Visiting the Doctor in Maniace

“Chi ha la sigaretta piu leggero,” asked the Doctor as soon as he entered the room filled with patients waiting to see him at 9 a.m.

The door he walked through had a sign attached to it that read “Voui smettersi di fumare, parlene con il dottore (Want to quit smoking? Speak to the doctor).”

My cousin’s father offered his. Diane. The doctor, with his wavy silver overgrown hair, proudly walked toward him. He checked out the label before making a show of balancing the pack on his hand to judge if it was in fact the lightest.

I don’t remember whose he took because I was trying to figure out my place in the waiting line. The locals of Maniace do not make an appointment to see the doctor. They don’t even engage in the simple system of number taking. Instead they memorize who came in after them. Upon walking in the waiting room they ask “who is the last person,” whoever responds is the person they are after. Some people send children to hold their spot in line. Others beg the person in front of them to let them cut, pleading urgency and pain.

I did none of that. I felt it was no one’s business why I was in to see the doctor. Every familiar face that entered after me greeted me with a “oh you’re in to see the doctor,” expecting me to discuss my ailment. But I never bit.

Today was a follow-up visit. The Doctor was supposed to tell me why I have not been able to wear my contacts for months. He asked me to return after taking an antibiotic he prescribed.

I was one of the last people to arrive. After hours and discussions about my turn in line the person ahead of me finally walked out of the Doctor’s office. I entered his office. He sat behind a messy desk filled with papers and ashtrays. No white coat, I think he wore khakis and T-shirt. I looked over at the seemingly unused examination table, and knew my place was in the chair in front of his desk.

“My eye still feels dry,” I started to describe my symptoms to him.

He cut me off with “how do your eyes feel.” I repeated my symptoms to him again. He asked for me to describe my symptoms again. That back and forth continued for about five minutes.

“What’s wrong with my eyes,” I asked.

Without looking, touching or examining me he point blank responded “I don’t know.”

He suggested I visit his friend, an eye specialist. He rummaged around the office looking for the number. He made the appointment. I asked how much the visit would cost. The visit would cost 70 euros, but he got me a deal of 50 euros. I started to complain about how people say that the Italian health care system is free, when it really is not and at times can be more expensive than the U.S. healthcare system.

He stopped me. The appointment was with a private doctor. He explained that if I wanted to wait weeks I could go through the public system, but there was no guarantee when I would get to see a doctor and although the cost would be less through the public system I would still have to pay a fee.

My complaining about the supposed “free” and “quality” socialistic Italian healthcare system, lead to further questions by him about the United State’s healthcare system, Obama and how the insurance system works. I was getting annoyed.

“Doctor I don’t care about Obama, I just want to wear my contacts,” I insisted.

“No, please tell me, I am curious how it works,” he insisted.

Seeing that I was not going to participate in his wanted conversation of politics he called in my father. There we were — me, my father and the Doctor — sitting around his cluttered desk. Somehow my eye was no longer the topic of conversation. I don’t even think they remembered I was in the room. I patiently sat in his grimy office listening to him and my father discussing the United State’s healthcare system.

My father was kind enough to answer all of the Doctor’s curious questions. The Doctor really wanted to know why the doctors in the U.S. were “rich” while he was “poor.” He must have gotten his answer because he finally escorted us out of his office.

When my turn came to see the doctor the waiting room was empty. I was afraid to walk into it now. My session with Doctor took an unwarranted half hour or more. These people will kill me. Just my luck in order to exit I had to go through the waiting room. I discreetly scanned the room. Half of Maniace was now waiting in line behind me, and they did not look happy.

“Scusa, scusa,” I said with my head down briskly walking through the room and out of the building with my father behind me.