3 ERs & a Waiting Room

Attitude is the difference between an ordeal and an adventure.
~ Unknown

Someone recently wrote on my Facebook page that I sure had a lot of negative things happen to me while I’m traveling. One would think that, I suppose, if they read many of the things that I post, but there is more to it. I post them because they are or can be learning experiences for people, and, to be quite honest, they are more interesting. Be honest: Would you rather read about how I tripped over someone or my own big feet and splattered myself and my belongings on the tarmac at Malpensa Airport or how I walked off the plane, got my bags, and rode the train to Milan.

I thought so.

So, that leads me to tell you about my last group and how we had three (yes, three) visits to the ER and the opportunity to experience hospital waiting rooms.

(NOTE: I’ve purposely omitted names.)

Pronto Soccorso

Pronto Soccorso (PS), which translates to quick care, is the Italian equivalent of an American emergency room. It is where you go when you have an accident, a serious illness, or have some other immediate medical need. They are open 24 hours per day, 365 days per year, and highly trained staff triage patients, diagnose them, and treat them.

Most PS have five levels of priority usually indicated by number and color: 1-EMERGENZA (red; extreme emergency), 2-URGENZA (orange; high risk), 3-URGENZA DIFFERIBILE (blue; stable but requires complex treatment), 4-URGENZA MINORE (green; stable and requires minor treatment), 5-NON URGENZA (white; non-urgent problem requiring very little treatment). Once the staff evaluates you, they give you a level of priority, you fall into the schedule according to your need, and you wait to see the doctor.

For example, if you go in with a heart attack or stroke, you will be level one. If you go in with broken arm, you will most likely be level three. Sniffles with no cough, fever, or other problem will probably make you level five. The staff doctors see patients according to the severity levels, so if you are a level one, you immediately jump over every other level and see the doctor immediately. If you are a level three, your name jumps before levels four and five. The severity of your and others’ illnesses, in other words, can determine how long you will wait to see the doctor.

In other words, care in the pronto soccorso may not be as pronto as you would hope.

Pronto Soccorso, Desenzano del Garda

We arrived in Desenzano del Garda on Saturday, and the next morning, one of the gals told me she was not feeling too well. She was coughing quite a bit, and her head was stuffy. She wasn’t sure if it was allergies or something she caught on the plane. When we left for Brescia to visit the Church of St. Angela Merici and the Museum of St. Julia, she and her husband went, but I told them to let me know if they wanted to leave early to come back and go to ER.

They ended up staying and returning with us, but around 7:30 or so, they told me they were heading to the PS. “I’ll go with you,” I informed them, but the assured me that they would be okay on their own. Now, usually I would not allow a guest to go to ER alone, but since it was husband and wife, I reluctantly let them go. “Please let me know how it is going.”

By 9:30 or so, I had not heard from them. Do you need me? Are you ok? I texted P.
She responded, Okay…have yet to see a doctor? Have taxi number…do they run all night?
I froze when I read the last question. We were in Desenzano, a rather small town, and taxis were not easy to get during the day let alone at night. I answered, Not sure. Do you need me? Are you okay? I regretted not accompanying them. P reassured me. No we are fine…go to sleep!

I won’t bore you with the entire story, but suffice to say they finally saw the doctor after five hours. By that time, it was after midnight and, you guessed it, taxis stopped running. A nurse pointed them in the direction of the lake, and they walked back in the dark. A little before 2:00, they happened upon a bar that was still open, and a nice gentleman offered to drive them to the hotel. While they were grateful for his kindness and sure he was not a serial killer, they weren’t sure they wanted to get into a car with someone who was still drinking at 2 in the morning. So, they walked.

At 2:18, I received a text from P. No taxis run after midnight…we tried several! We walked and just got back to the hotel.😩2:18am

Suffice to say they didn’t go back to Brescia with us the next day.

Pronto Soccorso, Roma, I

We spent three more days in Desenzano and two in Bologna before we headed to Rome. On the way, we stopped in Assisi so that the group could visit the Basilica San Francesco. As you would imagine, traffic heading into Rome was hectic, and we made it to the hotel a little later than we wanted. Our dinner reservations were for 7:30, so we rushed to rest and get ready to head out.

I didn’t have time to dry my hair and ended up in the lobby at meeting time with a wet mess of straight hair that more than embarrassed me given we had two guests with us, both of whom live and work in Rome. We were still waiting for a few people when L grabbed me and handed me her phone. “Please talk to B. He said there’s blood all over.”

I grabbed the phone. “C cut her leg on the bed, and there’s blood all over.”

“I’ll be right there,” I gasped. I don’t quite remember what went through my head because once I heard “blood,” I got dizzy. Blood and I are not best friends, let me tell you, but I didn’t faint, so that was a win.

When I got to the room, C was in the bathroom trying to stop the bleeding on her leg. Blood-soaked washcloths and streaks of blood covered the floor. “It was worse before you got here,” B told me. C needed to stanch the flow of blood, so I ran to my room to find a pressure wrap I had brought in case I hurt my wrist.

My single room was small, and I could barely open my suitcase. Imagine, if you will, the cartoons where characters are looking for something and, in order to find it, are throwing things in the air. More or less, that was yours truly, and by the time I found the wrap, most of my clothes and personal items covered my bed. C was able to stop the flow enough so that we could meet the others at dinner.

Before dessert, C and B came over to me. “I think we need to go to ER,” C said. “I need stitches.” Again, i offered to go with them, but they assured me that they would be fine on their own. The hotel ordered a taxi, and they went to pronto soccorso around 8:30.

They told me that they didn’t have to wait long, and that the doctor put steri-strips over C’s wound and sent them home before midnight…. in a taxi. We went to the farmacia and got her meds the next morning, and except for a little bleeding, C’s wound was healing by the time they left Italy.

Pronto Soccorso, Roma, II

I mentioned above that we stopped in Assisi on the way to Rome so that the group could visit Basilicas San Francesco and Santa Chiara. Father M, who was starting to cough, told me he didn’t feel well and would not do the climb to the churches (Assisi in on a hill, and the walk is a bit strenuous, shall we say.). I stayed with him at a bar near the bus parking, and he and I spent the time talking.

On Sunday morning, Pope Leo was saying Mass in St. Peter’s Square, and many of our group decided to go. Several of us, including Father M, decided to stay at the hotel for one reason or another. The thought of standing for hours in the hot sun or being surrounded by 70,000 other people was not appealing. Those of us who stayed back were to meet the others by 3:00 as we had drivers picking us up to take us to our pasta class. While the drivers who picked us up at the hotel were on time, they were unable to drop us off at the correct spot because, believe it or not, the roads were closed. We had to walk about a half mile in the heat and sun to get to the meeting point.

Fast forward to the pasta class, and Father told the instructor he had to sit down as he wasn’t feeling well. Since I wasn’t taking the class, I sat with him. He was pale. “Father, do you want to go to ER?” I asked him. “No,” he replied. He told me he would call the VA hotline and see what they said. He was quiet most of the rest of the time we were at the class, and when the drivers arrived to take us back to the hotel, I made sure he went in the first one.

When I got back to the hotel, Father messaged me that we needed to talk. The VA nurse had told him to get to ER immediately. The hotel called us a taxi, and off we went to Pronto Soccorso Santo Spiritu. When we arrived, I told them Father was having a hard time breathing, and that got their immediate attention. They brought him back, and they started asking questions. I heard the receptionist ask the translator (PS always have translators to help with medical problems, thank heaven.) to ask “la moglie (wife) how long he had the problem.

“I’m not his wife,” I exclaimed. “He’s a priest.” Both the receptionist and translator looked at me. “I’m a friend and travel guide, and he’s been ill about five days.” They turned back to their work. Once they tap-tapped all the information they needed into the computer, they told me to go to the family waiting area as they would take il prete (the priest) back immediately and would call me when I could go back with him. It was 9:56 pm. Over the next several hours, the translator came out to tell me the doctor had not yet seen Father and that I should just leave and go back to the hotel.

“No,” I said. “I’m not leaving him alone.”

“He’s not alone,” she insisted. “We are with him.”

“I’m not leaving,” I repeated and added, “Can you please bring me a blanket? I’m freezing in here.”

“That’s because the air’s on,” she informed me. NO (Insert angry retort here), I thought. “Why don’t you go outside? It’s warmer there.” I went outside. It wasn’t warmer. I went back inside where I could sit.

The Waiting Room

Again, I won’t bore you, but I was in the family waiting room from 9:56pm until 3:40 am. A board in the waiting room gave the patient number (He was #162), emergency level (He was green-level 3), and time in ER. A number of times Father moved up, but a level one or two would arrive and push him and the other levels down on the list.

During the time I was in the waiting room, I observed a number of interesting things. For example, right after I arrived, two female patients, each in nightgowns and no robes came into waiting room to buy an espresso. They could not figure out the machine, so I helped them. We talked about the shoes they were wearing, and once they finished their coffees, they thanked me again and went back to their ward.

Right after the ladies got their coffees, a man walked in, bought a cup of coffee, and sat on a chair across the room from me. He drank about half of it, put the rest under his chair, stretched out, and fell asleep. Over the five-plus hours I was in the waiting room, he changed positions numerous times finally lying flat over four chairs. The half-drunk coffee remained under his seat.

Personally, I could not understand why anyone in his/her right mind would get that coffee. Even though the brand was Lavazza, the coffee was less than drinkable. That said, I bought three cups of cappuccino over the almost six hours in the waiting room because they had the air on so high that I could have kept a side of beef in there. I didn’t drink the cappuccini, by the way, I just held them to warm my hands.

I saw at least 10 ambulances arrive during my time there, and each time one did, Father’s name dropped on the list. In addition, I noticed A guy doing pirouettes under the driveway lights and another guy pacing outside of the waiting room. He was either talking to himself or whistling an irritating melody that I really didn’t want to hear at 2:30 in the morning. By the time he had been whistling about 10 minutes, I was irritated enough to demand, “Who the h*ll is whistling that crappy tune loud enough to wake the dead?”

At that point, the whistler walked into the waiting room for the third time; stood over the sleeping man, took the now-frozen, half-drunk espresso from under the seat; and drank it. As he walked out, another man walked in, and his cell phone went off with a ringtone loud enough to make the rest of us—except the sleeping dude—in the room jump through the windows. He would talk (loudly) for a few minutes, hang up, and his phone would wake the dead again. This went on for about 20 minutes until he finally walked out.

Around 3:40 or so, the translator came for me.

“You can go back now,” she informed me. “They’ve finished the breathing treatment.”

“How’s he doing?” I queried

“He’s okay,” she answered and added, “The doctor wants to keep him overnight for observation.”

“Did you tell him that yet?” I wanted to know.

“We were waiting for you to go back to tell him,” she replied.

Uh oh.

NO

Let me end this by saying that Father did not stay for observation and that taxis in Rome do run 24/7. The translator called one for us, and Father and I were back in the hotel by 4:20 am. We had a number of good laughs on the ride home, and the next day I took him to get his medications filled. He is back at home now, feeling better, and enjoying time in his garden.