Health Flair

When I walked home from my first appointment with my new Italian doctor last week, I was giggling, absolutely filled with delight.

I was surprised (and you might be too) that one of my first interactions with public healthcare here was so utterly easy and fun. I grew up hearing the typical American refrain that “public healthcare is a nightmare” and, despite my deep hatred for the private American system, had relatively low expectations for what I would find in Italy.

In fact, when I started aligning the chess pieces required for me to move to Milan, healthcare felt like, by far, the biggest challenge.

It should have been fairly simple: I was already an Italian citizen, which entitled me to the (free) public health system. But I wasn’t someone who could wait around for the weeks (or even months) it might take to get onboarded. As my readers know, I have a chronic illness that does not abide by the timelines of Italian bureaucracy, and I could go only go so long before I needed a new supply of medicine here.

So despite having thoroughly prepared the runway, with the largest stockpile of medicine I could manage, I arrived in Italy feeling quite anxious about getting signed up for healthcare.

It would require many steps, and I won’t bore you with all of them, but suffice it to say I had to pay multiple visits to a byzantine, DMV-esque government office before I was granted access to medical care and assigned a primary doctor.

But now that I’m in, things have gone almost shockingly well. My new doctor is not only conveniently located in my neighborhood, but also an English-speaking gay man. How did I pull off such a feat, you ask? Well, it was largely thanks to a little ol’ app called Grindr.

I know I know, I’ve already waxed poetic about the role Grindr has played for me here in making friends and practicing Italian. But turns out, the app also became a path to my ideal healthcare provider.

You see, during my first couple weeks in Milan I hooked up with a guy who has since become one of my few friends here. He’s been generous enough to coach me through the bureaucratic madness of this country, and when the time came for me to request a physician, he dutifully provided the name of his gay doctor.

And how did he find this gay doctor, you ask? I’ll give you one guess. Yup: They met on Grindr, then became friends, then doctor-and-patient.

It’s almost too ridiculous to be true, and yet, it is.

My first visit with this doctor left me absolutely astounded. His office was nothing like the antiseptic medical spaces I was used to; instead, it occupied a comfortable and stylish room in the ground floor of a residential building. I might as well have been meeting with a graphic designer.

My doctor was dressed casually in a sweater (no white coat or scrubs) and, from behind his colorful iMac, asked me what I needed. I went through each prescription, many of which he was eager to provide with a few taps of the keyboard. For the others, he issued referrals to specialists.

The whole time, he sprinkled in questions about the American healthcare system, mostly about money. Did prescriptions cost money in the U.S.? Yup. Also doctor’s visits like this? Mhm. Also blood tests? You bet. And what about insurance costs? You don’t wanna know.

Despite me saying, several times, that “everything costs money in America,” he couldn’t believe my answers to these questions. But don’t you pay taxes? We sure do.

My doctor also had no qualms being casual enough to frankly discuss the details of gay life. He made a dick joke. We discussed our preferences for saunas. I kid you not. (This is, certainly, not his usual demeanor with patients. But he knew ahead of time that I was a friend of his friend, and a fellow queer).

I walked out with a huge smile on my face and a medical app already populated with my prescriptions and their attendant barcodes. I could—and did—walk into any random pharmacy and pick up the meds, mere minutes later.

My physician occupies, perhaps, one end of a broad spectrum of healthcare here. Just a day earlier, I had my first official experience with the Italian medical system, and it was, well, a bit different.

You see, my homosexual lifestyle delivered a fun little present recently: Baby’s first sexually-transmitted infection! After my symptoms emerged, I decided to visit a walk-in STI clinic. This was, in sharp contrast to my doctor’s comfy office, a typical hospital-type environment.

And if I learned anything from this visit, it’s that Italians absolutely love a ticketing system. Here’s how it works: You have to get to the hospital first thing in the morning to get a ticket. When your number is called, you’re allowed to proceed to the actual medical department you’re seeking. There, you meet with an intake specialist who gives you a squarish, laminated ticket. Then you walk out and grab a smaller ticket from one of those red deli-style dispensers (seriously). When this one’s called, you go to a counter to fill out some paperwork, then go back to waiting until, finally, your laminated ticket is called and you see a doctor.

Did you catch all that?

Ridiculous as the process may seem, and as slow as it proceeded, I really couldn’t complain too much. Within the span of a morning (and without an appointment), I saw a doctor, received a test and got the necessary treatment, all without paying a penny. (And don’t worry, the infection is one of the eminently curable ones. I’ll be fine).

I continue to marvel at the way my life is unfolding here. So many of my worries have melted in the face of a generous (if small) circle of friends, and some lucky bureaucratic breaks.

There’s yet more hurdles to clear: I still have to see several specialists before I can get settled with all the prescriptions I need. But it’s moving right along, with all the absurdity that this gay Italian life can offer.

This week, I’m leaving with you a snap from my gorgeous weekend hike near Lago Maggiore. See you again soon!