The day started the same as most, I opened my eyes and saw the Cabril valley shrouded in a beautiful fog. But the minute I saw Penfold stumble into the bedroom I knew something was wrong. This was going to be a very different day.
misty lines 2 by Penfold on Flickr
08:00 ~ I scramble for necessities and we head to the local health clinic armed with two bananas, a Portuguese-English dictionary and as many identity papers as we can find.
010:00 ~ After discovering that the closest emergency clinic in Lousã no longer provides emergency services (não emergência is such a crap phrase to see), we have navigated our way through a hidden number-taking system and have convinced someone to see us as soon as possible. We leave, now armed with a magic blue envelope marked urgênçia and tensely drive the 40km towards Hospitais da Universidade de Coimbra.
11:00 ~ We are surrounded by emergency room sights, smells and sounds, the same that are found in any hospital I’ve ever spent time in. The colours are the same, the furniture equally as uncomfortable and the lights just as unreassuring. The looks on people’s faces, mostly worry, fatigue and resignation, look familiar, just the sound of the names being called out to the room are different. We have made it past the battle-axe front-line receptionist and sit patiently, Penfold having joined those hooked up to the preferred welcome cocktail, a saline drip.
13:00 ~ We have met with a graceful, young doctor who has taken the time and made the effort to fully understand Penfold’s condition: a prolongued case of caxumba (mumps), now feared to be meningitis. The language is proving to be no barrier for Penfold but I find the difficulties in understanding and communication to be frustrating. Tests and more tests are ordered.
15:00 ~ We wait.
16:00 ~ We are escorted up to another wing and make a valuable discovery, the location of our only source of sustenance, the vending machines. I mentally stock up on the inevitable selection of mystery meats wrapped in pastry while Penfold gets scanned and probed.
17:00 ~ We wait.
18:00 ~ We wait.
19:00 ~ And we wait.
19:30 ~ This is Spinal Tap.
Penfold mentally prepares himself behind the curtain for the horrors ahead while I pace and take in the surroundings of this new room. Hospital beds everywhere, mostly filled with 100-year-old men and women at various stages of agony. A hive of activity in the centre of the room where an incredibly lively team of doctors and nurses huddle, laugh, strategize and process paperwork. It’s difficult to ignore these new sounds and I now feel soothed by the inability to understand very little. I suddenly have three more grey hairs.
21:00 ~ We find the most comfortable positions we can and we wait. We make up stories about the scenes in front of us, we ration our selection of vending machine gold, and we wait for test results.
23:00 ~ We wait some more.
24:00 ~ We wait, finding increasingly creative ways to get comfortable.
01:00 ~ The doctor who signs the release form is the same elegant, now visibly tired, doctor we met 13 hours ago. We all smile, shake hands, pay our €42 bill and go home. That’s nearly enough to buy lunch in Vancouver (without dessert).
The Portuguese system may not be the most efficient and it’s become increasingly impossible to ignore the effects of the Eurozone crisis here. Even tougher times are ahead and I worry for the people who will bear the brunt of these austerity measures. And yet, there is no disputing the dedication and kindness that we experienced last night. The Portuguese health care system is flawed and in desperate need of improvement, but there is absolutely no lack of humanity or willingness in the people who give life to the system.
Thank you, Portugal.
