Two months ago, when I was packing to move to Vienna, I had the bright idea to put all of the heaviest items in my carry-on suitcase. I was afraid of my checked bags being overweight and getting charged the hefty fee for that. I carefully weighed those bags as I packed to make sure they stayed underweight. So, I packed up the carry-on with heavy things, caring not at all how heavy it was - after all, it has wheels and would be easy to deal with.
What I didn't think about was that the carry-on suitcase needed to be placed in the overhead compartment. And that I had to get it from the floor to the overhead compartment. This worked out fine in Boston. However, in the mad rush to get off the plane in Madrid in order to quickly connect to my Vienna flight, I forgot how heavy it was and completely wrenched my right wrist when I yanked it from the compartment and it came - with gusto - out of the compartment and onto the floor.
My wrist popped; it burned; it began to swell. I could feel the burning travel up my arm and toward my throat and stinging my eyes. I. WOULD. NOT. CRY. on the plane. I still had to get it, and myself, from one gate to another in a rush. When I got on the Vienna flight, rather than asking for help (as M noted I should have), I used my left hand to lift it and gingerly used my right hand to guide it. By the time I got to Vienna, it was very, very sore and swollen.
After a few days (well, a bit more than a week), the swelling subsided and the pain became bearable. Yes, I know, pain should not be "bearable." I wanted to just let it heal by itself. Of course, the best way to let something heal is to not use it. M suggested this, over and over, but I kept saying it was fine. As long as I kept it from going into a few key positions, it felt fine.
Fast forward to the end of August - a bit more than a month later - my wrist still hurt. Not all the time, and not acutely, but it still hurt. M insisted that I go see the doctor at his office. That's the only way to get a referral to see a specialist. We were leaving for Italy the next day. So, M made an appointment for me and I met him at the front desk of his office.
The Front Desk of his office is a bit imposing. First, in order to get to the Front Desk, one must stand at the glass doors and be buzzed in. There are three glass doors, but I can never remember which door I'm supposed to use, so I just stand in the middle and grin until a door buzzes. Then, I usually push instead of pull (or pull instead of push) - whichever one is wrong, first. By then, my hands are clammy and no matter how comfortable it is outside, I have begun to sweat. I don't think the Front Desk Guys have ever seen me without a sheen on my forehead; nor have they ever shaken my hand and found it dry. I just get nervous there.
The Front Desk Guys are the gatekeepers. They smile; they know me as M's wife; they know I speak English. They call M and let him know I'm there. I wait. We smile at each other. They ask me (every time) if I'm enjoying Vienna. "It's lovely," I say as I try to surreptitiously wipe the sweat from my face and maintain some semblance of dignity.
When M arrives, we go through the rabbit's warren of hallways and doors (some of which require his ID to enter) until we get to a closed door: the doctor's office. We try it. It's locked. We knock and he answers. The doctor sits in a locked office, waiting for employees (or their family members) to come see him about an ailment.
He was very nice, talking mostly to M in Spanish (showing off his Spanish), and barely asking me anything. He wrote a prescription for
Parkemed and some cream that I could rub on my wrist. He also gave me a referral to an orthopaedic doctor who specializes in wrists. I took the prescription to the apotheke (pharmacy) to have it filled. The Parkemed seems to pretty much be like Advil. The cream was sort of like Ben-Gay.
Off we went to Italy - I would see the wrist doctor when we returned.
Italy was wonderful. I want to take the time to write about how wonderful it was, but that will have to wait.
On the Monday after our return, I went to the doctor. First, I had to map out how to get there. Google Maps (and Google Translate) have been lifelines. I realized that I could walk (easily) to the doctor's office from home. It is right around the corner from the post office - and I know how to get there. Nervous about being late, though, I left the house 30 minutes before the appointment. I got there in about 7 minutes, leaving me... well, you can do the math. So, having scoped out where it was, I walked around the block about 10 times.
I finally went in. It was a very crowded waiting room, and in front of the reception desk was a sign saying (in German, English, and several other languages I didn't recognize): "Please respect other patients' privacy and wait here." There were also at least four signs indicating that we were not to talk on mobile phones while in there. So, everyone was on their phones, yapping away. I was sweating already.
I stood at what I thought was the back of the "line", waiting for my turn, and respecting the other patients' privacy. I say "line" because people don't line up. They create a horizontal wall of waiting, which gets wider, rather than a vertical line that gets longer. Several people went ahead of me. I kept sweating. Finally, I got a bit fed up and said, in my best bossy voice, "Entschuldigung Sie
" - which means "
excuse me" (click the link and hit the little icon on the far right underneath the German word to hear the pronunciation) - to the woman who had just cut in front of me. It came out in a squeak and probably sounded more like "entshuuulegSQUEAK." She turned around and I think forgave me for my rudeness. She clearly thought I was apologizing for being too close to her as she cut in front of me.
Finally I was next. I said, in my best apologetic-with-winning-smile voice "
Mein Deutsch ist nicht gut. Sprechen Sie Englisch?" Which should sound like this: THE REAL WAY TO SAY IT, but probably sounded like "My Deutsch is nickt gooot. Sprecken zee English?" The receptionist said "a little." She then, in fast German, explained the form I had to fill out and asked about insurance. She asked my address and phone number. I just wrote them down, rather than having her argue with me about the nonexistence of the street I live on. No matter how I say it (no matter how PERFECTLY I say it), they never understand. [As an aside, this happens everywhere here, and to M also - it's like they can't believe that we're saying it correctly, so they assume we have gotten it wrong].
I understood every 7th word or so of what the receptionist said - enough to know that things were complicated. She asked me how I was going to pay, since I have private insurance. I asked if they took Bankomat (ATM) or credit card. She may have answered me, but the room was starting to spin and all of the sounds blended together. I tried to wipe my face without looking as nervous as I felt.
I walked over to the only empty seat in the waiting room with my form - a plastic form onto which I was supposed to write all of my information with a wipe-off marker. Okay, I can do this. Now, you know how when you're feeling nervous you start to second-guess even the things you're pretty sure of? That's how I was feeling. "Vorname." That's first name. I know this. And "Nachname" is last name. I know this, too. However, while faced with these choices on the form, I got nervous. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was the other way around. I filled in my address. I had to look at the little notebook I carry everywhere to make sure I wrote the right phone number. Then I got nervous that I didn't put enough digits in the number. My sweaty hands kept smearing the ink. Then there were questions I just couldn't figure out. Things about medical history and insurance and identity numbers and whatnot.
I asked the woman next to me if she spoke English. She shook her head "no." I asked the woman next her if she did. No. The woman to my right also did not speak English. None of the 10 people sitting near me spoke English. Or - as M pointed out - they just didn't want to help me. I saw a youngish, very chic and stylish, couple on the other side of the room. Surely these cosmopolitan 30-somethings would both speak English and be helpful to me. Of course, I wasn't really thinking that at this point I was openly perspiring, probably had haunted, crazy eyes, and was trembling slightly. I approached them and they looked at me as though I was trying to join their table at the hottest night club in town. I stammered "Sprechen Sie Englisch?" The guy said "a little." The woman said nothing and eyed me with withering disdain. I asked what some of the questions on the form said. He mumbled things like "insurance" "pay" "identity". I thanked him and got back in "line".
The next receptionist spoke very good English and was nice and helpful. She took my form and told me to wait for the doctor. I listened VERY CAREFULLY when they called people's names. I knew I had to listen for "Frau" and then something that approximated my last name. I wasn't sure how they were going to tackle my last name, since it is Danish - not German - but looks a lot like several German names. I strained every time they said a name, over-thinking it [was that me? did I miss it?]. When they did call my name, I could recognize that it was me they were looking for. I got up and followed the briskly-walking young woman into a room. She said a whole lot of stuff, very quickly, in German before I got a chance to ... oh the hell with it ... "I'm sorry, I don't speak German - yet" smile, smile, smile. She pursed her lips and said "wait here for doctor."
The doctor came in - she was very kind. She asked if I'd had an MRI. Of course I hadn't - you can't get one unless you have a referral - so I said "not yet." She said I needed one because there's a ligament or something inside the wrist, similar to the meniscus in the knee, that if torn, will require surgery. WHAAAA? SURGERY??? I calmly replied, "Oh." She gave me a referral, on the back of which was a list of all the different places I could go for an MRI. "Just call and make an appointment. When you have done that, come back." She asked if I had a wrist brace. "No. Do I need one?" "Well, if you want. Use it if it helps. If it doesn't help, don't wear it. It's up to you. I will write something down and they will fit you for one out front. Thank you." With that, a whole 4 minutes, I was dismissed.
I went back out front. Got back in "line", and waited for whatever the next thing was. They told me, after I stood in line for 5 minutes, that I needed to go sit down and my name would be called by the Wrist Brace Guy when he was ready to see me. Okay. Now, no one has told me yet about how I am to pay for this appointment.
The Wrist Brace Guy called my name and I followed him back to the Wrist Brace Room, where he glared at my wrist and found a box containing a brace which he shoved onto my arm. It hurt. He said it was 26 euros. I stammered. He said "shall we bill you?" "Yes! Yes, please!" I gave him my address - he screwed up his face, corrected me after I wrote it down, saying it EXACTLY the same way I did. I was dismissed and told to go back to the reception desk.
Back in "line." I was panicking about whether I would need to leave and find a bankomat to get cash or what. They handed me something that looked like an invoice, but then something else that looked like I was supposed to fill in bank information and give it back to them. I had no idea what I was supposed to do, and I was dealing with the "a little" English receptionist, not the nice, plenty-of-English receptionist. I asked "do I take this with me and pay later?" "You pay." "Now?" "Take it." "I can just leave?" "You are done." So I left, wearing the brace that hurt my wrist.
A side note of niceness: the cashier at Spar (the supermarket around the corner)
who is really nice to me and always says "hello" after "Grüß Gott" - knowing I speak English, saw the wrist brace and looked at me quizzically, saying "okay?" I smiled and said "it's new." He said "sorry." Some moments of human kindness can take on a profound meaning. He noticed and that was really nice. Of course, it probably also says a lot about the frequency with which I go food shopping, but....
Without boring you all to tears (if I haven't yet) let's just say that calling around for an MRI appointment was a challenge. No appointments until October. I finally just took one. M suggested I try one more place - a private hospital that he had used in the past. I called. They were nice. They spoke good English. They could see me the following week (which was last week).
M and I did a trial run on the tram to make sure I knew how to get there - it's on the way to
Grinzing, where we went last weekend for some
Sturm at a Heuriger.
I could do this, no problem. They told me to come 10 minutes early, so I got there 25 minutes early and had a coffee in the shop before going to the appointment. When I got to the MRI office and helpfully presented my referral form to the receptionist, she was puzzled. She tapped on her computer. She said "I don't have your appointment listed. Perhaps you called one of the other hospitals on this list." "Um... No, I'm very sure I made an appointment here." She smiled a thin smile and began calling the other numbers, saying something in German like "There's a moron standing at my desk. She thinks she made an appointment here, but she clearly didn't. Did she make an appointment with you?" She spelled out my name several times. I didn't screw this up. I know it. Just because I
may have taken the train from Salzburg to Innsbruck instead of to Vienna didn't mean I screwed this one up. I know it.
She finally got up, and left the room. A few minutes later, she returned and said "I have asked my colleague if they can fit you in, since you do not have an appointment. Can you come back in an hour?" "Sure. Fine. Thank you." I went outside. I didn't mess this one up. I know it.
When I returned, I was shown into a small changing room where there were hospital gowns hanging. The MRI technician said "you can leave on your shirt, but must take everything else off" - pointing to my upper body - sweater, scarf, etc. I did what she said and then tried to open the door to signal that I was ready. It was locked, so I had to wait for her. She opened the door and told me I had to take off my trousers, too. I did, and put on the robe. The MRI was just an MRI. Noisy, uncomfortable, and spent battling my brain telling me that I can't possibly keep my wrist COMPLETELY STILL for 20 minutes. Then I was done. I was told to wait for the images. I waited. I got a bill. I asked what I was supposed to do with the images. Do I bring them to my doctor? Do they send a report to the doctor? They said "take the images. You will get a report in the mail next week." Okay, not really answering my question, but I did as I was told.
Later that day, I went to the orthopod's office, stood in "line" and when it was my turn, I said "here are the MRI images. What do I do next?" The receptionist said "do you want to wait for the doctor to review them?" "Uh, can I just make an appointment and leave them so that she can review them?" "You can come for an appointment next week." She wrote the appointment information down for me and handed me the enormous envelope containing the images.
My appointment is Wednesday. I wear the brace when I feel like it: doctor's orders.
