The Duke of Urbino was a 15th century mercenary who injured his right eye in battle. He subsequently had a notch taken out of the bridge of his nose to improve his peripheral vision and only allowed portraits of his left profile there after creating a now famous image. Who cares? I do since I had my stitches removed on Friday and will only be permitting pictures of me in left profile for the next few months. Most of you know that will not be such a big deal since Arnie rarely takes control of the camera to photograph me.
So, how was my taste of medicine Italian style? Very interesting.
First, I used American Express Global Assist to find a doctor. Even though I have a no fee card I have access to this very valuable service. I called them before we left and asked for a referral to a plastic surgeon. They e-mailed me the name of a plastic surgeon that was recommended by the Embassy along with the names of 3 private clinics in Florence. Renee, who works in the office here at the Palazzo, agreed to make the appointment for me since I feared that too much information would be exchanged for my limited Italian. As luck would have it, the recommended doctor would not be in on Friday. However, they did have a general surgeon who had an appointment available at 7PM. I expected that my limited Italian would vanish in the face of the stress of seeing the doctor so I wrote out, in Italian, all of what I assumed they would want to know. I also had my passport and my home insurance card. Ha!
It was my intention to shower, dress nicely, take my camera and document the whole event. However, a little after 4PM I got a phone call from the clinic. I understood the receptionist to ask if I could come at a different time. Panic because I was told to have the stitches removed in 7-10 days. Friday was day 9. I assumed that a different time meant a different day. Now we had to switch to English and fortunately that was no problem. I was told I could come right away. So, in my jeans, with dirty hair, we rushed out of the house, without the camera, and got a taxi to the clinic.
The clinic is a beautiful villa on the outskirts of the city, which means it is 15 minutes from the center of town. I checked in and was told to have a seat in the waiting room. No questions asked; no forms to fill out. We went into a standard waiting room with plastic chairs and waited with a half-dozen well heeled gentlemen of a certain age. In about 5 minutes a tall, distinguished, white haired doctor, dressed in the universal lab coat, came to the door and announced my last name. I stood up and he immediately turned around and started to walk down the hall. Arnie and I dutifully followed. He stood at the door and gestured us into an exam room that also had a small table used as a desk. We sat down across from the table, he went behind the table and did the same. Then in English he asked his only question, “You had an accident?” I got all flustered and in Italian said that I wrote everything down and I handed him my sheet of paper. He seemed uninterested in reading my medical treatise so I just said in English that I had Mohs surgery 9 days ago for basal squamous cancer and needed my sutures removed. His limited curiosity satisfied he lead me to the exam table, turned on a lighted magnifying glass and went to work. He counted as he removed all 20 stitches then told me I would be happy with the results in about 7 months. He put Steri-strips on my nose and said, “O.K.” He opened the door and we followed him out. I asked if we payed at the front and he said yes. And that was that. No medical history; no chart created; no curiosity about how we got to him, just “O.K.” I wished him a good weekend and we paid our 80 euros with a credit card and we were back on the street in less than 30 minutes. I don’t know what would have happened if we said we didn’t have any money. I guess they figured that if we got to Florence we could cough up 80 euros.
This is the only paper trail of our visit as far as I know. That was fine with me. I was very relieved to have the whole thing over with so we came home and did what we do: drank good red wine.
So, how was my taste of medicine Italian style? Very interesting.
First, I used American Express Global Assist to find a doctor. Even though I have a no fee card I have access to this very valuable service. I called them before we left and asked for a referral to a plastic surgeon. They e-mailed me the name of a plastic surgeon that was recommended by the Embassy along with the names of 3 private clinics in Florence. Renee, who works in the office here at the Palazzo, agreed to make the appointment for me since I feared that too much information would be exchanged for my limited Italian. As luck would have it, the recommended doctor would not be in on Friday. However, they did have a general surgeon who had an appointment available at 7PM. I expected that my limited Italian would vanish in the face of the stress of seeing the doctor so I wrote out, in Italian, all of what I assumed they would want to know. I also had my passport and my home insurance card. Ha!
It was my intention to shower, dress nicely, take my camera and document the whole event. However, a little after 4PM I got a phone call from the clinic. I understood the receptionist to ask if I could come at a different time. Panic because I was told to have the stitches removed in 7-10 days. Friday was day 9. I assumed that a different time meant a different day. Now we had to switch to English and fortunately that was no problem. I was told I could come right away. So, in my jeans, with dirty hair, we rushed out of the house, without the camera, and got a taxi to the clinic.
The clinic is a beautiful villa on the outskirts of the city, which means it is 15 minutes from the center of town. I checked in and was told to have a seat in the waiting room. No questions asked; no forms to fill out. We went into a standard waiting room with plastic chairs and waited with a half-dozen well heeled gentlemen of a certain age. In about 5 minutes a tall, distinguished, white haired doctor, dressed in the universal lab coat, came to the door and announced my last name. I stood up and he immediately turned around and started to walk down the hall. Arnie and I dutifully followed. He stood at the door and gestured us into an exam room that also had a small table used as a desk. We sat down across from the table, he went behind the table and did the same. Then in English he asked his only question, “You had an accident?” I got all flustered and in Italian said that I wrote everything down and I handed him my sheet of paper. He seemed uninterested in reading my medical treatise so I just said in English that I had Mohs surgery 9 days ago for basal squamous cancer and needed my sutures removed. His limited curiosity satisfied he lead me to the exam table, turned on a lighted magnifying glass and went to work. He counted as he removed all 20 stitches then told me I would be happy with the results in about 7 months. He put Steri-strips on my nose and said, “O.K.” He opened the door and we followed him out. I asked if we payed at the front and he said yes. And that was that. No medical history; no chart created; no curiosity about how we got to him, just “O.K.” I wished him a good weekend and we paid our 80 euros with a credit card and we were back on the street in less than 30 minutes. I don’t know what would have happened if we said we didn’t have any money. I guess they figured that if we got to Florence we could cough up 80 euros.
This is the only paper trail of our visit as far as I know. That was fine with me. I was very relieved to have the whole thing over with so we came home and did what we do: drank good red wine.
