Some Bitter Medicine

I mentioned in an earlier post I had to go to the doctor while in Rome because of a knee problem. The knee upon which I had surgery a year and a half ago became so painful I had to resort to this type of crutch/cane they use here in Italy. It has a great design and can actually hold most of your body weight, but looks rather like the canes we in America associate with people who have special needs. I didn’t care, and America needs to adopt this type of cane and get over this type of prejudice as the cane is marvelous and I would have been chair bound without it. But the pain was so bad I was afraid I needed surgery and would have to cut short my trip and fly home.

Italy has a very socialized medical system. My son had been here for almost five years now and it is well known among students and Americans living here that you don’t go to the doctor unless you know you only need an antibiotic (and hopefully you already brought some from home), you obviously need a simple fracture set (no surgery), or you are unconscious and have been sent to a hospital in an ambulance against your will. As one man put it, the doctors all have bones through their noses, referring of course, to the African medicine men. So my choice was to go home and take a chance nothing serious was wrong, or take a chance on Italian medicine. Either way it would cost me money: a plane ticket home and paying for the new years’ deductable and out-of-pocket expenses that would occur, or paying whatever an Italian doctor would charge. Here is where socialized medicine wins: the cost of tests is usually much lower.

My son, having had similar knee problems had been to an office that specialized in orthopedic injuries. He made the appointment and I begged him to accompany me even though he said English was spoken. We arrived and I never would have found the place because like all buildings in Rome they hide the address and the name of occupants. I don’t know how any business ever flourishes!?! I also would not have been able to operate the 100 year old elevator alone either as he even had to go up to another floor to send it down to me. Don’t ask. It is Italy. Once in the antiquated office I had to fill out paperwork in Italian! How would I have done that without my son??? We were then called into the doctor’s office and he remembered my son from his previous visits even though my son had been to the other doctor. We started discussing where the pain was and how it might have happened – no clue other than trying to run for a bus that one evening with my daughter. My son happened to refer to me at one point as ‘my Mother” and the doctor was shocked. He couldn’t believe someone as young as me could have a son as old as this priest next to me. He looked at my chart to check my age. All I could think was, who did he think this priest was bringing to the doctor? I was hoping he was thinking the priest was doing a good deed for a fellow American. My son was embarrassed as this was not the first time this had occurred.

Let me digress for one moment. We laugh in America at the term ‘cougar’, but in Europe that sort of thing has been around and accepted for many years. The stigma of an older woman and younger man is American, not European. My son has a lot of gray hair for a 30 year old so can pass for older than his age. I guess I can pass for younger than my age also, because when we travel, often the assumption has not been mother and son as I blithely assume it would be. Quite often the Italians who meet us say nice things about me looking like I am my son’s sister, which I assume is polite flattery. But other times when we do not introduce ourselves, the assumption is not always so clear. At least three times this trip people expressed shock we were mother and son. In a typical family this would be amusing, but my son is a priest and does not in any way want to have people speculating about a priest’s behavior. So it has come to the point where if the two of us are traveling alone, he needs to not be in his clerical garb so if people are speculating, at least they are not also speculating about a Catholic priest. I guess I should be flattered, but it is rather strange for both of us.

The reason I bring up the age factor will be more obvious after the x-rays. So, the doctor explains it is probably due to stress from the cobblestone and uneven streets and he sees a lot of this in his office, but will send me for x-rays first. We wait to be called for the x-rays and I tell my son I can do this alone since everyone had spoken English. My name gets called and I follow a grubby looking fellow down an old hallway. He takes me into a small room and starts talking in Italian. He doesn’t speak English. He says a bunch of stuff and points at my pants and motions for me to take them off and then leaves the room. He doesn’t give me a gown or scrub pants or even a disposable paper sheet – just take off the pants. I look around this old room, with old equipment and just roll my pants really high and thank God I had decent underwear on. I had worn gym pants just in case. The guy comes back in and stares at my bottom half and then grunts and points for me to pull the pants leg higher. The he points and mumbles a few words and positions me in front of an x-ray machine. In the corner, lying crumpled and unused on the floor, I see the lead apron I always have to wear in America. I thank God my child-bearing years are over. He takes one x-ray standing, then grunts me over to the table and has me lay down and takes another x-ray laying down – still no apron. Lastly he has me sit up against the wall, bend my bad knee up with my other leg straight out in front of me puts the film on top of my knee, and hands me the x-ray film AND HAS ME HOLD THE FILM WHILE HE TAKES THE X-RAY! Italy’s tax dollars at work! Still think Obamacare is a good idea???? All I could think as I sat there holding my x-ray film, was thank God I wasn’t in my underwear wearing a thong!!!

When we go back to the doctor’s office he doesn’t put the x-rays on one of those lit white boards he just holds them up to the window! He starts to say everything looks good then he makes a sound like” Ohh, uhh, uhhh” and looks at the x-rays for a full minute without saying anything. My son and I look at each other and I get the urge to giggle because it went on for so long. Then he gets out a sort of ruler and starts measuring things. He finally talks and says he doesn’t think anything is torn, but my kneecap is off center which I can work on with exercise, but the worrisome problem is my leg is quite misaligned. He went on to explain how they correct it with surgery in Europe, but not as often in Amercia, because in America if the patient subsequently needs knee replacement they will then sue the doctor for not doing that in the first place. At least in Italy they can’t do that. Why doesn’t Obama leave the healthcare alone and do something about the outlandish lawsuits that prevent decent people from doing their jobs? Anyway, he said he usually caps that type of surgery at about age 45 because after that  arthritis starts taking over and the person will need a full knee replacement. But in my case because I looked so young and healthy he probably would do the surgery.



My handsome, holy son, Father Johnny and I.



My son and I got the biggest kick out of that. He based doing the surgery on my looks, which really was based in comparison to my son’s looks. Anyone who knows me knows I have approximately 14 underlying health conditions, one of them being a particularly inflammatory and erosive arthritis. He did say he would have to do more tests, but it was amusing. He gave me steroid shots and a brace. When it came time to pay, I could charge the x-rays and brace, approximately $260, but the $250 doctor fee had to paid in untraceable cash. Socialism at its’ capitalist best. We had to go an ATM to get the cash. Amercia, are you ready for this kind of care? It’s called Obamacare.