Click here to read the previous post, Adjusting to Life in Spain: Authentic Spanish Slang
In all my time here in Spain so far, I’ve encountered nothing but friendly professionals, whether I was at the doctor’s office, Urgencias (the Spanish equivalent of the ER), the bank, or even government offices. Ok, maybe a few were more neutral than friendly, but still, no asshats so far.
Recently, after a series of tests of my urinary system, I finally had a consultation with a urologist so he could tell me the results of these tests and explain why I had gotten four UTIs (urinary tract infections) in the last six weeks.
I took along a bilingual friend of mine, R, to help make sure I understood everything the doctor said.
As with all my other medical appointments—at the doctors’ office, health clinics and the hospital—I arrived, took a ticket from the machine, and when my number appeared on the wall-mounted screen, I went to the consultation room indicated.
Source: La Rioja Sin Barreras
Source: La Rioja Sin Barreras
All delightfully efficient.
The door to the consultation room was ajar. I knocked and awaited the usual “Adelante!” (“Enter!”). Nothing. I pushed the door open wide enough to stick my head in.
“Hola,” I said to the doctor sitting at a desk typing on a computer. He glanced up, but that was all. I tentatively stepped a couple feet into the room. “Estoy aquí para mi cita” (“I’m here for my appointment”). He glanced up again.
I looked back at R who shrugged and walked into the room. When I got within spitting distance (not that I’d ever spit on a professional…yet), he finally looked up at a point somewhere between me and R, and said “Selena?”
“Soy yo,” I said.
“¿Quién eres?” he said to R.
She explained that she was my friend and was here to translate for me because I didn’t speak Spanish very well.
As soon as I sat down across the desk from the doctor, with R to my left, he finally looked at me and said, “Cuéntame.” (“Tell me,” as in “Tell me why you’re here.”)
“No,” I said. “Cuéntame TÚ. Eres el experto.” (“No, you tell me. You’re the expert.”) For crap’s sake, he had all the results of my tests, plus notes from all the doctors and nurses who had attended me, plus he was the urologist, not me.
After looking over my medical notes, he said (in Spanish), “Do you realize that you only have one kidney?”
“What?!? No, I have two kidneys! What are you talking about?”
Ok, I didn’t say that to him because I didn’t understand the question (in my defense, riñón (kidney) and rincon (corner) sound very similar!). But I have joked around like that with other doctors and nurses. What can I say? After decades of answering that question, I liked to entertain myself, especially with lab technicians while in the middle of an ultrasound of my torso.
Instead, R answered calmly that yes of course I realized I only had one kidney; it had been removed when I was a kid. What did this yahoo think? That I had a giant scar on my right waist and never wondered what it was?
“Well,” he went on, “you didn’t have four UTIs.”
“Ok, but yes, I did.”
“No. Since it occurred every two weeks, you just had the one that never went away. Multiple UTIs after sex are common for teenaged girls, but—” He threw me a look of disbelief. —”at your age this is uncommon.”
“Well,” I countered (also in Spanish, with R’s assistance). “I guess I’m having a second adolescence, then. Look, I tend to get one UTI after sex with a new partner, and then never again with that same partner. But getting four within six weeks? That’s never happened to me ever.”
He looked at me sternly. “That’s because you’re irritating the area.” (I was this close to saying ‘You’re irritating the area.’) He told me he was going to prescribe me an anti-irritant that I needed to take thirty minutes before sex.
“But what if I have spontaneous sex?” I asked.
“Oh. Uh, then you can take it within thirty minutes afterwards.”
“Well,” I said, trying to hide a ‘fuck you’ smile, “what if I have sex multiple times per day? Do I need to take a pill each time?”
“Uh, no. “He looked studiously at his computer screen. “You can just take it the first time that day.”
Then I had a thought: “This anti-irritant, it’s not an antibiotic, is it?”
“No.”
“Ok, good. Because I don’t want to take antibiotics on an ongoing basis.” Which prompted my next question: “Wait, do I have to take this pill before sex for the rest of my life?”
He was typing on his computer. “Only if you want to keep having sex without getting a UTI.”
Jesus. “Well, I guess I’ll be taking it for the rest of my life then….”
He looked up at me. “Do you live here? In Spain?”
“Yes, I have a visa!” I blurted, suddenly thinking that my sex life had annoyed him so much he was going to call immigration services on me.
“Do you like Madrid?” he asked.
Was this a trick question? “Yeah, I love it here.”
“What do you love about the city?”
Ok, this was weird. I wondered if the sudden change of subject was to deflect his embarrassment—or jealousy. I did see a wedding band on his finger and with this guy’s attitude, I doubt he’s had sex more than once in a day. Hell, once per month was likely his frequency.
I shrugged. “I love everything about it, the architecture, the food, the people.”
“Are your sexual partners Spaniards?” he asked.
“Yes, my partner, singular, is a Spaniard.”
“Well, that explains all the sex.”
“So I guess I can blame Spain for all my UTIs,” I said.
Finally, he cracked a smile. “Your prescription is in the system now.”
And, just like that, he ushered us out.
When R and I joined her husband, E, out in the waiting area, the first thing she said was: “Ok, now I understand what the word gilipollas means. We just met the first one in Spain.”
Click here to read the next post, Adjusting to Life in Spain: [TBD]
Note: All photos taken or created (using DALL-E) by Selena Templeton, unless otherwise noted.
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