As promised, I must confess why I was sans comment on many of my posts – and your blogs – last week.
Yes…I had a friend in town, but that wouldn’t have kept me away! No way – no how!
You see my friends, Calabria, and Italy in general, is chock-full of new experiences just waiting to be grabbed up. Last week, I grabbed one…In fact, I grabbed a whopper.
The picture you see to the right is the Ospedale Pugliese in downtown Catanzaro. You see….
Well, let me back up a bit.
All was well last Monday until 2:00 PM. I was actively writing blog posts and chatting with friends, when I felt a sudden – a strangely powerful – pain in my lower back. In fact, I was somewhat immobilized and walked hunched over upstairs to rest in bed.
I consulted my trusty webmd and discovered I could have anything from gonorrhea to a strained muscle to gas. Pretty.
Since I was sure to be STD’less, knew I hadn’t lifted more than a pen, and have felt gas pains in the past – I Googled on. I called my mom. I called my students to cancel a lesson. I called my mom, again.
A few hours later I shuffled to the airport to meet my friend.
After a night’s worth of sleepless hours, I agreed to visit a doctor.
He punched, he pulled, he pressed – painfully so.
The final diagnosis?
Drink 2-3 liters of water a day, take this antibiotic, and give yourself a shot if the pain becomes unbearable. Yes, you read that correctly. “Give yourself a shot.” When Peppe returned home from the pharmacy with five “fresh” needles, my friend and I explained how needle usage works in American.
“Diabetics. Junkies. That’s it,” she told him holding up a needle for emphasis.
“Well, you can trust me,” he assured us. “I’ve given shots before.”
Breaking my hard-core rule of never trusting a man who says, “Trust me,” I let my husband give me a shot.
I felt absolutely – not even – .001% better.
So, I did what any red-blooded American girl would do. I filled up on Advil and Tylenol.
Another ultrasound, a visit to the urologist, and a return to the ER doctor wrapped up my evening. Just before leaving, I was asked if I wanted a shot to help with the pain.
“Why not,” I thought.
Trying to make small talk with the nurse, I told her about Peppe’s fruitless shot earlier in the week.
“Don’t worry,” she told me nicely. “There’s enough room there for two!”
After she left, I looked to Peppe for confirmation.
“Did she just say there was enough room on my ass for two shots?”
Peppe struggled, unsuccessfully, to repress a grin.
“I can’t imagine she would be that rude,” he quickly added.
Hum! Can’t imagine!
Indignantly, I marched from the ER and rubbed my sore bum.
I’m never going back there again!