The best laid schemes…gang aft a-gley

As I write this Bonny and I are supposed to be in Bordeaux for we had planned to come here yesterday on the TGV. This was supposed to be a full day of seeing the sights in this eponymous city of wine. However…

[Note bene: I know many of you like to see lots of pictures, so there will be a some, but they will have nothing germane to what follows. Please let me assure you that you will not hurt my feelings if you choose to just skim, or even skip, the rest of this.]

[Arche de Triomphe de Montpellier leading to Ave. Foch, afternoon, 31 January]

Less than a week ago I suddenly felt excruciating pain in my right knee. No fall or twist – no incident of any kind – so, in addition to the pain that seemed to want my attention, it struck me as very strange. But we Stoics are known for, if anything, denying that pain exists it’s in the mind; and our conceit very often tempts us to prove that philosophical point – despite not merely common sense but reality suggesting otherwise. So I soldiered on, still struggling a bit with a cough that had arrived with a virus that’s been going on here. So I soldiered on, convinced my knee pain would just go away. Monday evening we were getting our luggage ready, and plans made for getting to Gare Saint-Roch early so we could have petit dejeneur before boarding the train.

But as I lay a-bed sleepless trying every conceivable position to aleve the pain ( I had tried icing it, taking Advil, and, that day topically applied Voltaren) it dawned before the dawn Bordeaux, alas, must wait, reality once again triumphing over philosophy. So when Bonny came in to check on me (in her wisdom she had surrendered our bedroom and had closed the door so she would not have to hear my coughing) I raised the white flag and requested she try to cancel our train and hotel reservations.

This was only the second time in my life that I was in this situation where I was in extreme pain without any inkling with what to do next in a place with which I had no inkling of what to do next. The first time was in Charleston, SC in 1960, a somewhat distant memory of no use. The doctor I have selected here is by appointment only, and making appointments here is done online through doctolib.fr and not easy. (As an aside we are in the process of getting our Cartes Vitales, and had hit a snag. The majority of our waking hours were taken up with sorting this out with the help of Renestance. Just this same Monday with their help we had made a break-through, but details of that will have to wait for another time if not indefinitely.) So as Bonny began the process of cancellations at the eleventh hour, I ruminated what to do next, and decided to send an email to my Renestance contact and tell her about our plight. She suggested that I go directly to the urgences at the Montpellier University Hospital and seek treatment without delay.

Like most of you, Emergency Rooms ( urgences )conjure unpleasant memories. And this, being my introduction (other than my two doctor visit) to médecine française sérieuse, you can imagine that trepidation had been added to pain, but after some dithering I made a decision, and when Bonny returned from cancelling our reservations at the Gare, we discussed it and she agreed to call a taxi to take us to urgences at Centre Hospitallier Universitaire de Montpellier.

[Even in the middle of Winter flowers are everywhere in Montpellier (top) “my” flower shop]

When we arrived at the hospital complex some six miles (23 minutes) from our home, the taxi drove into an enclosed garage. Immediately I began to see the differences between the urgences and an ER. I was already inside, and since I was able to (uncomfortably) walk Bonny went to the reception where I was admitted. I emailed the PDF of my just received document that my Carte Vitale application had been approved to the clerk who instructed us where to go next. (no forms to be filled out!) They were very busy (that day the urgences received over 150 patients) so there was a little waiting, but I was prepared to be (a) patient. I was taken in, asked the obvious questions, given an I.D. bracelet and then Bonny and I went into a room to wait for me to be called. By this time it was nearly one p.m.; we had left shortly before noon from 55 bis Ave. Georges Clemenceau.

This room was quite crowded but Bonny and I found seats and began our wait. What struck me most about this was the quietness of it. There were none of the sounds I have to tune out. No background music (thankfully!) and none of the typical  bells or other signals – no P.A. system. When their time came patients were called by name to come to their next interview. Mine was for X-rays, so with the higher than usual volume there was a wait, and after that a longer wait until I was taken to an exam room where I waited – alone. I waited so long that I eventually climbed on to the exam table and dozed off. When Marianne (the doctor, not the embodiment of the French Republic, although she could have posed for that) came in and made an examination and asked relevant questions about my knee, then she left. Next a phlebotomist came in and drew blood samples, and once more waited. The sky was fading into darkness.

[We enjoy incredibly beautiful sunsets (les ponants) – even moonsets – from our balcony]

As I waited in this room, now illuminated by a LED fixture in the ceiling, I reflected on other differences. In addition to the quietness whenever one is spoken to it is with respect and with no wasting time with apologies or other useless information. One is aware of being regarded as a human being and not merely as a “patient” or worse, just some part, another job to be done, in the daily routine. Nor is there any of the condescending treatment that I have experienced in similar situations in United States hospitals. I suppose this is just part of that “liberté – égalité – fraternité” that Marianne embodies.

My reverie was interrupted when (Dr.) Marianne returned smiling saying (en français) that I was now free to go and that she was taking me to wait in another room while my discharge papers were being prepared. As I waited there (almost eight hours had elapsed since we left our home, and had had nothing to eat or drink or do anything else) with other patients my comprehension grew of what the day must have been for the staff, yet they were all pleasant and respected not just me but everyone. Across from where I sat was a man close to my age lying on a gurney who spoke only Arabic (mine is limited to Allah Rahim and one or two other words) agitated by distress over his nakedness – he was covered only by a sheet loosely tied over him which he was struggling to pull off. Orderlies came to calm him and his family members (maybe a daughter) attempted to explain to him his situation and reassure him he was in good hands. The image of his distress is with me now.

While waiting there a Montpellierean man I met earlier that afternoon in the first waiting room came in and we chatted a bit in English. He had worked in Texas and Alaska at one time, which is where he had acquired his English speaking ability. Fascinated, I asked if him if he had been in petroleum, both states being producers, but he replied “no, weapon manufacturing.” Younger than me by only a few decades probably, he obviously had a much more interesting life than mine. As we chatted he told me he had been the equivalent of a U.S. Navy Seal in the French military and had served all over the world in that service. I regret we could not have talked longer, but his discharge papers (from urgences) came, and I wished him bonne chance ! and À bientôt.

Then Marianne appeared with a dossier of my discharge papers informing me I was at liberté  to leave and with her was an orderly bearing a (anti-biotic) cocktail to celebrate with. It felt like 14 July. I found Bonny in the same waiting room where my odyssey had begun and we were off – but based upon previous similar situations we stopped at the glass enclosed desk of a clerk where we inquired if this was where we paid. She informed us that there was no payment. Another clerk called a taxi for us, and twelve or so minutes later the taxi showed up in the same enclosed place our first taxi had dropped us off. On the drive home we were slowed by two vehicles engulfed in flame, one of them an ambulance, sobering any sense of elation from learning that “all” my knee problem was is an inflammation of the tissue caused by a bacterial secondary infection due to the effect of the virus on my auto-immune system.

[Ceiling detail in the bar inside the Hôtel Richer de Belleval in Montpellier]

I keep these reports of mine in a file called “Life in Montpellier” – this particular day was not a quotidian one.

À bientôt