The bunion saga: Part II

The big day arrived. Finally, I was going to the hospital that fices ugly (and painful) feet. My appointment (in case you forgot) was for 8:16.

I left home at 7:00 a.m. because I was worried about traffic jams and other sundry conditions. This is a country where a “chefetz chashud” (suspicious item) can have rush hour traffic ground to a halt for the better part of an hour. However, yesterday there was clear sailing and I arrived at the hospital about 7:45.

I found the outpatient clinics and took my number to check in. In Israel, the idea of taking a number has really caught on. And it is a wonderful invention. Before that you could be standing in line at the bank for 15 minutes and suddenly someone can walk over with coffee in one had, a croissant in the other and tell you that he was ahead of you because he was here “before.” Right.

So now there are the little number stubs like they use at the bakery in the US (or used to, at least) and they [are supposed to] keep people honest. I checked in, had all of the right paperwork, and was handed my file to lay on a table outside of room 32. Paper clipped to the front of the file was my bakery number. I was the first to arrive.

One by one, the other patients arrived. Nice people. There was the man who had made aliya from “the Belgian Congo” who lived in Modi’in and was now managing a hotel in Jerusalem. There was the restaurant owner from Tel Aviv. There was the Israeli woman whose son lives in Queens who was looking forward to a trip to visit him. Oh yes, and there was the diva.

The Diva was a woman of about 60 who came into the foot clinic wearing stiletto sandals and a strapless tight lavender dress with cut-outs that extended in a triangular pattern from the hem of her dress to her panty line. Can we all say here “inappropriate”? She sauntered in at about 9:15. Oh, how would I know that if my appointment was at 8:16? Simple. The doctor who was supposed to examine the gathering hordes was not coming in. The doctor who was replacing him was stuck with an emergency [cup of coffee? use your imagination; this blog is G-rated]. So we all waited. We got to know each other. Didn’t sing any folk songs, nor did we dance the hora (remember, our feet hurt). But was did get talk. With the young soldier male and the young soldier female (who was so very pretty that I couldn’t imagine her looking any better had she been dressed like the Diva), with the other female soldier, Svetlana, who was there with her father (as Israelis would say, “like two drops of water” — they looked so alike) who was fragile and delicate and lovely too.

It was only 11:15 when finally they got down to business. The nurse came out and called in…. Diva!!!! Immediately Queens mother, hotel manager, restaurant owner, and yours truly called out, “Hey! We all were here before her!!!!” (There were others too, but those are the ones I remember.) The nurse informed us that we were wrong; she had been there long before us. We objected, but there was no convincing her.

A few minutes later, I and hotel manager were called into the other two examining rooms while Diva was examined by the one doctor. Diva not only was inappropriate in dress, but she proceeded to take close to 25 minutes asking stupid questions (they were walk-through examining rooms and all of the doors were open). I had a barely controllable desire to go stomp on both of her stiletto shod feet.

Finally the doctor got to me. Professional and thorough, he told me that:
1. After surgery I would be able to walk around on my heel.
2. I will not be able to wash my foot for 4-6 weeks.
3. I should be ready for 6 months of strong pain.
4. There are no surgeries scheduled for the summer.
5. I will receive a date of their choice for the surgery.
6. If I cannot make that date, I must come in for another appointment just like the one I washaving yesterday.

He then walked over to hotel manager leaving me with the nurse. I asked her why I would need to come back for the same exam if I didn’t have the surgery the date they gave me. She explained, “We can only remember you for three months.” It was clear to me that with the volume of patients, it was likely he wouldn’t remember me by the end of the hour. And, there is this neat invention called the x ray that could provide clues as to the bone structure of the foot…

Oh well.