Monday, 30 May 2005 | Reduction

(Krakow, 5/19/05)
The pharmacist suggested that I find a doctor, and gave us the address of one in the town square. Initially I think we ended up in an optometrist's office, because the receptionist (who didn't speak English) formed circles with her hands and held them to her eyes, like Charades-land glasses.

Eventually we found an office that housed all sorts of doctors. Their schedules (sometimes as brief as two hours per day) were spelled out on the wall next to the receptionist, a stern-looking woman who wore a tight helmet of hair and sat behind a sheet of glass.

"Hi. Do you speak English?" I asked her in Polish, utilizing nearly my entire vocabulary. In response, she parted her tense, lipless mouth just enough to let the word "nyeh" escape and turned back to her work, thereby terminating our conversation.

During the hour that followed, three random patients and one doctor provided me with various instructions, ultimately directing me to a bench outside the door of a general practitioner.

The office was painted a pale, colorless blue, and the scale and cot were made of heavy, 1950s metal. My chair was positioned opposite a friendly round-faced doctor, and next to the room's only window, which looked out over the beautiful main square. I could see people in traditional outfits parading by, to the muffled noise of uniform horns.

The doctor performed the standard operations (pulse, blood pressure), but the majority of our time was spent passing a borrowed dictionary back and forth, pointing to words, gesticulating, squinting in confusion, and laughing.

He had the patience of someone who'd had a long career that was coming to a quiet and satisfying end. He steadily wrote everything out by hand—my prescription, my name, my Brooklyn address. I hardly recognized the words, not because he had sloppy handwriting (it was neat and careful), but because he formed his letters by different (Polish) guidelines. They were sharp, and took on the shape of a healthy EKG reading.

At the end of fifteen minutes, we shook hands and smiled, our challenging (and believe it or not, fun) exchange behind us. Then I returned to the pharmacist and ate some funny-named pills, trusting that my temporary doctor and I had indeed made a connection, and that the pills wouldn't make me lose my sight or grow a beard or anything. I'm doing fine, it turns out.