone and she fell and screwed up her entire right side but mostly the shoulder and hip.  She was confined to bed.  Her mind might not be as sharp as it could have been but her mouth worked just fine.

A nurse came in and started antibiotics.  While I am accustomed, obviously, to US hospitals and all the accoutrements that they include, IVs without infusion pumps work just fine.  In fact, the many, many times I had to have medicine infused for RA, those damned pumps often developed some kind of problem, making it necessary to redo the elaborate set up, fiddle with the controls and hope to get it working right again.  Why?  Is it only to add expense?

And clearly, not providing niceties such as a comb, toothbrush, soap…saves money and has nothing to do with good medical care.  Just wish I had known prior to leaving the house.

I was tired, in pain, uncomfortable, hungry, thirsty (I didn’t even get water) and trying to adjust myself in the hard bed with a hard pillow, when I saw a nurse coming toward my room with a Trader Joe’s bag.  Hurray!  Supplies!  I could brush my hair, brush my teeth (with my trusty IV by my side) while wearing socks, and get my phone charged up. 

The night was surreal.  I was overtired and very unhappy.  And trigger happy roommate kept the nurses call button busy all through the night. The good news was that no one ELSE disturbed me…no middle of the night vitals and the hallway lights were off until six a.m. Problem was, I finally fell asleep somewhere around five.  One hour later I was awakened for a blood draw.

Housekeeping came around and did the floors and bathroom.  IVs were kept going all day, bathroom needed to be used about every two hours, shifts changed.  In the early afternoon the young students arrived and they were all so sweet and enthusiastic and they wanted to practice their English on me!  One young lady has a father who lives and works in Australia.  She remarked how she can understand “American” English so much better than “Australian” English.  The other, actually the same girl who originally brought me to the room, stuck her head in just to say, in English…”Hi, guys!”  A young man has a friend in New York and visited there four years ago.  He was lamenting how much money he spent.  Yeah, tell me about it!!

Wednesday was much the same except my pain was diminishing and sometimes I had the IV bottles removed for a while.  So, I asked if I could take a shower.  Well…………you can….but….the shower is broken. !!!!?????  I tried anyway.  The shower, which also had no curtain, had a considerable leak in the middle of the flexible hose.  I could “shower” with the pressure low…but there was no way I could wash my hair.  It helped, at any rate.  Cleanish me, clean underwear, clean socks.

That day my admitting doctor and another older doctor marched in.  The older one gave a cursory “exam” and told me I needed surgery.  Surgery??  I was told I didn’t need surgery.  Now I need surgery. This was the first I heard.

I said I thought the treatment I was getting was sufficient.  With that the older doctor got huffy and raised his voice and said the pain would come back again and again and again.  He turned away from me and marched out of the room.  Well, that didn’t go very well.

When I was admitted I expected to have surgery ASAP.  Then the admitting doctor told me there was a non-invasive treatment…the IV antibiotics.  Then I was told surgery again.  Now?  No, you go home and schedule surgery “if you want.”  OMIGOD…here we go again…if you want.  What if I want your damned medical opinion????

I spoke with my husband…I thought about it.  I was not sure how this was going to be reconciled.

Needless to say, my sleep once again was fitful. 

For a brief period, this one night, we had a third person in the room, another ancient woman, even older than the mouth.  Another victim of a fall.  Tiny little slip of a woman.  Her daughter, it turned out, was a doctor…una dottoressa. Also a smoker…I could smell it and see it by her skin.  At any rate, she only stayed the one night and was moved to another room the next morning.  The good news was that her mere presence kept the mouth quieter for the one night even though sleep eluded me.

Thursday.  Lights on at 6 am.  “Why don’t you eat? Aren’t you hungry?”  My admitting doctor, the snot nose doctor and yet another march in.  This one I managed to catch a glimpse of his name on his jacket.  I knew the name….he was recommended by a dear friend who is now also assistant mayor of this town.  He is also the head of the department but soon to retire. I wondered if our friend had anything to do with his appearance.

He examined me.  He spoke a tiny bit of English.  “You are from New York?”  “Yes, but I live here now.”  He said he would advise that I go home but schedule surgery for the near future.  I agreed.  “Ha!  But she didn’t WANT surgery yesterday!” said Dr. Snot Nose.  I replied, in Italian, “I needed time to think.”  Both my admitting doctor and the head of the department had no problem with that. 

Before he left I asked when I could go home.  Friday.  Tomorrow.  YAY!!!  “O forse sabato” (or maybe Saturday)…..No!!!!  hahaha…just kidding.

Finally, I was given something to eat….a boiled piece of chicken cutlet and overdone (thank goodness, the only way I like them) carrots.  A cup of tea.  Magnificent.  Manna from heaven. Menus for the patients are one more thing not present in "no frills" health care.  You get what you get.  Period.

For the first time, I slept about 4 hours straight.  Tired, relieved and something in my stomach after  5 entire days.  If the mouth called the nurses station, I didn’t hear it. 

Morning came and I was hyped.  I got up, brushed my teeth and hair…packed up my few things…and lo and behold, there was my admitting doctor at only 7 a.m.!  One last check, one last IV antibiotic…he wrote the papers, scheduled surgery…and I was free to go! 

No frills…but I am forewarned now and know what I will need to bring with me next time.  Overall, but for one snotty doctor (like I never encountered snotty doctors in the US?) the care was very good.  Everyone else was attentive, cheerful, kind and most of all, competent.  The building is old, possibly post WWII or soon after in the 50s….but clean.  Some of the misunderstandings I am sure were cultural and due to my language difficulties. Really, I have little to complain about.  And, by the way, the bill is ZERO.

Diamond bracelets Woolworths doesn't sell...

Part One:

To be truthful, I started having occasional sharp, fleeting pains months ago, sometime over the course of the summer.  I naturally ignored them, hoping they would magically go away.  Of course, they did not.  They got worse.  And worse.

I had “an attack” in August.  Calling on my limited knowledge from many years of working for doctors in hospitals, I wondered if this was a gallbladder attack.  Or my old umbilical hernia?  Or a hiatal hernia?  Was I dying?

That attack passed in a matter of hours and all was well again, except for those nagging, fleeting stabs that came here and there.

I had an appointment with my primary doctor here, not for this problem, but because I felt that my arthritis was worsening over time.  We (my friend/teacher/translator) mentioned the pain to the doctor but got all caught up in the arthritis issue and blood tests and specialists……and that was that.  That was a Thursday.

Friday the pain persisted and was markedly worse.  Saturday continued in that vein. By Sunday I was in significant pain, unable to eat, walk…think.  Other than that I did not want to enter an ER or hospital on a Sunday.  I suffered through…all night long…until Monday morning when my friend/translator took me to the local hospital’s ER. My first experience with this institution.

As a small, obscure hill town in the least populated part of Italy, the locals pride themselves on this hospital.  Its existence is one reason we chose this town.  It was, in fact, the Covid center of the region throughout the quarantine.  My friend and neighbor calls this hospital “a gem.”

I did not get a sense of what the actual edifice looks like.  I was somewhat indisposed.  It was a gorgeous, sunny, perfect autumn day.  The first stop was the registration desk.  We had to wait in a small room with only about five chairs….until the gentleman in front of me was done.  Then we entered another tiny room…two chairs and a man behind a desk.  Name, health card, what’s the problem?  Tap, tap, tap into the computer.  Then we were directed across the way to another location.

This was the waiting area for the ER (Pronto Soccorso), and there were quite a few people there.  I am not sure if they all were patients or with someone else, but I was ushered through the automatic double doors immediately (hurray!). It looked like…an ER….gurneys and curtains.   Someone came and started using his fist against places in my back (checking for kidney problems) and then he punched me in the gut!!!  Seriously!  I cried out, doubled over…..

I was put on a gurney, bloods taken, IV started, three Covid swabs and an ultrasound ordered. *I didn’t feel a thing…totally painless. Except the swabs.

Rather quickly I was moved to a wheelchair and taken up to ultrasound where I lost my companion.  They would not allow her in due to “radiation.”  While it was obvious the building was very old, with some worn spots in the floors (which were spotless) the walls were freshly painted.  I waited.  I have no idea how long I waited….maybe close to an hour.  Finally a young doctor arrived, apologizing, saying he didn’t know I was there.  He spoke English pretty well and told me he had a friend in NY and visited him recently on the birth of his first child.  He also told me I had gallstones.  Che sorpresa!

Then I was wheeled to the surgeon’s office.  I had no idea where my friend was or if she had any idea where I was.  Swell.  The surgeon was also young.  His “office” was very large, with a gorgeous view of the mountains.  There was also an exam table  with surgery lights available above.  He examined my swollen and very sore abdomen.  Then I sat in the chair in front of his desk while he perused by lab results and the report from the radiologist.  Oh, how I wish my friend were with me!!!  I can speak “everyday” Italian, but I am not familiar with medical terms and my brain tends to go completely blank when I am nervous.  I was nervous times ten and tremendously uncomfortable. 

If I understood him correctly he was telling me that I didn’t need surgery at that moment, but perhaps I should stay in the hospital for treatment “if I want.”  If I want?  If I want?  I said I could not go home “like this.”  In broken English he said “You want to stay with us?  If you want….”  Si!!

Having worked in the US for doctors for so long, I assure you my “bosses’ never proposed a treatment to someone, much less a hospital stay….”if you want.”  I was baffled by that.  What is YOUR opinion, Doctor?  What should I do?  I don’t have a medical degree! Give me some guidance!

Then I got wheeled back down to where I started, outside the ER and just a minute later my friend showed up!!!  “I’ve been looking for you!”  Well,  I think it’s all done now, although I don’t quite understand why……….

I told her there was no need to stay any longer…PLEASE go home….You’ve done enough……so grateful just for the ride alone.  She hesitated but did head home.

I had to wait another hour or more for my Covid test result to come back.  Since it was my first ever, it had to be sent to the central lab in Pescara, the county seat….tick tock……