The Lugano Experience

I have had my first opportunity to go to the doctor here in the land of chocolate coins.  Not sure how I did it - I usually amn’t (a new contraction for “am not” let’s all start saying it and see if it catches on) aware of the how - but I tweaked my neck.  “Tweak” is such a friendly word to describe the feeling of a thousand butter knives being rammed into your cervical shredding nerves and tendon until your ready to drown yourself in a vat of morphine soup.

But I digress.

So, Monday rolls around, and I am doing a damn good imitation of Quasimodo (”oh the humanity, think of the children!”), and it gets bad enough that I decide to go to the doctor.

I call a local doctor, whom I happen to know speaks English, and he says that he can see me in an hour.  Right off the bat, I am suspicious, but hey, why not.  Thirty minutes pass, and I walk down to the office, again, scaring children as I shuffle by the lake.

The office is on the third floor of a non-descript building, and I let myself in what looks like a back door.  There are no expensive paintings, no aquariums, no coloring books and no side table with 2-year-old copies of People Magazine.  The office is rather stark, actually, but the receptionist is nice enough, and speaks just enough English to show me where to fill in my name on the check-in card.  The card, btw, asks my name, address, phone number along with a space to list any serious maladies.  It does not ask for my height, weight, hair color, eye color, last BM, date of contraception or any other myriad of useless information.

I am also not asked to sign a contract of arbitration, not asked to sign away my rights under proposition 45,223 “Patient’s Rights and Misinformation Act of Insurers of America vs Mrs. I-Now-Have-Only-One-Leg-Bacause-My-Doctor-Slipped.”  Nor am I required to sign the “You can share my information with all government agencies because they care” clause.  There are no contracts, no cover your ass clauses - just contact info, and what we need to do our job, thank you very much sir…

I am a bit early, and I am sharing the waiting room with a little old lady, who promptly goes into the doctor’s office.   

Herr Doctor, (Smauchenbauzer or something like that), comes out 15 minutes later after dispatching the little old lady.  It is precisely the time that he asked me to come in.  He is very friendly (actually, a bit like an over-zealous labrador, but better that than an aloof siamese cat…), and he invites me into his office.

At this point, he actually begins asking me what the problem is. 

Hey, wait.  Aren’t you going to take my temperature and blood pressure and height and weight and urine sample and reflexes and ear-hole-openness?  Aren’t you going to make me dress in some silly “show-my-ass-to-the-world-paper-gown” and then have me sit on a metal table for 47 excruciating minutes while you see your other 214 patients?  No assembly line?  No humiliation?  No rubber gloves?  No completely irrelevant tests?

No.

In fact, he gets right down to it, asks me about my neck and my history with it.  When I tell him that my doctor in the U.S. prescribes me a muscle relaxant called “Soma” he asks if I know the proper name for it, which I do - Carisoprodol.  (And, btw, if you are ever in need of a good muscle relaxant, ask your doctor about this one…)

Well, Herr Doctor cannot seem to find Carisoprodol in his giant book of all things drugicular, but he says that he usually prescribes Zanaflex which is just a bit milder than Valium.  Ok, a bit-milder-than-Valium sounds like a whole lot of fun.  Valium sounds even funner,  but I may need to actually function, so I am good with the Zanaflex. 

Ten minutes after getting into see Herr Doctor I am walking out to the pharmacy just 3 floors down.

Now, the pharmacy proves to be surprising, too.  Not only does the woman take my prescription and just grab the pills (no, I am not asked to wait for 20 minutes next to the do-it-yourself blood-pressure machine), but she also swipes my insurance card and tells me “Voila.”  I don’t owe her a thing!  (Of course, my next post my very well be how my insurance company gouges me on the price of medication - stay posted.)  It takes me all of three minutes to get my prescription filled!

So, happy land pills in hand, off I go, Quasimodo of Lugano.  It is towards the end of the day, but since I have never tried my good friend, Mr. Zanaflex, I decide I better wait lest I turn into Captain Noodlemeister and am unable to make the walk home.

My intution served me well.

I get home at 7PM, finally able to stop thinking about obligations, I took 800 mg of ibuprofen and my new friend, Lieutenant Zanaflex.  I even thought about taking 2 (if one is good, two is better, right), but cooler heads prevailed.  By 7:45, I am laying on my bed.  I am not contemplating the buzzing feeling in my toes.  I am contemplating toes in general.  By 7:46 I am fast asleep with a small trail of drool tracing my face and filling my ear…

Note to self, do not let Lieutenant Zanaflex fly a plane.

So, I would love to be able to say that this medication is fun, woohoo, try some now, etc.  But, truth be told, it is 45 seconds of “wow, I am buzzed” followed by two hours of coma.  And, what’s the fun in that.  The good news is that it does seem to be helping my neck, slowly but surely.

And for those expecting a rant against doctors over here, you may just have to wait for me to get my bill…