Over the last two months I've spent 9 days in the hospital here in Italy...I had gall bladder surgery. The experience was most impactful because I was experiencing a completely new "hospital culture"....some of it was nurturing and caring, some of it was traumatizing. Snapshots below.
* Saturday night, emergency room, severe abdominal pain--the local hospital has 50 beds, a small guy. They wanted to admit me for observation, even though no tests would be done until Monday. I suggested I come back on Monday, but nooooo, they needed to reserve my bed-- with me in it. WHAAAAT???
* OH YEAH...you are expected to bring your own plates, silverware, glass, cup, toilet paper, towel, soap, and WATER, honest, I'm not kidding, WATER.
* Luckily, my doctor, Dr. Garafolo, speaks English--she studied in NY and was a godsend.
* My nights with MacBeth's witches: I was put into what I call "the death room"...3 other patients, all over 90. Who didn't sleep. Who croned incessantly. These women are not witches, but their voices, in tandem, were a querulous cacophony, a symphony of pain, unhappiness, loneliness and dementia. After my second night I told my doc I was going out of my mind...she changed my room. 3 nights to go.
* Each room has 4 patients. The beds have no privacy curtains. The walls have peeling blue paint. The doctors' rounds are a public affair, unless you are a family member, in which case you are sent out of the room. At shift change, the nurses stick their heads in the door, ask anyone if they have a fever and go on to the next room. No one took my blood pressure the 5 days I was there-aside from the ER.
* I couldn't eat for 3 days--they were prepping me for a colonoscopy and a gastroscopy. (remember, nothing would happen until Monday!)
* There was great celebration when they discovered my gall stones...from the ultrasound that wasn't done until Tuesday--I did have 3 xrays, however.
* Fabulous view from the hospital....Le Marche is stunning.
* SURGERY SCHEDULED in two weeks, then rescheduled for 3, then 4. ARRRRGH.
* New hospital. One roommate. Check in the day before, not doing anything but chillin' while waiting for the next morning. No privacy curtains.
* They took my blood pressure and temperature at every shift change. The BP cuff was frayed and worn. Nurses overworked and underpaid--I know cuz I had that conversation with one of the nurses.
** here's the big one...I was rolled into the surgical theatre fully friggin' conscious. Not kidding here...the docs were talking about lunch and what they did last night and I'm staring at those surgical lights and I lost it...I was trying to be strong and brave and grown up, but I couldn't do it any more...sobs erupted out of me, nurses told me to think of something beautiful, and then I got the shot. shit....a little late.
When I met the surgeon for the follow-up I mentioned my fear, discomfort, and huge vulnerability. (I also told him in America no one goes into surgery conscious.) He pursed his lips, tisked, shook his head and said, "this is how we do it in Italy. The only ones unconscious going into the surgery room are babies." (Me, Me, Me--I'm a baby!!) Curiously, my friend, Germana, who lives in Bologna, said she never heard of such a thing. My relatives in Rome said, "next time, you come to Rome. We've got better doctors here." (Next time???) Our friend, Craig, an American who has had 3 surgeries here, said he's always been conscious when rolled into the surgical theatre.
TOTAL TRAUMA--I couldn't even think about that surgery room for weeks without havin' a melt down.
* After surgery I kept asking for more pain meds and the nurses told me I didn't need it, that I didn't want to be dependent upon it. FUCK, WHAT?? Where's my friggin' morphine drip????
* Upon leaving both hospitals I had a list of questions for the doctors--NO ONE ASKS DOCTORS QUESTIONS here. They were surprised, stopped, refocused on me before going to the next bed, and answered. It was reminiscent of how things were in the US 40-50 years ago.
Three weeks later:
Okay, the surgery was a success...no more gallstones. I am slowly reintroducing heretofore disallowed foods into my diet and my body is digesting well. The laparoscopic incisions have healed. The incision at my belly button is taking longer to heal, it was more invasive. And my belly button, well, my belly button is no longer mine. It's a different shape. That's gonna wreak havoc on my bikini modeling career.
I chose to have my surgery here...the biggest obstacle--which I should have anticipated, but did not--was learning an entirely new system. Things are done differently here...it's not what I'm used to and I was pretty vocal--in Italian, thank you very much.
I learned I can survive and communicate my needs just fine, yeah me! In a foreign country. In another language. My confidence got a heavy dose of "'atta girl."
My care was more than adequate. The nurses responded to my needs, requests, demands with sensitivity and compassion, the doctors performed their due diligence, the job got done.
The surgery took a lot out of me (as surgeries are wont to do); It aged me. I wonder if we too blithely succumb to surgery. Hospitals house pain and vulnerability and deep, visceral fear. The people who care for us face emotionally-charged situations every minute of every day. My kudos to you for protecting us and caring for us and curing us.
My Gary was the hero of the day...he was vigilant, confrontive, supportive, vocal (also in Italian, thank you!) and he was by my side, holding my hand the rest of the time. I couldn't have done it alone, and luckily, I didn't have to.
* Saturday night, emergency room, severe abdominal pain--the local hospital has 50 beds, a small guy. They wanted to admit me for observation, even though no tests would be done until Monday. I suggested I come back on Monday, but nooooo, they needed to reserve my bed-- with me in it. WHAAAAT???
* OH YEAH...you are expected to bring your own plates, silverware, glass, cup, toilet paper, towel, soap, and WATER, honest, I'm not kidding, WATER.
* Luckily, my doctor, Dr. Garafolo, speaks English--she studied in NY and was a godsend.
* My nights with MacBeth's witches: I was put into what I call "the death room"...3 other patients, all over 90. Who didn't sleep. Who croned incessantly. These women are not witches, but their voices, in tandem, were a querulous cacophony, a symphony of pain, unhappiness, loneliness and dementia. After my second night I told my doc I was going out of my mind...she changed my room. 3 nights to go.
* Each room has 4 patients. The beds have no privacy curtains. The walls have peeling blue paint. The doctors' rounds are a public affair, unless you are a family member, in which case you are sent out of the room. At shift change, the nurses stick their heads in the door, ask anyone if they have a fever and go on to the next room. No one took my blood pressure the 5 days I was there-aside from the ER.
* I couldn't eat for 3 days--they were prepping me for a colonoscopy and a gastroscopy. (remember, nothing would happen until Monday!)
* There was great celebration when they discovered my gall stones...from the ultrasound that wasn't done until Tuesday--I did have 3 xrays, however.
* Fabulous view from the hospital....Le Marche is stunning.
* SURGERY SCHEDULED in two weeks, then rescheduled for 3, then 4. ARRRRGH.
* New hospital. One roommate. Check in the day before, not doing anything but chillin' while waiting for the next morning. No privacy curtains.
* They took my blood pressure and temperature at every shift change. The BP cuff was frayed and worn. Nurses overworked and underpaid--I know cuz I had that conversation with one of the nurses.
** here's the big one...I was rolled into the surgical theatre fully friggin' conscious. Not kidding here...the docs were talking about lunch and what they did last night and I'm staring at those surgical lights and I lost it...I was trying to be strong and brave and grown up, but I couldn't do it any more...sobs erupted out of me, nurses told me to think of something beautiful, and then I got the shot. shit....a little late.
When I met the surgeon for the follow-up I mentioned my fear, discomfort, and huge vulnerability. (I also told him in America no one goes into surgery conscious.) He pursed his lips, tisked, shook his head and said, "this is how we do it in Italy. The only ones unconscious going into the surgery room are babies." (Me, Me, Me--I'm a baby!!) Curiously, my friend, Germana, who lives in Bologna, said she never heard of such a thing. My relatives in Rome said, "next time, you come to Rome. We've got better doctors here." (Next time???) Our friend, Craig, an American who has had 3 surgeries here, said he's always been conscious when rolled into the surgical theatre.
TOTAL TRAUMA--I couldn't even think about that surgery room for weeks without havin' a melt down.
* After surgery I kept asking for more pain meds and the nurses told me I didn't need it, that I didn't want to be dependent upon it. FUCK, WHAT?? Where's my friggin' morphine drip????
* Upon leaving both hospitals I had a list of questions for the doctors--NO ONE ASKS DOCTORS QUESTIONS here. They were surprised, stopped, refocused on me before going to the next bed, and answered. It was reminiscent of how things were in the US 40-50 years ago.
Three weeks later:
Okay, the surgery was a success...no more gallstones. I am slowly reintroducing heretofore disallowed foods into my diet and my body is digesting well. The laparoscopic incisions have healed. The incision at my belly button is taking longer to heal, it was more invasive. And my belly button, well, my belly button is no longer mine. It's a different shape. That's gonna wreak havoc on my bikini modeling career.
I chose to have my surgery here...the biggest obstacle--which I should have anticipated, but did not--was learning an entirely new system. Things are done differently here...it's not what I'm used to and I was pretty vocal--in Italian, thank you very much.
I learned I can survive and communicate my needs just fine, yeah me! In a foreign country. In another language. My confidence got a heavy dose of "'atta girl."
My care was more than adequate. The nurses responded to my needs, requests, demands with sensitivity and compassion, the doctors performed their due diligence, the job got done.
The surgery took a lot out of me (as surgeries are wont to do); It aged me. I wonder if we too blithely succumb to surgery. Hospitals house pain and vulnerability and deep, visceral fear. The people who care for us face emotionally-charged situations every minute of every day. My kudos to you for protecting us and caring for us and curing us.
My Gary was the hero of the day...he was vigilant, confrontive, supportive, vocal (also in Italian, thank you!) and he was by my side, holding my hand the rest of the time. I couldn't have done it alone, and luckily, I didn't have to.
