Moving to Italy: A Visit to the Doctor--Part 1

Note: Sorry if these posts are coming too often, but I use them as writing warmup for some of my other projects. (Or they are a good way of procrastinating. Can't decide.) MM

Not long after our arrival in Italy (and before the boys started preschool), I began to worry about the children’s health. In California we had seen a pediatrician regularly, for check-ups and for advice. However since our arrival the children had been suffering, off and on, from diarrhea, and I had no one to call for advice. I kept hoping it would eventually go away.

At first we thought it might be the water, even though we drank bottled water. Then we thought it was the change of climate, and then we thought it was the different food, but they did not seem to be acclimating. They had all thinned out since our arrival, and it was hard to tell how much of that was normal growth, how much was their fussiness about the different Italian food, and how much was poor digestion. On top of that, Paul and James had broken out in blisters on their lower legs. The uncles said it was from a kind of weed that they had brushed by in the fields, but even though we put them in long pants, the blisters didn’t seem to heal. I was worried. The children’s well-being was more important than anything else to me. By August I realized we needed to see a doctor to have all of the children evaluated.

We asked around, or rather George and his father did, and we were told that in a town nearby, there was a weekly free clinic for all children, no matter where they were born. On the morning of the clinic we bathed and dressed all four children and headed out. It was housed in an old building in the middle of a nearby small hill-town. As we drove slowly through the town, a few pedestrians carrying their bags of groceries walked single-file along the narrow streets with no sidewalks that wound up and around the houses and shops. It seemed like a quaint little town, and any other time I would have been tempted to linger.

We parked at the side of the road near the clinic, wedging the car up against a brick wall, out of the way of traffic.  As we walked along the road George carried Matthew and held Paul by the hand, while I held Margaret Ann and James’ hands. The front door of the clinic was set back a little from the road with a small yard in front. Several children stopped playing to stare at us as we walked up. I felt very obviously out of place. Even though I avoided speaking English, they seemed to know that we didn’t belong. George entered the building first, and I followed.  

It was much like any other doctor's waiting room, with a receptionist's desk and chairs circling the room. Except that this waiting room seemed to be a converted living room. A woman sat at the side behind the little desk and she smiled at us as we entered. Several other mothers and children from birth to school-age occupied the chairs. They all fell silent as we walked up to the receptionist. The spotlight we seemed to carry with us was on full beam, made brighter, perhaps, because George was the only man in the room. The receptionist gave us some forms to fill out, and a mother shifted her two children so we could sit down.  Our children were very quiet as, piled over us, they looked around them at all the other little kids. They hadn’t seen so many children in one place since we had left the States, more than three months before.

We waited for about half an hour. During that time our children loosened up a bit. I had brought some books and little toys for them, so they kept busy. But every time they spoke English the other children stopped to listen. After a while the other mothers stopped staring, and we felt a little less conspicuous. Most of the women were modestly dressed and seemed to be just local town residents. The woman sitting next to me spoke to me, but I couldn’t understand what she said, so I looked to George for help. He smiled and answered her, while I smiled and looked back and forth between them. He seemed to be talking about the children’s ages and where we came from. By that point I had become used to the role of silent witness, so I kept an eye on a restless Matthew. He had wriggled off George’s lap and stood between his knees as he watched a little boy slide his truck back and forth across the waiting room floor.  I could tell he ached to join in the play, but before he could burst out of his bubble, the receptionist directed us to a small office where we waited for the doctor.


The story of our move to Italy starts with "Arrival" on the June 26, 2017 blog post