Hands Across the Sea

For the last couple of days we have been dealing with follow-up care for my broken wrist.  My doctor in California advised me to get an X-ray and see a hand specialist here to make sure everything is healing properly, and then start physical therapy. 

Because this was all to happen soon after we arrived in France, I had to make arrangements from the US.  But…how do you find specialists in another country?  And how do you know which physical therapists are good?

Happily, our friends here helped me out.  Stéphane told me about a hand specialist he had once used and then Sara called to make an appointment.  Gisèle recommended her physical therapist and scheduled an appointment.  I can’t tell you how much that all helped.

The meeting with the doctor was first and we got to the clinic right on time, only to learn that we had to go to another department and wait in line for an X-ray.  That took an hour but everyone was very nice. And they were curious to know what the heck two Americans were doing in a French hand clinic. 

The only sour note was the X-ray technician who rather coldly corrected my French.  I learned that I had not broken the “end” of my radius but rather the “extremity.”  Good to know!

Then we met the doctor and it did not start out well.  In the old days in the US, doctors were kind of like gods.  They told you what to do and you did it.  You never questioned a doctor and you certainly didn’t suggest things based on your Internet research.

It’s still like that in France – Me important doctor, You lowly patient.  So the doctor started by brusquely asking a bunch of questions, so quickly that I had trouble following him: “How did this happen?  Why did you do that? When was your accident? No – exactly when? Why didn’t you have surgery, you fool?”

After I answered in a suitably deferential fashion and showed that I could sort of speak French, he started to mellow.  We asked him about the artwork he had in his office, mostly sculptures of hands, and won style points when we correctly identified one as a copy of a Rodin. 

Then he asked a question I never expected: “How many US states have you visited?” 

It turns out he is a huge fan of the US and has visited 41 states.  He took part in a summer exchange program when he was in high school and fell in love with our country.  He vacations in the US practically every year.

This means that he speaks English much better than I speak French.  So I could have avoided a lot of heartburn if he had just conducted his little interview in English.  I think he was messing with me.

We talked about California and he told us he likes San Francisco for the wine.  When I told him we love the wines of France, especially the southern Rhone region, he looked thoughtful and said, “Well, you know, I have a friend…”

Turns out that this friend owns a winery in Chateauneuf-du-Pape and the next thing we knew we were invited to a private tasting there on Sunday.  Chateauneuf-du-Pape!  My favorite wine!  Sara and Christian will join us, as will the doctor. You just never know how one thing will lead to another.

My physical therapist, by contrast, was friendly from the start, just one of those people you like right away.  And he really doesn’t speak English, so it will be a chance to have a little language lesson every week.

I told him about my bike accident and how a kamikaze squirrel had attacked me.  He looked very serious and told me to watch out for French squirrels.  “Maybe,” he said, “the bad squirrel in America told his friends here to finish the job.”

KVS