I spent my morning here yesterday. It’s the hospital where I gave birth. The first time I walked into this place, I was carrying a cup of urine in a plastic farmacia bag and had no idea where I was supposed to go from here. The informazioni desk was closed. Anything you must do in the hospital here (and you must do many things in an Italian hospital that you’d do in your regular doctor’s office in the U.S. during a routine office visit) can’t be done until you check in and pay upfront in this big room. You take a number out of a machine that has cryptic instructions written on it, such as “Press one for tests and visits that may or may not be covered by the regional health plan.” There’s even a line to take a number and you can feel the impatience of the people behind you who just want to get their numbers and then go stand and wait under the digital boards until its their turn to wait some more.
The very first time I came here, it was too much pressure for a hormonal and nauseated pregnant woman. I hightailed it out of there, chucking the bag of urine in a trash can. The pregnancy experience later became a book (or I should say manuscript as it wasn’t technically published in its entirety) and can be read about more in-depth here.
Anyway, yesterday I was here and since I have been half-naked in corridors throughout the place, I sort of felt right at home. That is until I got to my appointment and got a 30-minute tongue-lashing from the doctor who was supposed to perform a test on me and couldn’t do it because my primary care physician hadn’t written the correct thing on the referral. It was pretty much the equivalent of a “t” not having been crossed in medicalese, so it was my primary care physician’s fault not mine. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at the situation,” said the doctor who pointed out that both she and I had wasted a chunk of our morning and I had paid for a test that couldn’t be performed. Sigh.
So what did I do? I sat down in this big room feeling dejected and watched the numbers tick by as I ate a disgusting granola bar I’d bought at the supermarket the day before. I had bought it because the name me laugh. It was called “Mokaccino,” which does not sound like something that would normally appeal to Italians. Italians don’t even have a “k” in their alphabet though using English spelling sometimes makes things “cool.” Slathered in cheap milk chocolate, there was nothing “mocha-” or “cappuccino-” like about this granola bar. And because my breakfast was so lacking in inspiration and healthful properties, I had to fantasize about the things I’d cook later on to redeem myself. When life gives you lemons…
It does look like a horseracing track, or a ferry crossing photo!
Hey blogger…Glad to see you’re back.
The new name rocks
” Viva la pappappappa
col popopopopopopomo doro
la storia del passato
ormai ce l’ha insegnato
che il popolo affamato
fa la rivoluzion…”
Our 5. y.o. offspring has- to our surprise – and, just by example, been the reason two other boys in his preschool have become vegetarian.
I’m a little bit proud.
Love,
Jane
Hi Jane! I don’t think I knew the words to that song, but they did play it a few times for some reason during this year’s San Remo festival.
Thanks for your comments and way to go to your son!
Ever since my first pregnancy in Italy I have made it a habit to scout any public building I enter for those number dispensing machines – I always push all the buttons as, sod’s law, if you only choose the one you think you will need, it will definitely be the other one!
Love the new blog btw! Generally I love the lack of chain restaurants and bars in Italy but sometimes I could really do with a good old Pret à manger or Starbucks. When my babies were in NICU I often had to pop into the hospital bar to grab something to eat and there was never anything vaguely appetising, and no matter what the time of day they always seemed to be mopping the floor with very potent disinfectant!
Very furba of you! The hospital where I went during pregnancy is a very big research hospital with long corridors where it is easy to lose your way. They have a Lindt chocolate shop but oddly very few places to actually eat. Once when I stayed for about 36 hours in the emergency room (where they served us nothing to eat and drink and you had to go to the bar to buy your own water/provisions), my husband brought me back a lettuce and tomato sandwich because there was literally nothing else for me. If they opened a pizza-by-the-slice place, it’d probably make a killing! So to speak (it is the hospital after all).