Hospital of Horrors

This blog is dedicated to all the frustrated people who have walked up the giant hill to the hospital of Desenzano or had the pleasure of going by the number 1 bus with the terrible driver that tries to kill you before you get there. This blog is for you! And for the rest of my readers, I'm glad you have escaped this experience.

My husband claims that my adventures to the hospital are good exercise for me. I disagree, the trips ruin my day.The hospital in Desenzano, where I live, is at the top of a hill like a haunted mansion. The services are good but getting there and back are a pain. I get to the hospital tired, deal with grouchy administrative girls that hate my foreign accent and make me run in circles to pay (go get a form from your doctor then come back and get in line which means another 30 minutes of waiting in line to pay),  then the doctors all want to tell me that they have a niece in NY and that they visited Boston. I really don't care. I never visited Boston and I'm sure West Virginia is better. To get there to the hospital is an ordeal:  the hospital is 4 miles away, the number 1 bus arrives once every hour except at 1 PM and every apt I have starts at 2 PM and the bus arrives at the hospital at 2:07 so that means that I have to take the 12:33 bus that is before the bus drivers break so he drives like a maniac tossing the people up and down on the plastic bus seats all the way to the top of the hill to the hospital entrance. More than once I have missed the bus or the bus driver, Carlo, has skipped my stop to get to his break faster. So since I am at the bus stop almost 2 hours before my apt I start speed walking and cursing life all the way up the hill to the hospital like an angry version of Heidi. May the bus driver get a flat tire and loose his licence.

The bus stops all have a roof and an orange sign.

The bus is orange, not blue. The blue bus goes to different cities.

Driving in both lanes

Yesterday, I armed myself with all the necessary note taking things for documenting the hospital experience: camera, notes, and ideas of what to write about. I arrived the hour and a half before since I took the 12:33 bus and my appointment wasn't till 2:07. Therefore I walked around the hospital and tried to think of things that could be useful to any English speaker in Italy going to the hospital. This are some very important things, then I will move on to my personal frustrations and observations:

1. Emergency number: dial 118 in Italy for the paramedics called "Pronto Socorso" They arrive in bright orange suits and will whisk you away to the hospital. But seriously, try not to get sick. It is very inconvenient to be sick in a language other than your own. What takes energy and focus to speak Italian when you are healthy turns into a brain blank when you are sick and hospital workers are frustrated with you for not speaking Italian.

Ambulance workers all wear bright orange

2. Pronto Socorso (ER): This is where you go for emergencies. You go to the desk, like in America, and the dude or girl ask for your ID and "tessera". The skinny dude speaks English, is fast and will tell you that he likes Boston every single time. This "tessera" is something you get if you have a visa or Italian Citizenship. It determines how much, if anything, you pay. If you don't have one, you still get seen. Just give them your Passport for an ID or better yet, take a copy. In the Desenzano ER you can expect the following to happen in this order:

1. Get a ticket with a number and it will say a color, like Green. This color indicates how sick you are.
2. They will not take your vital signs instantly. They are taken only if you look like you need it.
3. The waiting room is plain and with one screen showing whos turn it is next. When it is your turn go back to the skinny guy or to the front desk and ask him where to go. 
4. Chances are you will get an apt in the clinic where people are waiting for their scheduled apt. Emergencies trump all prior apts. So you get seen before them. 
5. Getting to the right area (Urology, Pediatrics etc.) is tricky. Ask the dude at the desk for directions. If he says "Primo Piano" it means the 2nd floor. The first floor in English is the ground floor in Italy. It is confusing. If he says 2nd piano, it is our third floor. Look at the numbers on the wall. 

This is the first or ground floor

This legend misses the zero floor..and says -1 instead for payment. Very confusing.

1. All doctors I have met in Desenzano speak very good English. However, you can ask for a translator or bring a pocket dictionary with you. When you meet with them, point, use your hands, your face, and don't let them rush you. Doctors rush in general but you need to take it slow for your health and to understand what to do. Don't be afraid to ask "Cosa facio?" (what do I do?) or "Non ho capito" ( I didn't understand) They will speak slowly like if you are stupid but much clearer. 
2. Payment. This is the fun part. After getting sick, going to the doctor and feeling miserable you get to go to the basement to the "Sportello" to pay. First you take a number at a little machine that is hard to spot, press the red button and get a ticket. When your number is called go to the window that called your number and pay. If you use the "tessera" it is usually free or around 20 Euros. If you are visiting it is more like 50-75. Don't praise Italy yet for its social system and free healthcare, you also pay 40% in income taxes and getting and keeping a job is really really hard.

Sportelli means window. The board indicates which one when it is your turn.

Ok. So now that we got you an appointment and you are all set up this is what I went through at the hospital.

I forgot to eat lunch before going to the hospital yesterday. In the bus, at 12: 45 I started to feel a little grumble in my tummy and thought "I will go to the foodcourt" remembering the yummy dishes my husband has described from his daily lunch at work and also fond memories of the amazing burgers they served at Walter Reed Army Hospital where my dad worked. However, I forgot that maybe, just maybe my hubby gets these yummy dishes because he is a doctor and visitors don't get the same foodcourt. I arrived at the hospital. Took a few pictures and smelled something scrumptious and warm and good. I followed the smell down one hall then down the stairs to the food court called "mensa" and saw a group of fussing nurses walking in a group all dressed the same in their bright shoes and white pajamas and messy hair like they had just woken up and needed coffee to the dining hall. There was an administrative girl who works at the payment center with them. I didn't know what to do so I followed them. The administrative girl gave me a dirty look as they walked in then the door behind them quickly closed. It didn't reopen. Then I saw the small smug sign stating that the dining room was just for hospital employees. Of course.

Since I was getting testing done I wanted to have some food in my stomach. I went upstairs, angry with my hunger and the dining room. There was a badly lit room with 3 vending machines: one for coffee, the other with snacks and the third with water. Here was my meal:

First course: cheese shock. Not bad actually.

2nd course. Crapfen with espresso. I would give both a 3 out of 5.

A nurse getting coffee.

Le Menù

As I was sipping my last drops of bitter espresso a young guy covered in rashes and scratching himself asked me what my name was. Lovely, just lovely. I attract the best. It was still an hour before my apt but I decided to pay early to get it over with then wait with my Kindle in some corner where I couldn't be bothered. I got my ticket to pay and waited for the administrative girl (from the dining room) at the Sportello to finish yakking with her colleague about the snow (a flurry). After 5 minutes she called my number, took my money and told me laughing that my appointment wasn't till the next day (today, Tuesday). I was beyond annoyed. A man behind me coughed loudly before hacking some liquid out and I decided it was time to walk home.

Over the river and through the woods back to home we go.

The walk down the hill was not bad and I enjoyed it once I got into town and walked to a bar (coffee shops are called bars) to have a coffee with the owner who is my buddy. She is Dutch and came to Italy in the 70's for marriage, like me. She has lots of experience that she has shared on how to do things that I am so grateful to have!

Back in town

Today, before heading to the hospital for my real appointment, I ate an egg, bread and salad before going out. I went to the bus stop early and the bus wizzed past me. I ran after it waving my arms and it kept going. Sighing in defeat I stopped then heard some big motor behind me and quickly got out of the way of another bus, this one was mine, with Carlo at the wheel again. I was annoyed and told him that he almost killed me, he grunted, didn't care and kept driving like if it were a convertible and not a bulky bus. He took a short cut to the hospital, missing all other people waiting at stops, and I got off relieved to get off. I didn't care to wait in one place today and read quite a bit of my book (thank God for my Kindle! It is so light and I have read 43 books since arriving here). Right before my apt. I took out the list of things in Italian to tell the doctor and my purse fell. The people around me were intrigued staring at my foreign stuff on the floor and as I got it all together I saw a familiar face hurrying down the passage way to help me get through my apt: my hubby. It was like seeing the face of an angel. He got out of work (at another hospital) and was able to rush to my apt to help me out. He also stopped to get me my favorite cheese and fruit on the way. He is a saint. With him my apt went faster and paying did too. The administrative girl doesn't give him a hard time since he is Italian and speaks with authority. I'm still in the faze of looking at people's mouths when they talk fast to get what they are saying. I was grateful to get home and sit for a second then Bentley hacked a hairball on the clean floor (I mopped in the morning)....but that is life, isn't it? Paperwork and hairballs with a chance of something nice (that is usually with strained effort like him rushing to get fruit and cheese then rushing to meet me).

Diagnosis: allergies to lots of pretty and tasty things and also this guy.

The end