LA GALERA O L'OSPEDALE

“Everyone”, runs an Italian saying, “does their time in la galera [prison] or l’ospedale.” As it is just over a week since I "escaped" from the latter institution, I feel it is time to describe it.

To begin at the beginning: since August, I have been experiencing episodes of balance loss; nothing much at first but then they became more frequent. By 9th October, I was only getting to work because kind friends took me there and collected me and I fell over 4 times during that week. I had also lost weight dramatically, without dieting, during the same period. Finally my GP decided that the best course of action would be for me to go into hospital for a week or so, as all the necessary tests could be done quickly and on the spot. This meant kennelling Simi suddenly and I was most upset about this, as by the 14th, when I was admitted, I was so scared I had some awful neurological thing that I feared I would never see her again! But I knew it was the only thing to do so off she went to Mr Enzo’s establishment and in I went.

Let me say at the outset that I received excellent physician care and I cannot praise their thoroughness enough. Indeed, I would go as far as to say that the only way you could get such a complete check-up in the UK would be to pay for it. I was always treated as an intelligent person and test results were communicated to me straightaway. I very much appreciated this courtesy.

Very little, then, of what I have to say below is intended as criticism; I just think that some of you might find the comparisons interesting.

In Britain, the first thing that you lose when you go into hospital is your dignity as you are weighed, prodded and immediately called by your first name. Here, you retain the dignity of signora but the first thing that you lose is your privacy: Imagine, now, a 4-bed women’s ward, with ample lockers and hangers for your clothes plus a normal bedside table-cum-locker each. Yet there are no screens or curtains! When one of you is to be examined or treated all visitors are asked to leave the room but everything happens in full view of the other 3 patients. The old lady in the bed next to me was too ill to be moved for a surgical procedure, so this was carried out in the ward. Not even for this was she afforded the privacy of a screen. The other 2 patients slept through it; I pretended to read.

The next day, the old lady was sent home to die. I really felt for her family, as I had lived through anxious, sleepless bedside vigils such as they kept when my mother was so ill, but I never had to wash or change her when she soiled herself or the bed. Yet night after night relatives did this and more for their loved ones, even turning and lifting them and administering treatment. In fact, the whole system works on the assumption that you have a relative there. I can see the human side of this, but I do not think that male relatives should be allowed to spend all day and all night on a women’s ward when their loved one is not that ill [or female relatives on a male ward]. It can make things awkward for other patients.

Mind you, the lack of privacy has its funny side. All information is conveyed to you within earshot of your fellow-patients and the kindly lady opposite me took great pride in being able to reel off everybody’s symptoms and diagnoses for the benefit of any newcomers. The correct response to this, I learned, is to utter “Pazienza”, “È così [“That’s how it is”] or “Siamo qua” [“We are here”]. You absolutely must sigh deeply for dramatic effect before saying the last of these and you must have your hands placed firmly in your lap whilst you speak.

Now, I was not incapable of getting to the bathroom but I nonetheless found it a precarious expedition! For one thing, could someone please tell me why there are no toilet seats on any of the loos in the entire hospital?! This didn’t seem to bother anyone else [“pazienza”, etc] but for someone as wobbly as I am these days it made life more difficult! And I found myself crying from fear of falling every morning as I attempted to shower. The nurses [2 for the entire ward of 7 rooms] just do not have time to accompany you while you do your ablutions! Please do not infer from any of the above that the nursing care is poor for it is not; there just isn’t enough of it.

Visiting times [largely ignored] are 07.30 – 08.30 [presumably so that relatives can help with bathroom visits and bring in food], 12.30 – 2. 30 and 6.30 – 8.30 pm. Only the Italians could visit a hospital and behave as they would at a festa, with children bouncing on the beds, the women gossiping loudly and happily and the men forming their own little “gossip groups” in the corridor. And perhaps it isn’t so bad for the patients after all. I felt rather sorry for the visitors, actually, as only one hard little chair is provided at each bedside; not even the patient has the luxury of being able to sit in an easy chair for part of the day! I certainly did not lack visitors myself, with wonderful and loyal friends coming in every day, bringing gifts and taking care of practical needs such as washing. One day, nearly all my women neighbours turned up, including the lady who took a year to acknowledge my greetings after I moved in here. I was most touched by that. There had obviously been some sort of “neighbourhood conference” as no one had seen me or the dog for a few days and they had noticed that my shutters remained closed. So along they came, determined to find me!

Meals, apart from breakfast, were quite good. I’ll never know why the Italians, who produce arguably the best food in the world at other repasts, either neglect or make such a mishmash of breakfast. At 7.30 am a horrible, dark brew masquerading as “tea” was brought around, and into this evil-looking gruel people happily dropped slices of fette biscottate [French toasts] and ate it as if it were the consommé du chef. For lunch there would be a choice of pasta or soup, plus a meat or fish main course with a contorno [nearly always green beans]. Then you would get some fresh or “cooked” fruit [ not stewed, as you might imagine, but the whole fruit cooked to soften it]. In the evenings there was always the same nourishing, vegetable soup, served with bread and a choice of ham or cheese. The nurses would bring the food to you, but not clear it away so again, if you were bedridden, the system depended on your having someone there who would do this for you. You also got a bottle of mineral water every day, but not a glass to drink it from! – You were expected to bring your own supply of plastic beakers. At least in this hospital you were provided with plastic cutlery at each meal; I have heard of hospitals here where you have to take in your own.

Oh, I am forgetting one very important detail for my lady readers! One of the doctors had the eyes of handsome Mubbs from Holby City!

Well, there you have it: I survived and am now home with” Dr Simi”. And the diagnosis? It seems that I have advanced osteoporosis and it is this that is at the root of everything. I knew, of course, that if you have osteoporosis, you are likely to break something if you fall; what I had not realised, however, was that the condition can so debilitate you that it can cause you to fall in the first place. So if anyone out there has knowledge or experience of this, I would be really grateful to hear from you.

Meanwhile, I am still tired and weak, walking with a stick and certainly cannot work next week. The future looks uncertain but at least my brain is working – or so they tell me!

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Italian medical system, all who took care of me in hospital, my kind GP and all the friends, on and off line, who have been so very kind, concerned and supportive.