Today, the day of Barack Obama's inauguration, I've found myself not totally focussed on him and HISTORY, but forcibly occupying an unexpected role: that of patient. The sequence was along the lines of: wake up one morning last week, perhaps it was Tuesday, aware of a slight itchiness that suggested insect bite. This one though was on my backside. I didn't dwell for long on the HOW!! of it but noted it and meant to apply some antiseptic ointment, but maybe it was one of those endless little tasks that don't quite reach the top of the 'to do' list. Three or four days later I had the suspicion that it was becoming infected – oh yes – a high-pressure swelling, sensitive to touch, painful, disturbing my sleep. Go to the doctor! Yes. But it's not just a question of making an appointment at the GP surgery – I'm in Rome. And there's a system I'm not familiar with. It starts in the college with the infirmarian team. After that if a trip to the medics is deemed to be necessary, then we go to a private hospital that the college has an arrangement with. So I waited a couple of days to see if my body's defence mechanism could do anything apart from swell up in fright.
Monday was the day I decided action was needed. And so together with 'my' infirmarian I set off by means of a two bus journey across town to reach the hospital in time for the 6 pm clinic. Sitting had become something of a tricky act; trying to find the posterior body parts that were least painful and it never seemed to be quite the same. If you don't know them the Rome buses (run by ATAC) have very simple seating – rigid plastic. And the Roman roads are often cobbled and in a poor state of repair. Better stand, I think.
The hospital – the Salvator Mundi International Hospital – is in a part of Rome I didn't know, on the hill above Trastevere. A modern hospital, set in well cared for gardens. As far as I could see the nursing staff were warm, friendly looking nuns plus reception staff and medics. The Beda's arrangement is with a charming and kindly doctor who at first addressed me as Alan and then switched to addressing me as father – a mistake which I never quite got round to correcting. Why was that? I was more preoccupied with other matters plus I didn't want to do anything to 'change' his perception of me; if he sees me as a priest we don't need to get into the faulty misapprehension for the moment.
After listening to my lungs and checking my blood pressure, he looked at the offending infection, he prodded and the pain produced a reflex shock of retreat, to get away from the intrusive digit. 'I think I should cut this,' were his words. He was up for doing it there and then but as the treatment room was not available the abscess was going to be given a reprieve until this morning (Tuesday) meanwhile some major (judging by the size of them when I picked them from the pharmacy near the bus stop) antibiotics were to be started.
So this morning had me making my way back to the hospital to keep my appointment with the scalpel. Needless to say it was briefly but excruciatingly painful: one sort of pain for the cut – somehow sharp and watery – and then quite a different sort of pain for the squeezing – hard twisting and violent. Whatever will power I possess was totally involved in holding myself on the table and not do what every instinct is telling me to: leap up. I gripped on with both hands and attempted to suppress my quivering muscles.
And survived – and rode back on the two buses standing up. It took me a while to work out that I could in fact still sit down.
And I've spent the rest of the day reading Henning Mankell's The Man Who Smiled. Have you read this Swedish detective-story writer? He's great! If you're in the mood for a crime novel, try Henning.
Hopefully my patient status won't go on for too long because we've got end of semester exams looming and if I remember correctly Mr Menkell wasn't on the syllabus.