Note 1: It's best to read the previous blog "I Love Prague" before reading this one.
Note 2: I think it's my longest blog post.
I don't think we had started descending yet when I started to feel a clammy, nauseous, fluttery feeling. I had a window seat, which I had been thankful to rest my head, but now felt trapped. I looked at the Italian girl to my right and asked her to push the button, that I needed help. A male flight attendant quickly responded (God bless Vueling), and he was offering to bring cold compresses. Even though I'd said yes, he was asking if I wanted to come with them. I didn't, but next thing I knew the girls were making way for me to get out; and I was in the aisle, grabbing hold of one seat, two seats... Then I remember looking up at the flight attendants staring back at me, realizing I was laying down in the aisle of the plane. I was about to feel self-conscious when I realized it really didn't matter ! The man who helped me the most was actually not even a flight attendant, but a doctor on the flight. He/they were so kind to me, and once he talked me to getting up and to a seat up front, he sat next to me for the duration of the flight. They called the medical emergency crew at the airport and took me to the airport medical center by ambulance.
I only had a couple of hours between flights and wondered how far-fetched it was for me to make my connecting flight. They took my vital signs and reacted at my high fever of 39...which didn't mean much to this American mind, despite my years abroad. After a few attempts to communicate, they realized I was saying that Americans don't use Celsius and showed me the equivalent on their phone: 102.2. They gave me a horse pill with a small glass of water; and even though I wasn't hungry, I asked for crackers and a drink, explaining I was nauseous.
Just as I was thinking I may miss the flight--with an hour till take-off--they told me I could leave. A lady I hadn't seen yet walked in and said I should have time to catch my flight if I ran. Staring back at her, allowing ample time to correct the silly statement, I finally stated the obvious: "No, I can't run. I don't know if I can walk." (Two men had walked me in, one on each side). "Is there a motorized vehicle or something that can help me?" Now looking annoyed, she impatiently responded, "There is nothing else we can do for you." With that, she had me sign some papers, walked me outside the door into the night air, explaining in broken English how to walk to Terminal 3, several hundred yards away, on the other side of the overpass. This is the second time on the trip I wanted to cry. More like break down and sob like a baby; but I knew it would only waste precious time and wouldn't help. So I continued, each step getting me closer to Terminal 3.
Not only did I arrive, but I made it through security and to my gate, somewhat relieved, somewhat annoyed that the flight was delayed. But alas, we boarded a half-empty plane; and it was just as the flight attendants began giving safety instructions when that all-too-familiar clammy, wave of nausea started threatening; and I knew I needed help. I was having an internal debate between waiting for the man to finish talking before I interrupted him and motioning him for help anyway since it was an emergency, and that's what he's there for. The longer I waited, the harder it was to stay awake; but I managed to get his attention as he walked toward the back of the plane. And round two of attracting a lot of attention as I struggled to answer their questions, and the nausea gave way; and I got sick before take-off, a first time ever for me. I asked to lay down over the 3 seats. Sure. And then a very kind flight attendant who spoke very good English informed me that the pilot didn't want to take any risks and was turning the plane around. Okay. And for the second time that day, I was escorted off the plane to an ambulance in Rome. Did I mention it's my first time to Rome?
The lady told me it was the flu and that staying in a hotel would be better because I would have to wait a really long time at the hospital. Thinking out loud, I said that I was nervous to be alone after passing out twice in one day. Then she said something in Italian to the man; and next thing I know, the siren is on, taking me to the ER. The kind man squeezed my hand before leaving me in a waiting room full of gurneys and said, "Don't worry. You are in good hands here."
I'm glad he told me so because nothing I experienced the next 28 hours would indicate that to be the case. As I waited an hour or two to be seen, I tried to get my phone to work and contact people, but the reception is very spotty there in case you ever go. When a man wheeled me back to take my blood, I thought he was slicing my entire forearm and digging around quite roughly. I've never had such painful blood work! Then, he looked at me, saying "I'm sorry. That's Code Red. You need to wait. I'll come back...20 minutes, an hour." I didn't time him.
What seemed like an eternity later, someone else fetched me, wheeling me into a room lined with gurneys everywhere. I didn't know at the time, but after the CT scan, I would stay there till the next morning. I've never been in such a hell-like place, where everyone is moaning and crying out for help, but being ignored (not that the nurses weren't working nonstop). I suppose you get jaded after a while. And I couldn't decide who to be more concerned for that I had the flu: them or me! Though it sounded like I wasn't the only one who had a few germs to share. Then again, hygiene and sanitation didn't seem to be of utmost concern based on their hall restrooms with no soap, no paper towels, and urine on the floor along with the way that they put the gurneys right next to each other.
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| The only pic I got in Rome: my view of the ceiling in the ER |
After asking for water multiple times, I was finally brought a couple of cups early morning, by the kind nurse who was at least willing to look up a few phrases in English because apparently no one speaks English in Rome...or French...or German for that matter. (And on the rare occasion that they did, they weren't the person with authority to answer my questions). I didn't know where to tell anyone at home where I even was.
Finally around 7:00AM or so, I had an idea: I was searching everything to see if the name of the hospital was written anywhere. No, but I decided to ask the lady to my right since she, unlike the overburdened staff, had all the time in the world. Though she also did not speak English, French, or German, she understood my question as I mimed a few things and was able to type the name of the hospital into my phone for me: Grassi.
Around 8:30 or 9:00AM, after a packet of jelly and two cups of tea, the nurse let me have two Zweiback crackers with another packet of jelly as long as I ate them very slowly. Si. Grazi. At 10, the doctor came to report all normal tests, and by noon I was discharged. Which sounds like glory in such a scary place that I was so ready to leave, but I had no idea where to go or how to get there. A lady had given me false hope that they would call the consulate for me, but now as I blinked back the tears, I felt so helpless yet again. I returned to my gurney and waited until finally a male nurse called a taxi for me and walked me to the exit where he would arrive.
That's as much of Rome as I saw: a few residential areas and some ancient ruins (I verified with the taxi driver that they were indeed ancient ruins) that lie between Fiumicino Aeroporti di Roma and Ospedeallero G.B. Grassi. As as I was taking in the fresh air that was seeping in the cracked window of the taxi, I realized I had left the hospital without paying! Could this trip get any worse? But come to find out, a trip to the ER--at least from the plane is free...when in Rome.
