As promised, I must confess why I was sans comment on many of my posts - and your blogs - last week.
Yes...I had a
friend in town, but that wouldn't have kept me away!
No way - no how!
You see my friends, Calabria, and Italy in general, is chock-full of new experiences just waiting to be grabbed up. Last week, I grabbed one...In fact, I grabbed a whopper.
The picture you see to the right is the
Ospedale Pugliese in downtown Catanzaro. You see....
Well, let me back up a bit.
All was well last Monday until 2:00 PM. I was actively writing
blog posts and chatting with
friends, when I felt a sudden -
a strangely powerful - pain in my lower back. In fact, I was somewhat immobilized and walked hunched over upstairs to rest in bed.
I consulted my trusty
webmd and discovered I could have anything from
gonorrhea to a
strained muscle to
gas. Pretty.
Since I was sure to be STD'less, knew I hadn't lifted more than a pen, and have felt gas pains in the past - I
googled on. I called my mom. I called my students' to cancel a lesson. I called my mom, again.
A few hours later I shuffled to the airport to meet my friend.
After a night's worth of sleepless hours, I agreed to visit a doctor.
He punched, he pulled, he pressed -
painfully so.
The final diagnosis?
Kidney infection.
Drink 2-3 liters of water a day, take this antibiotic, and give yourself a shot if the pain becomes unbearable.
Yes, you read that correctly. "Give yourself a shot." When Peppe returned home from the pharmacy with five "fresh" needles, my friend and I explained how needle usage works in American.
"Diabetics. Junkies. That's it," she told him holding up a needle for emphasis.
"Well, you can trust me," he assured us. "I've given shots before."
Breaking my hard-core rule of never trusting a man who says, "Trust me," I let my husband give me a shot.
I felt absolutely -
not even - .001% better.
So, I did what any red-blooded American girl would do. I filled up on Advil and Tylenol.
Over the next few days, I learned a few lessons about pain management with kidney infections.
- Walk. A lot. The pain is intensified when you lay down, and almost unbearable when you sit.
- Chug more water than you ever thought you could.
- Have an ample supply of Advil and Tylenol on hand, and alternate dosages every 4-6 hours.
I marched on through the week, taking my friend on various outings, shopping, and walking, walking, walking to avert the pain.
"If it's not better tomorrow, you are going to the hospital," Peppe tried to sound forceful as he laid down this rule three days in a row.
Finally, on Saturday evening, I relented, and for the first time in 17 years, I went to the ER.
We arrived at L'Ospedale Pugliese in downtown Catanzaro around 6:00 PM. Check-in was painless and we were sent back to see a doctor by 6:15. And, they say socialized medicine will slow us down in America! After a few minutes of questions, pokes, and needles I was sent upstairs to have an ultrasound.
This, in fact, was the most notable difference between Italian and US hospitals. I wasn't laid on a gurney and rolled around. Instead, I walked to the elevator, pressed the 4th floor button, and went to see the ultrasound
dottoressa myself. In 10 minutes, she was squirting me with a chilly gel-like substance, and Pep was looking on the screen hoping to see a
bambina. Luckily, he didn't.
The
oh-too-
thorough doctor, wanting to further scrutinize my goods, asked me to drink a liter of water, walk around, and return in 30 minutes.
During this 4th floor
passeggiata, I noticed another profound difference. A thick whiff of cigarette smoke-filled air bit my lungs and stung my eyes.
"Ah, yes," Peppe proclaimed. "We are in Italy."
One minute later, I see an orderly with a light green surgical cap enter the hallway, with a cigarette hanging from his lips. He walked right past this sign without looking up.
Another ultrasound, a visit to the urologist, and a return to the ER doctor wrapped up my evening. Just before leaving, I was asked if I wanted a shot to help with the pain.
"Why not," I thought.
Trying to make small talk with the nurse, I told her about Peppe's fruitless shot earlier in the week.
"Don't worry," she told me nicely. "There's enough room there for two!"
After she left, I looked to Peppe for confirmation.
"Did she just say there was enough room on my ass for two shots?"
Peppe struggled, unsuccessfully, to repress a grin.
"I can't imagine she would be that rude," he quickly added.
Hum! Can't imagine!
Indignantly, I marched from the ER and rubbed my sore bum.
Big butt...hum!
I'm never going back there again!