Caffeine and chilli were probably the two worst things I could have consumed as they aggravate the bladder, and by 9pm the pain was so unbearable that I googled late night pharmacies in Palermo, and found the nearest one to be right by the central station. Anyone who knows Palermo will know that this isn't a particuarly nice area of the city during the day, nevermind at night. So I decided as I left the house to get a taxi, only they seem to be rare sights in Palermo. I couldn't deal with a confusing Italian phone call and waiting around for one to get to mine at that point, so instead I just set off walking at a rather brisk pace towards the station.
I had translated some sentences to use, and saved them in a note on my phone, but when I got there there was a queue of 5 Italians waiting to speak through a little hole in the wall to the pharmacist (who didn't speak a word of English) behind it. When I got to the front of the line, I stumbled across the words I'd translated, trying to give it my best Italian accent, whilst all the time extremely conscious of the two people behind me listening to every word of this rather personal problem of mine, and then almost burst into tears when the pharmacist told me he couldn't do anything for me without a prescription. I told him that I was English and studying here for a few months and so didn't have a doctor, and that the pain was pretty unbearable right now, and he went away and came back with an address written on a piece of paper. He told me that there was a clinic open now that I could go to to get a prescription... at the complete opposite end of the city. So I jumped in a taxi by the station and 15 euros later arrived at the creepiest place I've been in my life.
Now anyone that knows me will know that I fully expect an axe-weilding, mad man to be waiting for me around every single corner I come across in my life. I am the biggest scaredy cat you will ever, ever meet. I scare myself into sleepless nights just watching the trailers for horror films or reading about their plots on wikipedia. I was convinced for a good ten years that the mad axe-man from the AWFUL film 'I Know What You Did Last Summer' was after me because I watched it at a sleepover when I was 10 (biggest mistake of my whole life).
So walking into this old, abandoned-looking building, with all white walls and not a soul in sight, a large creaky metal door that slammed and locked behind me, in the dead of night, in a foregin country, on my own...well that was just about my worst nightmare. Everyone knows hospitals make a great setting for a horror film, and I genuinly felt like i had just walked straight into one.
The taxi driver, after taking me down a serious maze of back streets in the dark, had asked me if I wanted him to hang around for me as I was getting out of the car, to which I replied "Yes please!". He then asked how long I would be, and, unaware that I was going to be the only person there, I told him 15 minutes, repressing the urge to ask him to come in and find me if I hadn't emerged by then.
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It was deadly silent inside and so I stood in the hallway debating in my head whether the cystitis was actually as bad as I was making it out to myself, or if I could just run back out of here and never look back. But unfortunately it was that bad, and so I walked through the next set of doors into a long, white, empty corridor. There I had my second internal debate/meltdown. There was a ticket machine, and despite the fact I was the only person there, I couldnt, in my moment of fear-induced madness, decide whether I still needed to take a ticket or not. So I kind of stood awkwardly by the machine, half holding the next ticket hanging out, for a good minute or so, until I heard someone say something in Italian, and a few seconds later a head popped out from one of the doors and the doctor beckoned me in.
The taxi driver, after taking me down a serious maze of back streets in the dark, had asked me if I wanted him to hang around for me as I was getting out of the car, to which I replied "Yes please!". He then asked how long I would be, and, unaware that I was going to be the only person there, I told him 15 minutes, repressing the urge to ask him to come in and find me if I hadn't emerged by then.
It was deadly silent inside and so I stood in the hallway debating in my head whether the cystitis was actually as bad as I was making it out to myself, or if I could just run back out of here and never look back. But unfortunately it was that bad, and so I walked through the next set of doors into a long, white, empty corridor. There I had my second internal debate/meltdown. There was a ticket machine, and despite the fact I was the only person there, I couldnt, in my moment of fear-induced madness, decide whether I still needed to take a ticket or not. So I kind of stood awkwardly by the machine, half holding the next ticket hanging out, for a good minute or so, until I heard someone say something in Italian, and a few seconds later a head popped out from one of the doors and the doctor beckoned me in.
(I left the ticket)
And then the fun conversations began. He asked me what the problem was, then waited a little impatiently as I whipped out my translated notes and began to read through them once again. Then he said, "So, have you already started therapy."
No doctor, but I think I'm going to need to after this experience.
I said no, and he asked me things such as when it started, how long I was in Italy for, and then he said "Ok, so what drugs do you want?"
Being a bit rusty on all the different antibiotics available in the world right now and what they are good for, I just kept saying "non so" (I dont know) until he took out a notepad and began to scribble something down on it. When I say notepad, I genuinely mean a small book of blank, white pages that WHSmiths will (over)charge you £4.99 for. This pad had no official logos, nor stamps, nor anything to suggest that it was a doctors prescription pad at all. But alas, it was. He then asked me my name. Emma he could deal with, Dunderdale he could not. So I asked him if I could write it for him. He didnt look happy about letting someone with no medical degree at all handle this extremely professional and important piece of medical equipent, but he handed it over anyway, along with a spare pen he found in his drawer (trusting me with his "prescription pad" was one thing, his own, personal pen was something else!) However, it seems Dunderdale is too long a name for him, and halfway through writing it out he got bored and began to slide the paper back away from me and towards him, allowing the prescription in question to be written out for a one Emma Dunderduuuu.
He finished writing up the prescription, handed it to me and I walked as quickly as I could out of there, back into the kind taxi man's taxi, and asked him to take me all the way back to the station. Another 15 euros later, he dropped me outside the pharmacy and I paid yet another 15 euros for two boxes of antibiotics that are apparently used to treat anthrax exposure, and can cause my tendons to snap suddenly.
The kind taxi man had asked again if I would like him to wait around and take me further on my way, but I felt that 30 euros on taxis was more than enough spent for one nights adventure round the city. So I instead thanked him, told him I lived close by and walked briskly once again back home.
And then the fun conversations began. He asked me what the problem was, then waited a little impatiently as I whipped out my translated notes and began to read through them once again. Then he said, "So, have you already started therapy."
No doctor, but I think I'm going to need to after this experience.
I said no, and he asked me things such as when it started, how long I was in Italy for, and then he said "Ok, so what drugs do you want?"
Being a bit rusty on all the different antibiotics available in the world right now and what they are good for, I just kept saying "non so" (I dont know) until he took out a notepad and began to scribble something down on it. When I say notepad, I genuinely mean a small book of blank, white pages that WHSmiths will (over)charge you £4.99 for. This pad had no official logos, nor stamps, nor anything to suggest that it was a doctors prescription pad at all. But alas, it was. He then asked me my name. Emma he could deal with, Dunderdale he could not. So I asked him if I could write it for him. He didnt look happy about letting someone with no medical degree at all handle this extremely professional and important piece of medical equipent, but he handed it over anyway, along with a spare pen he found in his drawer (trusting me with his "prescription pad" was one thing, his own, personal pen was something else!) However, it seems Dunderdale is too long a name for him, and halfway through writing it out he got bored and began to slide the paper back away from me and towards him, allowing the prescription in question to be written out for a one Emma Dunderduuuu.
He finished writing up the prescription, handed it to me and I walked as quickly as I could out of there, back into the kind taxi man's taxi, and asked him to take me all the way back to the station. Another 15 euros later, he dropped me outside the pharmacy and I paid yet another 15 euros for two boxes of antibiotics that are apparently used to treat anthrax exposure, and can cause my tendons to snap suddenly.
The kind taxi man had asked again if I would like him to wait around and take me further on my way, but I felt that 30 euros on taxis was more than enough spent for one nights adventure round the city. So I instead thanked him, told him I lived close by and walked briskly once again back home.
Thankfully, the antibiotics helped a lot, but I definitely don't want another experience like that for a while. I have stocked up on water and herbal tea which is supposed to help prevent cystitis, and should the problem return whilst I'm still here I'm pretty sure I can just source some white paper and write myself the next prescription out.
Oh Sicily.
Oh Sicily.
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