Che Schifezza!!!

One of my new favorite sayings in Italian: Che schifezza!!! I'm not sure how to literally translate this without getting too vulgar...but when I typed it into Google translate, it churned out "that crap". There is just something about this exclamation that makes one feel better by proclaiming that something is just nasty, gross, and utterly undesirable.  I must note that my old favorite saying used to be "Che casino!!!" meaning something along the lines of "what a mess" but on a more exaggerated level. In my opinion, this can be used equally as often and at times in accord with "Che schifezza!" when things are a down-right crappy mess.

Image I found when I googled "che shifezza"

This is how it felt when I was forced to go to an Italian ER (well, thankfully I wasn't puking like the pumpkin).  I had to head to the ER on a beautiful night that I had been anticipating all week.  Where I'd be going to a lovely restaurant, I'd be surrounded by friends, and I'd dance to the music played by my favorite musicians in Firenze.  But oh no...my body had different plans.  Basically I won't go into the details for the reason why I had to go, but I'd love to account what it was like spending the 5 hours it took to get seen, diagnosed, and treated for my illness.  I'll just say I was in a lot of physical pain.  Pain that had lasted all day, and wouldn't go away.  Pain that I had tried to convince myself (and all others who were informed) that I wasn't feeling, JUST so I could go to the party!  In fact, two amazing friends drove to our house, were ready to take me to the hospital, and I was able to talk my way out of going!  Because honestly, I've never had to go to the hospital for any emergency...not for anything!  Ok...I was in a hospital when I delivered Ava, but that's not the same thing.

So, armed with some meds to help kick the pain, we were on the way to the party.  But the pain became so overwhelming as we entered the city that a scene ensued from some kind of overly-dramatic movie.  We were just about to arrive at the restaurant with a car: a feat that within itself is amazing to accomplish.  When asked how I was feeling, all I could mutter was a feeble "Not.......good....." and the race began!  As I recall it now, some thumpin techno song (think: Run, Lola, Run soundtrack) began to play as the decision was made to turn around.  In a haze of pain, calls were made "Ho sbagliato!!" ...."lei deve andare in ospedale" ..I was wrong, she must go to the hospital!!  Illegal turns were being made, one-way streets were ignored, red lights didn't really exist.  I faintly recall apologizing for being such a nuisance, but it was clear that I needed medical attention.

I was dropped off with a friend who would take me to the hospital.  Thankfully, my medical problem had already been written out in Italian, so I could hand it to any doctors who didn't speak English.  It seemed like forever before we came to the hospital..and I can't even remember the name of it, or where it was.  Before I knew it, we were in front of the triage nurse speaking half-English, half-Italian, trying to explain my problem.  In Italian hospitals, you get assigned a color for how bad your condition is.  I think I was yellow...kinda a middle-ground.  After my friend was told she had to wait outside, I was given a gurney to lay on in the hallway.  The nurse started an IV and gave me drugs for the pain.  And this is where the fun began.

I stayed on this bed for 2 hours without anyone talking to me or asking how I was.  But you know, after the pain had subsided a bit, I knew I'd be there a while and I was okay with that.  I could wait my turn and be patient.  As long as I wasn't in pain, I was fine.  But after 5 minutes I realized there were two things that would make these two hours seem like an eternity.  1.  I really, really, had to pee.  and 2. There was an insane woman across the hall from my gurney that was alternating between moaning and yelling in incomprehensible Italian.  Both of these things lasted for 2 hours.  I mean really...I had to pee like I had a 10 pound baby pushing on my bladder.  It was so bad that I got up the nerve to call over the triage nurse, and with the most whiney Italian I could find, told her "Devo fare pipì ora!" I must go pee now!! To which she reacted as if I had told her "By george, it would be jolly good if you'd let me use the washroom at the most convenient time..." and she promptly told me "è meglio aspettare" It's better to wait.  Right.  Of course...it's better that my bladder explode and I pee myself.  But I wasn't going to try to argue in Italian...so wait, I did.

What was also great, was my gurney was positioned perfectly under a digital clock on the wall.  The slowly ticking minutes were taunting me in military time.  Everytime I opened my eyes (to roll them at the insane woman yelling and the nurses trying to shush her) I had to do math to figure out what time it really was, and how long I'd been laying there.  The pain started to come back.  Then WHOOSH...someone was pulling my bed around!  Without a moment's notice, my turn had come!!!  I was wheeled quickly (and not too cautiously) into a long room separated into three areas by green curtains.  I hoped I could soon see a bathroom!  Instead, I came face-to-face with a ridiculously handsome doctor.  Honestly, the pain meds weren't that good...I wasn't halucinating that my doctor could be so amazingly gorgeous.  We had a quick discussion, with me trying to get my wits and use whatever Italian words I could muster in my flustered state, and him casually glancing around and asking some questions in English during a short examination.  Obviously the crush was one-sided...too bad. 

Then joy of all joys, I was allowed to go pee!  But then horror of all horrors, the insane woman was wheeled into my same room and commenced her wailing!!!  It got so bad during her examination, that another docotor actually peered around the curtain and said to me in perfect English "Don't worry...we're not torturing this woman...she is out of her mind".  Uh yeah...I suspected as much for the past 2 hours.  I never got a good look at her, but I imagine she looked something like this:

Again, WHOOSH...I was being moved into another room after I was given more pain meds and fluids.  Ahh..into a room with no one.  But then I started to panic because I was sure no one would find me in this inconspicuous place.  I'd probably wait there another 2 hours before they found me!  But thankfully, no, a gruff woman came into my room and huffed out "Come si chiama?" What's your name? and WHOOSH, wheeled me into another room for some tests.  Before I knew it, WHOOSH I was back in a hallway.  At this point I think I fell asleep, considering it had been 4 hours, and was reaching midnight.  Fading in and out of a half-dreamy, half-awake state (and probably dreaming about my hot doctor Tomasso, we were on a first-name basis at that point in my dream) I wondered how it would all end.  Would I need to stay over-night?  Would it be another 4 hours until they let me pee again?  Could my friend ever come see me to tell me what was going on?  Would Dottore Tomasso propose to me, right then and there??  Well...around 1am, my real doctor came to my rescue and explained the diagnosis and plan of action.  I had a brief goodbye with Dottore Tomasso and was on my way home with a packet of papers in Italian explaining my illness.

One upside to my ER experience was that I didn't have to pay anything.  Not a dime.  Another upside was meeting Dottore Tomasso and him giving me the good news that I'd be okay.  Besides that, I'd really love to never see the inside of an Italian hospital again!  Che schifezza!  And not to get all political, but it makes me wonder how things would have progressed if my condition was more serious.  My problem was minor, so I wasn't going to die waiting for 5 hours in an ER.  Yet it concerns me that this is a faint glimpse into America's future of free healthcare...it could just be un casino...