Hospitalization - Turning Tuscan: A Step-by-Step Guide to Going Native - page 182

of me during which I will certainly have the time for writing that I always complain I never
have.
***
Every morning the “withdrawals” are made at about 5:30 am. Then, back to dreamland.
At 7:30 am it's time to take temperatures and check blood pressure. In order to assure that
everythingisworkingreasonablywell,youareaskedtoalwaysurinateintoaspecialplastic
container, rather than to use the toilet. The nurse can then easily measure the volume and
tell whether or not it's within normal limits. The container is called a pappagallo , a parrot,
presumably because it looks like a large bird with a neck stem. You are asked every morn-
ing whether or not you have been diligent about using the parrot.
Ha fatto pipi nel pappagallo? (Formal third person: “Sir, have you made pee-pee into the
parrot?”)
It's quite a surprise to discover that the words for “pee” and “poop” that kids use at home
are pretty much the same words that are used in the hospital world. The words in Italian
completely lack the stigma they carry in English, i.e., something you would never mention
in polite company. I've yet to hear the formal word for “penis”. Patients and doctors alike
use the common slang. All the body stuff just doesn't make people uncomfortable in the
way it does in the Anglo-Saxon world.
Shortly after metrics are concluded, the cleaners come in. First pass they do a dry mopping,
then they splash disinfectant cleanser, do a wet-mopping and scrub the bathrooms from
stem to stern. Shortly afterwards, teams of nursing assistants come in to change the bed
linens and remake the beds. This is last call: if nothing earlier has convinced you to get out
of bed and start the day, then now's the time.
Some time afterwards the nurses come to dispense medications that are to be taken with
breakfast. It's all meticulously coordinated and everything runs smooth as clockwork. The
head of the cardiology department runs a tight ship. He carries himself with an air of stud-
ied seriousness. But, in Italy, this kind of theatricality is almost obligatory. People expect
no less from someone who has this level of responsibility. Yet, when I pass him in the hall,
the warmth of his smile catches me by surprise.
The nurses move early in the morning with the energy and focus of a rowing team. It's
something to see. When you are new, they speak to you formally and a little bit too loudly
and forcefully. At first it reminds me of the way the attendants in assisted-living facilit-
ies talk to their charges who are hard of hearing or mentally diminished. Soon afterwards,