Nothing but Gray Skies

Since the last week in August, we’ve had the most incredible weather—sunny and bright.

But the honeymoon is over. Today I woke up and it was so dark and overcast that the streetlights were still on at 7:45 a.m. when I walked the kids to the bus stop. I just checked the long-term forecast online and saw an unending stream of gray clouds and rain icons stretching through the next ten days.

This week I pulled out my Columbia parka to get me through the chilly mornings, but unfortunately I wasn’t wearing it on Monday when the school bus failed to show up. We ended up standing at the bus stop for nearly an hour because the school had assured us that there would only be a 20 minute delay. I was clad in a turtleneck and sweatshirt and the temperature was 41 degrees. By the time a neighbor decided to drive the kids to school, my back was as cold and lifeless as a frozen turkey.

I took off on a brisk walk thinking that would warm me up, rev up my circulation, and soften the knots along my spine. Instead, after an hour of walking, I felt my back working its way into spasms. Mounting the stairs leading up to the house, I felt a jolt of pain with each step.

I thought of my chiropractor’s warnings not to let my back get cold, that the change of seasons would be hard on my joints. I grabbed a Therma-Care wrap and stuck it on my low back, which was so tight I couldn’t bend over to untie my shoes. The heat worked wonders—better than any drug. Twelve hours after I put the patch on, it was still warm and I couldn’t believe how much better I felt. I never wanted to take it off.

Tonight as I was checking the weather and saw nothing but gray skies in the forecast, I noticed a button for an “Aches and Pains” index on Weather.com. Honestly, I thought it was a joke. I clicked on it, and OMG, it’s for real. It displayed the weather for Brussels along with a numerical rating predicting the likelihood of joint pain based on temperature, humidity, wind, and atmospheric pressure changes. I wanted to laugh but the truth is I’m fascinated.

The index doesn’t indicate I have much to worry about this weekend, but you can bet I’ll be paying attention next Monday when the pain forecast hits 10. Will my back obey the laws of computer-generated risk analysis and lay me low or will it be just another day with scoliosis?

Stay tuned!

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 19, 2005

Expatriate Blues

Culture shock takes many forms but no where does it hit harder than in the house we’re living in while abroad.

This should be the place where I retreat from the foreignness of the world outside and revel in all that is comfortable and familiar to me. Step into my house in Belgium and you’d wonder why I don’t love it. It’s bigger than the one we have at home and rich in architectural detail with heavy doors,  iron hinges and door latches, exposed brick walls and ceiling beams, knotty pine paneling, abundant windows, a curving staircase, the red tile roof, and ceramic tile floors. It oozes cozy European country charm. But there's more than meets the eye. Consider:

This is a five-bedroom house with exactly ONE closet—in the foyer. One of the attic bedrooms has become a walk-in closet crammed with boxes of clothes, shoes, toys, toiletries, linens, and office supplies. This is actually OK because it's not really suitable to serve as  a bedroom since it is tucked under steep eaves, lit by a single 40 watt bulb, and has only one outlet plug-in, which brings me to…

The kitchen--which has just three outlet plugs. Only indispensable appliances like the toaster, coffee maker, electric kettle, microwave, and lamp are worthy of getting plugged in, and still we play musical outlets. Something is always left out. The crock pot, countertop grill, and mixer are commiserating because they’ve lost priority and been relegated to the basement. They shouldn’t feel bad, because even though the vacuum cleaner is occupying prime real estate in the house’s only closet, it still doesn’t get plugged in often because…

It sometimes throws a circuit breaker—probably because we’re American energy gluttons who have dared to upgrade to 60 watt bulbs in the ceiling fixtures, which we rationalize is OK since we’re conserving water (against our will, of course). You see,  in this big house valued at about $550,000 we have….

One shower and never enough hot water, despite paying about  $400 a month in utilities. Every night I face the same dilemma--wash my hair OR shave my legs—I can’t do both. And besides not having hot water….

The bathroom doesn’t have a fan, a heater, or a vanity, so it’s cold, cluttered, AND prone to mildew and …

While there are two tubs located elsewhere in the house, we can’t use either one because  sediment accumulates in the pipes and they’re so clogged with mineral deposits from the unbelievably hard water here that if you dare to fill a tub, the water will be both rust- colored and tepid. Don’t count on retreating from the bathroom to the kitchen for comfort because…

You’ll undoubtedly be in the way of any other family member lingering there. Seduced by its big window and charming tile backsplash, I didn’t notice its retarded layout . One of the lower cabinets open into the side of the dishwasher and the upper cabinets are hung so high that even though I’m 5 foot 7 inches, I struggle to reach the contents. And so I have to keep a step stool on hand, which is always in the way, along with the piles of recyclables which that are the result of having to sort our trash into SEVEN different categories, which can only legally be disposed of in government-mandated color-coded bags which cost more than a $1 each. And as long as we're talking about  environmentalism, let's discuss….

My energy-efficient European fridge and oven which have less than two-thirds of the capacity I’m accustomed to. They will never accommodate a Thanksgiving turkey or even enough food and beverage to host a proper party, which means I may have to wait indefinitely to celebrate….

How thankful we are to be living in this beautiful house in Belgium, even though we miss the abundant outlets, lighting, storage, hot water, and cheap utilities at home.  : )

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 19, 2005

Everybody Knows This is Nowhere

I must look like a native, and an approachable one at that, because I’m constantly getting asked for directions. People stop me on the street, pull over their cars to the sidewalk, or even accost me at the bus stop begging to know how to get somewhere. Of course, I’m assuming they’re asking me for directions. Since they’re normally speaking a foreign language, they could be politely telling me my fly is open, I have toilet paper stuck to the seat of my pants, or they think Dubya is an ignorant gun-toting cowboy, Dick Cheney should wipe that smirk off his face, and Condoleeza Rice has an evil eye. Who knows?

I always smile politely and say, “Desolé, je ne sais pas” (Sorry, I don’t know) or “Desolé. Je ne parle pas francais” (Sorry. I don’t speak French) or “Parlez-vous anglais?” in cases where I’m addressed in Dutch or German. (I’ve only successfully given directions once here, in French at that, and I was SO proud I’m going to add it to my resume's list of accomplishments.)

While my standard excuse for not helping lost souls is that I don’t speak their language, the REAL reason I can’t give directions is I don’t know how to go anywhere. Sure, I can sometimes tell you what bus to take or how to use the Metro, but when it comes to driving, I’m clueless to street names, geography, and what’s located where.

Part of the problem is that street names change every few blocks as the streets enter and exit French or Dutch speaking areas of Belgium and switch names, languages or both. Nothing is laid out on a grid here, the smaller roads are hundreds of years old and meander, and many intersections are unmarked. When there are street signs, they’re small and mounted on the side of a building. You can read them quite well as you approach on foot but forget being able to see them while cruising along in the car or spinning around a traffic circle with natives crowding you on all sides. On the highway, critical signs are often buried in the thick foliage shading the road's shoulder. You see your exit number in a blur of green leaves as you watch your chance at arriving somewhere on time disappear on the horizon. But while all this is true, the root of my problem goes deeper. Unlike my husband, I'm a spatial retard. 

The E-Man has been undeterred by the lack of street signs because he’s a human GPS who navigates by landmarks, geography, and an inexplicable sense of direction. The man is a living atlas—I affectionately call him Mappy. He can get you anywhere. He’ll tell you if the road goes up a hill before you have to turn, how many traffic lights are between you and your destination, and the shape and color of the building on the corner there. He can sniff out a shortcut faster than a starving rat in a maze. The man always gets his cheese.

He’s amazingly patient in dealing with me, his spatially challenged wife. This is not because he’s morally superior (OK, so maybe he IS) but because he needs me for my verbal memory. He may remember routes but he can’t remember names. I kid you not, when we applied for a marriage certificate, he didn’t know his mother’s middle or maiden names. (“Give me a break! I always called her Mom!”) I’ve rescued him from many a social embarrassment by supplying names for faces and places he should know.

I’d like to think our marriage has survived because we complement each other, but the real secret to our success may be less romantic: I can’t leave because I’d be lost without him and he can’t file for divorce because he can’t remember my name.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 14, 2005

Three Strikes, You're Out

The Belgian rail workers are not happy. The bus drivers are not happy. The teachers are not happy. And everyone is going to stay home and have a good sulk (and a long weekend). The rest of us happy campers are forced to do the same. Yes, it’s a strike of the Socialist Union. Of course, being completely plugged into local culture and current events, I saw this coming and was not surprised AT ALL that the bus would fail to appear at the bus stop to take me to an appointment.

Hey, I’m not like the other American expatriates here, I’m totally on target with community issues. I’ve been hunched over the De Streekkrant, undeterred by the Dutch language’s fondness for 12 letter words, double vowels and consonants, and an occasional “j.” As a well-informed reader, I knew there was going to be a staking because the government is concerned about the staatsschuld rising due to the weight of afzondering benefits on the be’groting. However, the average worker lives for te’ruggertroken and not having to drag his or her ezel to hant’eren. They are not going to dulden anyone messing with their uitekerings.

So now the spoorbaan isn’t working, my spoorboekje is useless and the bus ta’bel is all wrong because half the be’stuurders are buiten. If only I had a rijbewijs. To make matters worse, the geitje are at thuis today. We’re all in de val loten lopen because of the vakvereniging.

It’s grijs and there’s lots of be’nevelen today. Only 12 degrees. I may as well take my ezel over to the stellen and enjoy a dutje. It’s the only thing to do when sbeschrijving skids to a halt during a staking.

Welterusten!

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

October 7, 2005

Family Dinner in Belgium

One of the reasons we were drawn to moving to Belgium was Eric’s family history. He was born to Belgian parents in the Congo , but his father died when he was quite small. His mother remarried an American working for the U.S. State Department in Africa , and he adopted Eric and his two brothers. Thus Eric Jean Schietecatte became Eric Jean Deschambault and a Belgian boy became a U.S. citizen.

In 1986, we had traveled to Europe to visit Eric’s Belgian family, his natural father’s siblings and their children. Over the years, I kept in touch with his Aunt Monique and Uncle Wilfred and their daughter, Francine, who is a year younger than I am. When we moved to Belgium , Francine and her husband Philippe warmly welcomed us and helped us find a house to rent. Andrew and Emily immediately forged a bond with their teenage son and daughter, Gilles and Aurelie.

On Saturday night, Francine and Philippe invited us to dinner with his cousin Katinka and her three sons, Kevin, Joren, and Remko. We thoroughly enjoy these family dinners, which are both casual and elegant.

As always, there are fresh flowers in the dining room and living room. Francine has deep pink roses floating in a crystal bowl on the coffee table and individual blooms floating in a row of curving votive holders on the dinner table.

We start in the living room, where the first bottle of wine is uncorked and an appetizer tray of smoked salmon, caviar, and cheese and crackers is set. The kids dig into a huge bowl of potato chips and a plate of cherry tomatoes. Conversation starts to perk as we catch up with Katinka, whom we haven’t seen for 20 years, and get to know her companion Charlie.

Around 8 p.m. , we begin dinner. As always in Europe , it starts with soup. Francine has prepared a pumpkin soup, perfect for a fall evening. Topped with homemade croutons, chopped herbs, and a drizzle of fresh cream, it’s beautiful as well as delicious. Philippe is busy at the grill and soon chicken breasts and potatoes arrive on our plates. Later, the salad bowl is passed, and then Philippe arrives with grilled steak strips and sausages, which Francine serves with a spicy vegetable casserole Katinka has prepared.

The pace is leisurely, the wine keeps flowing, and the conversation starts to bubble as Charlie begins telling jokes and sharing golfing adventures. Francine and Katinka, who jog together in the park, relate a story of a group of male runners they know that run on Sundays and drink champagne in crystal flutes afterwards in a tailgate party of sorts. (We’ve seen Belgians marching in parades while drinking mugs of beer, and during road races the runners have the option of “loading carbs” instead of water at the refreshment stands.)

My kids, used to early bedtimes, are heavy-lidded and slow on their feet by the end of dinner but are determined not to miss dessert. Francine has made tiramisu and Katinka’s twin sons have made a Moroccan lemon tart. We drink coffee from tiny white tea cups and laugh and chat until the children fall asleep on the sofa. Only then do we realize it’s 11:30 p.m. and we’ve been at the table for hours. Cheeks are kissed, jackets and sleeping children gathered, and we step out under the stars, grateful for the gift of family and hospitality in Belgium .

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 3, 2005

V-Grrrl Goes Topless

Yesterday I went to the cardiologist here. Once again, I was caught off guard when the doctor came out to the waiting room to call me in—no receptionist, no nurse. I didn’t realize she was the doctor because she looked a bit like an aging hippie—someone who might have a stand that sells organic vegetable, herbs, native honey, and hand-thrown pottery. She looked to be about 50, with long dark hair parted in the middle and pulled into a low ponytail that trailed down her back. She wore a long Indian skirt decorated with mini-mirrors, a plain cotton t-shirt, and pale green clogs with blue swirls on them. No socks, no hose, no makeup, no lab coat. (Hey Granola-Grrrl, she’s your type!). She had a warm smile and friendly manner and spoke pretty good English, but I sometimes struggled to understand her because of her accent.

One of the disarming aspects of medical exams in Belgium is that there is no sense of modesty. Because the doctor’s examining room and office space are one and the same, I had to undress while the doctor sat at her desk. I had to strip all the way down to socks and panties—if I’d known I could have made sure they matched. : ) I tried to imagine I looked like a French woman ready to sunbathe on the Riviera, except I wasn’t tan, thin, or wearing giant sunglasses. OK, so I actually looked more like Helga the Hearty than Francoise the Fabulous but I was trying to enlist some happy visualization to get me through this experience. In Belgium you can forget about covering up with a paper or cloth gown or even having the benefit of some sort of drape. No, here the patients let it all hang out, just as they do at the beach. Suddenly I felt very white, spongy and exposed.

The large window in the office clad only with sheer curtains made me self conscious. Having my thighs, breast, and stomach squirted with clear gel (to use in the EKG) made me feel like a porn star. Thank God there weren’t any mirrors on the walls. I didn’t think I could feel more uncomfortable, but then the doctor decided to do a stress test, and I had to mount an enormous exercise bike--topless, in my underwear, wearing my socks and my clogs.

Y’all, this was too absurd. I felt utterly overexposed and ridiculous. White legs, blue veins, black socks, chunky clogs, panties and naked from the waist up. (Did any of y’all see the movie “Waking Ned Devine”—remember the scene with the naked old man on the bicycle? An absolute spectacle. C’est moi!) How Eric kept from laughing, I don’t know. He didn’t even smirk. He wisely buried his face in a book.

So there I am propped on the bike, getting sprayed with adhesive (ewww) and having wires hooked up to my chest with mini suction cups. I start pedaling. I’m supposed to keep up a rate of 50-60 rpms and yet sit very still from the waist up. To this end, I’m bracing myself on the handle bars, trying not to look down at my boobs or my stomach because gosh, your boobs are supposed to be bigger than your stomach, and I wasn’t sure that was the case at this moment, in this position. I really DID NOT want to go there visually. It was hard enough going there mentally. I’m relieved my doctor isn’t skinny. If she were built like a stick insect, I’d feel even worse.

A nurse, who has been called in to assist with the test, hovers near the bike and keeps adjusting the bike’s resistance, making it more and more difficult to pedal. I start to feel the burn in my thighs and wish I could stop. I think I would do much better on a treadmill. When my pace begins to slack off, Nurse Nancy the Nazi says in a deep guttural voice “You must keep 50-60” Oh God, she suddenly seems like a brutal personal trainer. Nancy the Nazi is tan and blonde, and I’m convinced she finds my pallor revolting. She’s probably thinking, “Where are her tan lines? Her whole body is the color of her butt!” (Things that make her go “yech”)

I’m relieved when I can stop pedaling, but I still have to stay seated on the bike until my heart rate drops. It seems entirely unfair that everyone in the room gets to wear clothes but me. I’m dying to grab my bra and sweater and slide my legs into my pants.

Despite my unease, the news is good on all fronts--my heart is holding its own, my medication level seems OK, and maybe, just maybe, I may one day say goodbye to atrial fibrillation. No one can say for sure. What I do know for sure is that next time I come here I’m bringing a robe—the satin one with pink and white hearts on it would be perfect for a cardiology visit. Hmmm, I’ll also need something to wear in the ob/gyn’s office, but you can bet it won’t be satin and covered with hearts…

September 27, 2005

Things that Make Me Go "Yech!"

• When people slime the sidewalk with frothy saliva or the unspeakable contents of their sinuses
• Big honking piles of dog doo standing like pyramids near the sidewalk
• Little stinky piles of cat doo lurking like a viper in the grass
• Men who take leaks in public, which brings me to my aversion of
• Sausages displayed on uncovered platters at open air markets
• People walking with unbagged loaves of bread tucked under their arms
• The pigs head that was displayed in the meat case at the Place du Luxembourg market
• Riding the Metro when it’s jam packed and we’re all stacked together like crayons in a box
• The fatty edge of the ham
• Raw chicken—and even worse, the vile collection of giblets that require me to put my hand up the chicken’s butt to remove
• The smell of a day old dishrag used to wipe up milk
• Damp towels
• The loathsome combination of locker room floors and bare feet
• When the cat’s tail brushes my face
• The unspeakable things that dogs eat and love---How could they???

September 22, 2005

Morning in Brussels

Wednesday. Chiropractor day again. The bus is late but the sun is shining so I don’t mind. Wearing my dark leather jacket, I sit in the sun like a solar collector, soaking up all the energy the day has to offer.

The ride to the Metro station and then into the city is quiet—except for the accordion player who gets on at Roodebeek and starts his shtick. You know the way some people have an inexplicable hatred for mimes? Well I find roaming musicians in subway cars to be insufferable. This guy is no different—it offends me that he invades my space and my silence and expects to be paid for annoying me. If there’s a Billboard Top 10 for Metro musicians, it includes such irritating hits as Volare, Theme from the Godfather, the Tarantella, Feelings, and other schmaltz. After the rolling audio assault, I fantasize about throwing a lit match into the cup that’s being passed to collect euros. But I’m a (mostly) good Grrrl, even if I entertain evil thoughts, and I simply stare into the blackness outside the window and will my station to appear.

Walking to the chiropractor’s from the Metro station, I discover there’s a special open air market being held at Place du Luxembourgh today. There are booths featuring bread, cheese, sausage, scented candles, baby clothes, wooden toys, ethnic jewelry, honey, gourmet preserves, flowers, plants, and sandwiches. I spot a booth selling fancy glycerin soaps in cute shapes and packages. Last night as I tucked A into bed, he confided to me that he has a new “girlfriend,” a Dutch girl in his class who also rides his bus. (“Do you sit with her on the bus?” “I usually just sit near her, right behind her.” “Dude, if you like her, you need to sit WITH her on the bus….”) He wants to give her a present to declare his warm intentions and has asked me to look for a little pot of strawberry-flavored lip balm, just like his sister E-Grrrl uses. I tell him I’ll try, but I’m not sure I’ll find something appropriate in the cosmetic shops downtown. When I see the soaps at the market, I know I’m saved. I select a clear blue soap with a yellow center, shaped like a daisy. It’s packaged up nicely, nestled in paper grass, tied with yellow raffia. It’s the perfect token of affection for a fourth-grade boy to give to the girl he likes. (I know better than to select a heart-shaped soap. Subtlety is everything in elementary school courtships.)

With soap in hand, it’s onto the chiropractor, who takes note of my sore lower back and tight shoulders. He tells me the change in weather is going to be a big challenge for my spine in the coming months. I feel like a granny with rheumatism who can predict storms by the aches in her knees as he explains how changes in pressure, humidity, and temperature affect my joints and muscles. He tells me that above all, I’m to keep my muscles warm, especially in my lower back. This statement will be my justification for the two sweaters and the down vest with the fur collar that I ordered from Eddie B yesterday. A Grrrl has to take care of herself. (“Darlin’, I can’t allow myself to catch a chill. It’s bad for my health. Bring on the cashmere, hon.”)

September 22, 2005

V-Grrrl Goes to the Doctor

Late yesterday afternoon, I finally got through to the general practitioner an American had recommended to me. The doctor answers the phone and I hear barking dogs, laughing kids, and the clatter of family life in the background. I’m immediately caught off guard because this is not what you hear when you dial a doctor in America . (“XYZ Medical Clinic—Can you hold?” or “For an appointment with Dr. X, please press 1, for a prescription refill, please press 2, if you’re a lawyer or pharmaceutical representative, please hang up now.”)

I think I have the wrong number, but this is the right number and that’s the doctor on the other end. I’m caught off balance and so I sound like a nervous sixth-grader talking to an adult, my voice turning statements into questions: “Hi, I, uh, need to make an appointment? I, uh, have atrial fibrillation, and I, uh, just moved here? From America ? And I need an EKG? Can you do that?” DUH. The doctor kept her cool, and in accented English asked me if I wanted to come in Friday morning. I’m astounded. I don’t have to wait at least a week or two for a routine EKG? Is this possible—an appointment tomorrow? Belgium is seeming like a good place.

When I arrived at the doctor’s office this morning, the waiting room was empty. I didn’t know whether to be happy or suspicious. Either she doesn’t overbook her schedule (hallelujah!) or all her patients have died (uh-oh). Because I’m a little nervous, I’m wearing my favorite faded Levis—they’re like an adult blankie (No, I don’t suck my thumb when I wear them but they’re so soft they calm me down). Because I was raised to be uptight and proper, I feel a little sheepish that I haven’t at least worn khakis and a black sweater and dressed up a tiny bit for the doctor. I shouldn’t have worried. The doctor comes out to greet me in khakis, Keds, a white t-shirt and navy blue zip cardigan—blonde curly hair held back by a headband, light blue eyes with just the right amount of crinkles at the corners, and no makeup. I’m thinking she should model for Eddie Bauer. This is a good sign.

Her set up is typical for a Belgian medical office. There are no sign-ins, no receptionists, no nurses, no paperwork to fill out, no insurance cards to be copied, no divulging social security numbers, places of employment, next of kin, and the medical history of your whole family tree. Dr. Gelderblom has a desk and a lap top in her combination examining room/office which is all yellow and blue and blond woods, like the best of Swedish design.

Being an anal retentive goody-goody, I have copies of the highlights of my medical records organized in chronological order: my last physical, my blood work, and three reports from my cardiologist and an emergency room physician and radiologist who saw me last year. I hand them to her as I sit in a chair and she takes her place behind her desk.

I’m thinking—this is the part where I have to fill out the five-page medical history and sign multiple waivers of liability. Instead, she asks for my Belgian ID card so she can copy my address down. Then she says, “Tell me about your medical history.” I’m used to checking off boxes and filling out forms, so once again, I’m caught off guard, but this time I recover quickly so I don’t do a repeat of yesterday’s weak-kneed adolescent performance. I recite why I’m there, tell her about my cardiology issues, the medications I take daily, a quick summary of surgeries, and an aside on my chiropractic treatment. She doesn’t take any notes, just listens. She asks me if I have children. (Oops, forgot about those pregnancies! Really, being a mother is central to my existence. It’s always on my mind. I love my kids, honest I do!) She asks about my family medical history, and I give her the grim news on cancer and cardiovascular disease. (What can I say—we’re AMERICANS! What isn’t overcome by cell mutations gets clogged up and kills us. That’s life in the good ol’ USA .)

Finally she opens up the tidy little file folder that I’ve carefully labeled with my name and scans my lab work and reads the summaries from the cardiologist. She commends me on my fabulous cholesterol (153—applause please!) and then chuckles over the cardiologist’s assessment that I may need to take prescription blood thinners by the time I’m 60. “Isn’t he an optimist!” she laughs. She thinks I’ll see that Coumadin prescription long before I’m 60. Me, I’m loving my cardiologist in Richmond for giving me the best case scenario. (You go Dr. Caven! If we wish hard enough, it will happen!)

She concludes I need to see a cardiologist here, not just a general practitioner. She taps a few lines into her laptop and then grabs a form letter and fills it out by hand, puts it into an envelope, calls a cardiologist, and makes me an appointment.

She also writes me a prescription for flu vaccine. Yes, flu vaccine. Here in Belgium , you go to the pharmacist, pick up your own vaccines, and then go to the doctor who loads it up and injects it. She tells me to get my vaccine in October and to store it in the refrigerator. (She has no clue this is a BAD IDEA—my kids would pour it over pancakes, sprinkle it with cinnamon, and eat it. Nothing is safe in my refrigerator.)

She then listens to my heart and takes my blood pressure, which is 100/50. She asks me if it’s always that low. I tell her no, of course not--it’s actually been LOWER, 80/60 to be exact. I am Dead Man Walking. She wonders that I’m not light-headed. I tell her I’m often so drowsy I can’t function, and I sleep a lot. Between the medications I take, my health history, and the naturally low blood pressure, it’s no surprise.

The best part of this visit is yet to come. We sit down at her desk and she writes me a receipt (by hand) and gives me the bill for this 30-plus minute consultation. I think she says 90 euros as she hands me the bill. It’s actually 19 euros (less than $25). I’m shocked. Thrilled even. I can’t wait to see what the cardiologist charges!

Life is good! I have a doctor I like, a cardiologist in waiting, and a lot of euros left in my pocket. I ought to celebrate with a big bowl of ice cream--after all my cholesterol levels can take it. But since I’m ever the good patient, I decide on some dark chocolate—I’m convinced the antioxidants are keeping me healthy.

September 16, 2005

Falling Apart, Lost in Space

This morning I had to drag my sleepy self down to the chiropractor in the center of the city for my weekly appointment. Yes, weekly. The older I get, the more my scoliosis drags me down. Sometimes I feel like the freakin space shuttle—I have serious design problems and require a team of professionals to keep me flying. Today I just can’t get off the ground.

Because I was in such a hurry to get out of the house to see the chiropractor this morning, I forgot to take my heart medications before I left. Now it’s lunch time and my heartbeat is out of rhythm as I sit here in the big black chair that serves as Mission Control for my virtual life. As I’m typing, my heart is typing too, keeping pace with my blog brain which means it’s racing ahead, pausing frequently, tripping all over itself. Pardon me while I talk to myself since Houston isn’t answering. (“Take a deep breath V-Grrrl, actually take several, the meds will kick in soon. Hang in there Grrrl--head down, blog later.”)

Later…

Well the heartbeat settled down fairly quickly but by then my energy level was in full arrest. (“ Houston , we’ve got a problem. We’re running out of fuel.”) I dragged my sorry self and my sore back over to the sofa, clung to my favorite afghan like an over-tired preschooler and drifted off into the lovely black space called sleep. An hour later I start to surface and think, “I better call that cardiologist that Clive told me about for an appointment.”

So I call the cardiologist and get an appointment for the routine EKG I need, but as the receptionist is taking down my information, she asks for my primary care doctor’s name. I told her I don’t yet have a primary care doctor here, but explain I have a full report from my former cardiologist and my primary care doctor in Virginia that they can review now, and I will get a primary care doctor soon. No, she tells me in accented English, this is not enough. If I’m going to see a cardiologist, I need to have a letter of referral from a Belgian doctor. Once again I plead my case, once again, she says they can’t create a record for me without a primary care doctor. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Soooo….I get the name of an English-speaking primary care doctor from a fellow American here. I call her office and get a scratchy recording. The message is in Dutch. I have no clue what the hell is being said, though I can tell at one point the speaker is reciting a number. I hope that at the end there will be a beep and I can record a message. No. Instead, when the Dutch ends, I get to hear the whole thing in French. If the recording were clearer, I might be able to catch the number and figure out what to do, but I can’t get it and there’s no beep and I hang up and think, “Houston—we have a problem. You’re transmitting in Klingon. I repeat you’re transmitting in Klingon.”

All systems jammed. I hang my head, then rally and blog for another day. I am Lost in Space. Like E.T., I want to go home.

September 14, 2005