Today I got the call from school every teacher dreads having to make: you know, telling a parent that his or her kid has been hurt.
Well, you see, James was playing ball during recreation hour (after lunch), and was hit with a ball on the wrist. Which had become somewhat swollen, but the teacher told me rapidly that it wasn't anything serious...his arm was still attached to his body, etc., but perhaps he was too focused on his injury to remain for study hall.
Given that we had to go to the pediatrician for him for other reasons today anyway, it was perfect timing! Off we went (Jeremy, like any puppy, is always game for a ride in the car), and down to the pediatrician. Our beloved doctor took one look, declared it broken, gave us a pink slip (it's a referral form for the national health system in which we cannot enroll), and sent us to the hospital in Pantalla.
So far, so good. Except once at the hospital, I didn't have the slightest idea where to go. I'd forgotten to ask that detail. Mind you, the hospital is the size of a pimple on a flea, but still. I decided to at least enquire at the pronto soccorso (emergency room). Leaving the boys in the car parked directly next to the entrance while I cased it out, I found an empty waiting room with a darkened greeter's booth. Luckily, there was a red button on the wall next to the desk, but that seemed a rather drastic step to take: it was a very large, very red, very important-looking button: you know, the kind that you see in cartoons that end up ejecting the hero into the stratosphere.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the button. Paused. Looked around. There were no buzzers, no flashing lights. Within 5 seconds, though, a cheerful girl of about 16 (who on reflection was probably a young woman of 25) opened the sliding glass door. I waved my pink slip at her and explained the situation. She winked, told me to pretend she'd never seen it -- because actually using the slip was the way to have an appointment set for three days hence -- and told me to bring James in.
By the time we got back inside 45 seconds later, she had vanished. Hmm. Time to press the big red button again? Why not? Yes, it turned out to be the answer.
She took us to the entry clerk, who turned out to be her boyfriend. They were very excited to be leaving for a month in California, and wanted to know all about the current weather conditions. Since it was soCal, I could tell them cheerfully that it would be dry and pleasant temperatures. Let's hope I was right!
Next, the intake doctor. He inspected the swollen wrist, declared that radiology was the next department for us to visit. Off we went, where we were given number 91. Guess what? 91 was the next number up! They took two views of his wrist, but the orthopedic doctor reading the x-rays said they didn't show a break, but he wasn't convinced there wasn't one somewhere. He asked the technician to take a different angle on the wrist and then disappeared.
The technician took the shot, then brought us back to the intake doctor, who explained that there was such a teensy fracture that it didn't really warrant much excitement, but it was nearish the growth plate, so let's just immobilize the site. Time to visit the orthopedist, just down the hall! We had a cheerful conversation in which he informed us that plastic casts don't exist in Italy (bummer, because it means James is out of swimming for the next three weeks), but they prefer plaster to fiberglass because it is much more forgiving of wrinkles around the hand, etc.
He then proceeded to spread a sheet on the floor and on James's lap to guard against the mess, pulled out water and his plaster rolls, and casted James's wrist the old-fashioned way! In three weeks we are to go back, but I asked him about payment for the visit. He responded that we owe him nothing for that visit, but will have to get a different pink slip for the cast removal and another for the check after cast removal (done in the same visit, but apparently different items?).
But that was just the orthopedist. Time to go back to the intake doctor to settle the bill for the emergency room, radiology, and so on. Turns out, this doctor already knew James from scouts (several years ago), his son was in James's elementary class, and his niece was in James's class last year. Yes, his sister-in-law was Jeremy's beloved math teacher from middle school, and we were all happy and palsy-walsy as he was trying to print out the bill.
I use the word "trying" advisedly. He told me that they had just changed the system and he didn't know exactly how it worked yet. While this was going on, our first nurse (the 16-year-old) and he were deciding that we shouldn't owe anything just because, but of course the software wasn't working in any way that he knew how to deal with.
Giving up because he figured we were ready to leave, he took my visiting card and said he'd give it to the accounting department; if they wanted us to pay anything, they'd let us know.
Back to Todi and a nice cup of cappuccino with Michael as I told him all about it.
Love,
Alexandra
P.S. We saw James's teacher at dancing tonight, so he already knows about the wrist.
Well, you see, James was playing ball during recreation hour (after lunch), and was hit with a ball on the wrist. Which had become somewhat swollen, but the teacher told me rapidly that it wasn't anything serious...his arm was still attached to his body, etc., but perhaps he was too focused on his injury to remain for study hall.
Given that we had to go to the pediatrician for him for other reasons today anyway, it was perfect timing! Off we went (Jeremy, like any puppy, is always game for a ride in the car), and down to the pediatrician. Our beloved doctor took one look, declared it broken, gave us a pink slip (it's a referral form for the national health system in which we cannot enroll), and sent us to the hospital in Pantalla.
So far, so good. Except once at the hospital, I didn't have the slightest idea where to go. I'd forgotten to ask that detail. Mind you, the hospital is the size of a pimple on a flea, but still. I decided to at least enquire at the pronto soccorso (emergency room). Leaving the boys in the car parked directly next to the entrance while I cased it out, I found an empty waiting room with a darkened greeter's booth. Luckily, there was a red button on the wall next to the desk, but that seemed a rather drastic step to take: it was a very large, very red, very important-looking button: you know, the kind that you see in cartoons that end up ejecting the hero into the stratosphere.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the button. Paused. Looked around. There were no buzzers, no flashing lights. Within 5 seconds, though, a cheerful girl of about 16 (who on reflection was probably a young woman of 25) opened the sliding glass door. I waved my pink slip at her and explained the situation. She winked, told me to pretend she'd never seen it -- because actually using the slip was the way to have an appointment set for three days hence -- and told me to bring James in.
By the time we got back inside 45 seconds later, she had vanished. Hmm. Time to press the big red button again? Why not? Yes, it turned out to be the answer.
She took us to the entry clerk, who turned out to be her boyfriend. They were very excited to be leaving for a month in California, and wanted to know all about the current weather conditions. Since it was soCal, I could tell them cheerfully that it would be dry and pleasant temperatures. Let's hope I was right!
Next, the intake doctor. He inspected the swollen wrist, declared that radiology was the next department for us to visit. Off we went, where we were given number 91. Guess what? 91 was the next number up! They took two views of his wrist, but the orthopedic doctor reading the x-rays said they didn't show a break, but he wasn't convinced there wasn't one somewhere. He asked the technician to take a different angle on the wrist and then disappeared.
The technician took the shot, then brought us back to the intake doctor, who explained that there was such a teensy fracture that it didn't really warrant much excitement, but it was nearish the growth plate, so let's just immobilize the site. Time to visit the orthopedist, just down the hall! We had a cheerful conversation in which he informed us that plastic casts don't exist in Italy (bummer, because it means James is out of swimming for the next three weeks), but they prefer plaster to fiberglass because it is much more forgiving of wrinkles around the hand, etc.
He then proceeded to spread a sheet on the floor and on James's lap to guard against the mess, pulled out water and his plaster rolls, and casted James's wrist the old-fashioned way! In three weeks we are to go back, but I asked him about payment for the visit. He responded that we owe him nothing for that visit, but will have to get a different pink slip for the cast removal and another for the check after cast removal (done in the same visit, but apparently different items?).
But that was just the orthopedist. Time to go back to the intake doctor to settle the bill for the emergency room, radiology, and so on. Turns out, this doctor already knew James from scouts (several years ago), his son was in James's elementary class, and his niece was in James's class last year. Yes, his sister-in-law was Jeremy's beloved math teacher from middle school, and we were all happy and palsy-walsy as he was trying to print out the bill.
I use the word "trying" advisedly. He told me that they had just changed the system and he didn't know exactly how it worked yet. While this was going on, our first nurse (the 16-year-old) and he were deciding that we shouldn't owe anything just because, but of course the software wasn't working in any way that he knew how to deal with.
Giving up because he figured we were ready to leave, he took my visiting card and said he'd give it to the accounting department; if they wanted us to pay anything, they'd let us know.
Back to Todi and a nice cup of cappuccino with Michael as I told him all about it.
Love,
Alexandra
P.S. We saw James's teacher at dancing tonight, so he already knows about the wrist.
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