Ahhh…..OUCH….Ohhh
Florence 7 May 2020
It’s not about the bike crash, how I clipped the curb and went flying, landing splat on the sidewalk of a virtually deserted downtown Florence on my first foray out after two months of lockdown.
It’s about the couple who stopped to help me, just as if it were the old days when we knew we didn’t have to fear being in close proximity to strangers.
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It’s not about how I told them not to call the ambulance because I was afraid to go to a hospital in these COVIDian times.
It’s about the volunteer paramedic who had to take my temperature before getting my wracked body into the ambulance, how he exclaimed in frustration “Eccoci!” (Oh Great!) when reading the thermometer, not - as I sat there fearing in that moment - because it showed I had a fever, but because it was a new electronic thermometer configured in Fahrenheit when here in Italy we use Celsius, and how he was relieved that I could tell him the reading of 96.8 was below normal.
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It’s not about how they assured me there were no more COVID patients at the hospital they were taking me to.
It’s about how the paramedic walked me into the ER of the frescoed hospital founded in 1288, the oldest still active in Florence, gingerly holding my arm just as my Dad had done when he walked me down the aisle.
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It’s not about how I waited my turn, warily looking at masked others waiting as well, wondering and worried about what damage I’d done to myself and what other dangers were lurking in the air.
It’s about how when they sat me down at the desk in front of the masked doctor, she looked at my masked face and after a few questions said (in italian) “Wait, are you Sierra’s mom?”, how when I squeaked out “Si” she said “I could tell by your eyes.”
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It’s not about the realization that the doctor taking care of me had been my daughter’s childhood friend since they were both three years old.
It’s about how when I burst into tears remembering those little girls together under the plum tree, the doctor got up from the desk and came over to give me a hug which, despite her PPE, I’m sure isn’t allowed. How that hug - the first I’d had in two months - made me cry even more. And how I wasn’t sure it was that or the simple fact that despite the mask, I’d been seen.
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It’s not about the tetanus shot, the CT scan, the X-ray and the eventual cast they put on for the broken bone in my forearm.
It’s about how while I waited for these tests and treatments, I watched a squadron of very well-prepared medical professionals take care of their patients - me included - with good-hearted kindness and how because of our Italian socialized medicine none of us would receive a bill for any of this state-of-the-art medical treatment that makes me understand the “care” in healthcare.
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It’s not about having to take a taxi home because I live alone and didn’t want to expose a friend to anything I might be bringing with me out of the hospital - covid or no covid patients… these days we just don’t know.
It’s about how the taxi driver that showed up was the same one I’d stopped to talk to in Piazza Santa Croce just 2 minutes before I crashed, the one who had answered my question of “how is it?” by saying “it’s hard… there’s no work,” to which I’d replied “I’m sorry… I hope we’ll all get through this together somehow.” How four hours had passed, and he hadn’t moved from the taxi stand until the hospital called for someone to come get me.
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It’s not about how if I left my bicycle chained to the pole on the street where I’d crashed it most likely wouldn’t have been there in the morning.
It’s about how when I recognized the taxi driver and that he was driving a station wagon, I asked if we could go pick up my bike and how he didn’t hesitate to let me sit in the front (not something usually done in covid times) so we could put the back seat down cuz even with the front wheel off, it’s hard to fit that bike in a car.
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It’s not about how now that restrictions are starting to ease up here in Italy, I’m basically stuck home due to injury, essentially prolonging my shelter-in-place and with only one working arm, to boot.
It’s about how exhilarating that bike ride was, the first after two months, the hard-earned freedom it embodied. How I’d ridden along the river, gazing at Florence’s skyline backlit by a dusky sky dashed with hints of streaky pink windblown clouds. How while crossing the Arno I took in the downriver sight of the Ponte Vecchio, empty, a bridge void of people, unimaginable in this town of tourism. How the facade of the church of Santa Croce looked its usual beautiful self in the evening light but how the statue of Dante in front of the church stared out over the unusual sight of an empty piazza.
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It’s not about the drama of a bike accident.
It’s about how before it happened I was able to step into the beauty of my world just as it was in that moment. And how when that moment was turned (literally) on its head, the loss I was confronted with was immediately met with a rush of humanity at its best.
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It’s not about my being sure what’s what.
It’s about my hoping this could be a metaphor for our times.