Adventures in Hungarian Medicine

Well, it has finally happened. Today I went to the doctor's office, or "the clinic" as they refer to it. Over a week after stepping hard on a pointy rock in Athens, I was still in quite severe pain. I can walk ok, as long as I don't put any weight on my left heel. I was tempted to just see if it would get better, but since the swelling was also getting worse after a day of running around yesterday, I decided to bite the bullet and go.

I had two free lessons, so I figured that was plenty of time to go and make an appointment for tomorrow. I arrived, waited in line, and said "My foot hurts," to the triage nurse, holding up my quick sketch of a foot coming down on a pointy rock. "What was that?" she snapped back at me. "I'm sorry my Hungarian is so bad," I offered. "My foot hurts."

She sighed, and started banging things into a computer, shooting me rapid-fire questions. I managed ok, but became more and more frazzled at the speed of her Hungarian. Finally there was one I didn't know. "Could you say it again, please?" I stammered. She sighed, banged down the keyboard, and asked the woman next to her, who translated. Super. I knew then that I was in for a rough time. Finally I got a number, and was told to go to the first floor.

I arrived, and looked up at the automatic number caller (the kind they have at deli counters in the States). Nine. I looked down at the slip of paper in my hand. 43.

Worriedly, I called Bálint and asked if he could handle 2B by himself in two hours.

I then missed my number, because they somehow read my name as "Michelle Larent" off my passport. Waiting again, a nurse walked up and scolded me. I started to cry. Apparently I was sitting in the wrong chair. I moved one seat to the left and she was satisfied and left.

Finally I got into the doctor's office. I took off my shoe to show him where it hurt, and the doctor and nurse simultaneously grabbed my heel and squeezed it. "Does this hurt?" "Ye-Yes!"

I was given a piece of paper and sent for an Xray. Hungarian, of course, is the only language that doesn't call this an Xray. Thirty minutes and one more nurse scolding me later, I was led into the Xray room, where the nurse grabbed my poor foot, twisted it around, and threw a napkin-sized lead blanket at me to cover... one ovary? Xrays over, more waiting. And more waiting.

The final diagnosis: I have bruised my heel bone. The suggested treatment? Ice it (my freezer doesn't really do ice), wrap it up, and try not to walk on it or climb stairs. As I grimaced at this, the doctor smiled. "Your flat doesn't have an elevator, does it?" "No, no it doesn't... Where do I go to pay?"

The doctor smiled and gave me heel one more questioning squeeze. "This is Hungary. It is free."

I stumbled out, four hours after I went in to make an appointment, clutching a sheet of directions I couldn't read and a card suggesting a certain analgesic gel, and gimped over to the bus stop. And called my parents for a verbal hug.