Kosovo: Chapter 8, Scene 3 A Trip to the ER Wasn't on My TO DO List

I fainted.

It wasn’t that sweet, Scarlett O’Hara kind of fainting where you wake up, bat your eyelashes and look beautiful. I don’t do that kind. More about that later. First, I need to share what brought this on.

I developed acute bronchitis. (Yes, I self-diagnosed that one.) I started treating myself with a few home remedies such as tea, honey, and the like. 

Curiously enough you can get antibiotics over-the-counter in Kosovo so I started myself on a Z-Pack.  I took the first two of the three-day sequence without much improvement leading me to think my bronchitis may be viral instead of bacterial.  Still, I finished the tablets on Tuesday and headed to school Wednesday morning. 

I had that deep, chesty, “2 pack-a-day” cough even though I’ve never smoked. No other symptoms. No fever or anything.  Starve a fever, feed a cold didn’t apply, so I ate.  Wednesday, I had a light breakfast and went to work.  

I made it through the morning routine, English class, and math class before deciding I would have an early lunch.  My fourth graders were at recess and would be in the cafeteria shortly. I bought the chicken curry and rice (not spicy at all) with a salad and a bottle of water. It was great and I went for a whole twenty minutes feeling normal. So normal, I decided to go back to my classroom to work a bit. My kiddos were coming into the cafeteria for their own lunch.

I stood up. 

I felt dizzy.

I sat down.

I put my head down on the table. 

I felt myself sliding on the table.

I heard a freight train. (All in my head I suppose.)

The next thing I knew, I was surrounded by my coworkers. Some of the people who had been sitting at the table with me were now holding me up and talking while others were running here and there. 

I had fainted. As I said before, I’m not a beautiful fainter. I probably drooled all over the table. I didn’t ask. 

I knew I was on the mend because I felt remorseful. When I’m better I start apologizing. To everyone. I looked off to my side and saw a few of my students just sitting down with their lunches. They were looking my way, shocked and scared. I apologized even though they couldn’t hear me. 

I apologized to my teacher friends helping me. I messed up their lunch. I apologized to Paul and Kelsie who caught me. I should have been thanking them for keeping me from landing on the floor. I apologized to Valmire. She’s pregnant and I didn’t want her upset.

The other sign that I’m better is when I start crying. I’m an ugly crier, too. I can always tell I’m recovering from something when I start crying that ugly, scrunch-your-face-up kind of cry. My middle daughter once saw an old Lucille Ball television program where she gives that big ugly cry. “She cries like you, Mommy,” Danielle said.

I just kept crying and apologizing.

My friend, Ruth is a nurse. She and others came running into the cafeteria like the cavalry to the rescue.  The decision was made. I was going to the doctor. I cried more. “I don’t want to go to the doctor,” I cried. “I don’t’ want to do it.”

At least I smiled.

I didn’t need a doctor. By this time I had figured it all out.

I had just eaten, so my circulatory system was directing all that oxygen carrying blood to my digestive system. My little brain was already short on the big O, so I fainted. I was married to a scientist for over forty years. I know this stuff. I didn’t need a doctor. 

I argued. 

I lost.

My friends helped me to the car. Okay, yes I needed a little help after all. Valdet drove me to the American hospital with Ruth offering me encouragement from the back seat. I actually didn’t feel great but didn’t want to admit they were probably right. I tried to look on the bright side. This was a new experience. (My friend, Gordon says I'll do anything for new writing material.)

We went to the emergency room armed with my resident ID and Insurance card. The hospital was clean and nice. The wait was short.  So far, so good.  

They drew blood. Not my favorite thing. Ruth held my left hand while they put a port in my right one. They took my temperature.  They wrote down what had happened.

No more sticky electrodes for an EKG

While we waited for the next round of inquiry by the medical professionals, I asked my friends to take pictures. A new experience should be recorded, right? 

The first doctor came in. A neurologist.  Really? This was a pulmonary issue. 

He had me perform several tasks such as eye tracking and strength in my hands. He had me pick up my feet and hold them up and several other “tests.” I guess it was my age. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t having a stroke or something. They even did an EKG. Not bad. Pretty thorough.  

The pulmonary specialist came in. She listened to my chest and back and asked me about the Z-pack. She asked me about my allergies and my asthma.  She ordered a chest X-ray. Again, very thorough. The nurses and orderlies were smiling and kind.  They spoke Albanian so Ruth and Valdet served as my translators. This was turning into a positive experience. I was already feeling better.

Stay calm. Let the IV drip.

The X-ray was unlike any I had before, but quick and extremely modern technology.  I was there by myself so no pictures, but it was over before I could have taken one anyway.

Now I had seen everyone. I had been examined and X-rayed, stuck with a needle, given up a couple samples of blood, and interviewed.  They had to review the results of all my tests, the EKG and the X-ray. Now we waited. Waiting on the backside of a visit to the ER is decidedly better than having to wait at the beginning. I felt confident and much better for having come. I thanked my friends for their help.

The doctor’s report offered nothing new. I had acute bronchitis as I suspected. The doctor ordered a steroid infusion to kick-start the cortisone inhaler she prescribed. I was quietly thanking God they had put the port in to draw blood so I didn’t have to face another needle. She also prescribed some meds and told me to come back on Friday to be re-checked. They handed over the prescriptions, reports, and my X-ray. Seriously. I got to take my X-ray home with me.

Now came the worst part of going to the hospital, right? The bill. 

Thank you, Ruth for your care.

My insurance covers thirty percent up front. Then I can turn in the receipts to the financial office and get back some of the seventy percent I had to pay. I hoped the hospital accepted my credit card. The woman at the counter checked everything and typed it all in her computer. 

I know health care is more affordable here, but I prepared myself for the worst. A thousand to walk in? More for the X-ray? The EKG? Then there was the intravenous infusion, not to mention a pulmonary specialist and a neurologist.

I stood tall and braced myself for the damage. 

I did not want to faint and start the process all over again. 

My friend Ruth was offering encouraging words of financial assistance if I needed it. And she lives here.This was going to be bad.

The young woman at the desk looked up and smiled sweetly.

X-Ray, Reports, Prescriptions.
I braced myself or the damage.

My seventy percent of the total emergency room cost came to a whopping €94.90.  I pulled two fifties out of my wallet and went home with change. (And a copy of my X-ray!) My two inhalers and cough syrup came to 13€. 

Total? €107.90. One Hundred Seven Euros and Ninety Cents for an ER visit and Meds? 

I almost fainted. 

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email." 

Kosovo: Chapter 8, Scene 2 Spring Break in Malta

Having the opportunity to fly to Malta for Spring Break is certainly a perk of living in southeastern Europe. While some of my friends took off for England or Austria (been there, done that) and another headed for Croatia (jealous), my friend Grace and I decided to head south to an island in the middle of the Mediterranean. 

We made the right choice. Malta is incredibly beautiful. While I’m sure I missed a number of tourist attractions, the water and sunshine called my name. 

My rendition of the Malta seashore.

Day 1: Grace and I both like to draw and paint so our first adventure was to take our art supplies, head to the water’s edge and sketch. Of course our supplies are limited. It was simply impossible to capture the true colors reflected in the sea. But it was fun trying.

That day we also found a great seaside restaurant with wonderful pasta and seafood. What a treat! We walked along the coastline taking in one remarkable view after another.

This is what the camera saw!

Day 2:  Day two turned out to be the best day of all. We decided to “go tourist” and plopped down our money for an island cruise. The boat took us past the smaller island (just offshore from Malta proper) that is widely accepted as the actual place where the Apostle Paul was shipwrecked. There is a monument atop the cliff to honor him.

The boat then took us by several smaller islands where caves and waterways have been cut into the stone by the shear force of the pounding sea. Some were known as pirate caves, though I don’t know for sure they were used that way. The water was crystal clear, calm, and the colors vibrant.

Coming into the Blue Lagoon

The boat finally dropped us off at a place called the Blue Lagoon. Protected on three sides by the rocky hills and cliffs of smaller islands, this is where we braved the cold water of the Mediterranean.  I couldn’t help but think of Tom. He would have LOVED this! We had hours to swim, picnic, and explore the island. We were tired by the time we got back to the Airbnb, but it was that good kind of tired. The kind where you know you’ll be able to close your eyes on a cold winter day and relive the experience.

That evening we found a place that sold pastizzi, a flaky pastry filled with warm cheese or mashed peas. It is known throughout the region. We also tried drinking “Kinnie” which is like an orange flavored cola drink. In time it may grow on you…okay, after a L-O-N-G time. The man who sold us our food said we were “going Maltese.”

Going Maltese!

Day 3:  On the third dayof our trip we caught a bus to a huge ferry to take us to the island of Gozo. It was here we sketched the harbor and toured the island via taxi.  Our taxi driver did his best to act as a tour guide. I think he was surprised to find we were more interested in the beautiful scenery than we were in shopping. But he would stop to let us photograph some of the waterfront, the almost volcanic looking rocks along the shoreline, and a grove of olive trees I found particularly interesting. He drove us to a beautiful church high on the hill above the harbor (apparently Gozo has 365 churches and one mosque). The inside of the church was very “old world” in décor but still very much in use.  Then it was back on the ferry, which is as I said huge…it carries cars and eighteen wheelers in its hold as well as passengers on the upper decks back and forth between Gozo and Malta several times a day.

Day 4:  Another walk along the sea took us to an experience we won’t soon

Getting our pedicures at the Fish Lounge

forget. We had a foot massage and pedicure…sort of. We dropped our feet into a tank where over 100 tiny little fish suck away any dry skin. My Florida family will remember minnows similarly nibbling away as we dangled our feet off the dock. Anyway, it was fun and actually fairly relaxing. Best of all my feet felt soft and smooth when the thirty minutes were up. This is apparently quite popular in Turkey.

We then caught a bus to Mdina, also known as the Silent City. It wasn’t all that silent…tons of tourists and at least one wedding, but for a good reason.  The walled city with its stone streets and winding passageways is stunning. And the view from the top of the Fontanella Tea Garden? Spectacular. You can see all of Malta from the balcony setting while enjoying great food and freshly baked specialty cakes. Sorry if I’m beginning to sound like a tourist magazine. 

That evening we flew back to Skopje in Macedonia. The flight was only about an hour and forty minutes. It took us a bit more than that to taxi back to Prishtina.

I grabbed my backpack, said goodbye to Grace and headed up to my apartment. A vacation is great, but its always good to be home. 

That’s when it hit me. 

Prishtina is like coming HOME.

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email." 

Kosovo: Chapter 8, Scene 1 The Wedding

 Right when I wonder what I’ll write about next, I’m invited to a wedding. An Albanian wedding for one of the night guards at our school. I was honored to be included. 

I asked my friend Jill about protocol. I wanted to know if there was a gift registry or something I should be checking. I asked about what I should do or not do at the wedding and, of particular interest to me was what I should wear.

Jill patiently walked me through each question. May I just say how wonderful it is to have friends here who have had these experiences and willing share everything they know? 

My friend and coworker, Fitim, was picking me up. The wedding started at 7:00. At first he said he would come for me at 6:30. Then 6:50. I guessed the wedding was close by. He arrived a couple of minutes after seven and we still had to pick up someone else. I asked him about the time. 

“Oh, it starts at seven which means guests can arrive between seven and eight. We don’t want to be on time because then we would be early.”

“Uh…Okay.”

We drove for forty minutes out of town. I was a little concerned because I didn’t bring my passport and I was sure we’d be in Macedonia or Albania before too long.

We arrived later than the invitation said which turned out to be right on time. I think. 

Once seated at our table, the food started coming. Salad, and a plate of meat and cheese. Then there was a beef patty, chicken, and a beef sausage. Fruit and more salad. Colas and water and fruit juices. The food kept coming. All evening. 

It turns out there is no gift registry. Everyone does give money. I tucked mine in an envelope and slipped it in my purse. That was perfect. I was instructed to write my name on the front of the envelope and there was a box to drop it in as we arrived. 

The wedding is not so much a scripted program as it is a feast and a party. I pretty much knew what to do: Simply act as I would at an American reception. Eat, dance, visit, take pictures, eat some more, dance some more, take some more pictures. Of course the dancing is different. Most of the dance was a traditional Albanian dance I learned at the Balla. Not bad.

There had been that “what to wear” question. Jill told me to go all out. Get my hair done, do make-up, and dress to the nines. She asked if I had high heels. Uh, no. I would fall and kill myself. I wound up wearing a simple black dress, strappy black sandals, and costume jewelry I bought for the Balla. I counted going to the beauty shop last week as "getting my hair done." (If you missed it you can read about it here.) I put on my mascara and lipstick. I was ready to go. 

I'll admit I was a little concerned when I arrived. It looked like the Oscars. Women were dressed in ball gowns and looked very fancy. But as it turned out, there were women dressed as I was as well, so I was fairly comfortable. I decided to throw caution to the wind and didn’t even stop dancing after I discovered a run in my stockings!  

The bride and groom finally arrived.  

But enough rhetoric. I captured some of the wedding in pictures so I could take you along.

The bride and groom arrived.

The bride descended down one set of stairs
while the groom came down the other.

After meeting at the bottom o the staircase the couple walked through
 this "aisle of fire" to  the front of the room where  they sat in thrones.

A traditional Albanian band played their horns and drums.

There was also a live band and singer who played
during the bride's dance. Guests brought money
 and tucked in her tiara. When the groom joined her, guests
 tucked money in his jacket pocket.

I love this. There was a procession to bring these traditional
Albanian garments to the couple and then they danced
the traditional dance with the drums and horns playing.

There was one bit of protocol Jill neglected to tell me. Do Not Leave the Wedding Until the Cake is Served. Of course I know it is not fitting to leave the wedding until then. That makes sense. But by two in the morning, I wasn't all there anyway. 

There is so much more I could share. Perhaps another time. 

Suffice it to say, it was fun and beautiful and a true celebration of this couple dedicating their lives to each other. And the next time I'm invited to a wedding I may go for a little more glitz and glamour...or not.

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email." 

Kosovo: Chapter 7, Scene 4 Pretty is as Pretty Does

 I have never been much of a girly girl. I’ve not been one to wear makeup or worry about my hair. I don’t paint my nails or spend money on jewelry. Don’t misunderstand. Like most women, I like to feel good about myself and when Tom was around, I basked in his appreciative nods my way. It’s just that I’m not a beauty salon addict. Never have been.

I used to think my take on beauty stemmed from my mother always saying, “Pretty is as pretty does” and the fact that I was teen during the whole natural look of the seventies movement. The bottom line? I wasn’t out to impress anyone and as long as my husband liked the way I looked, I was fine.

Now I live in Kosovo where women looked like they stepped out of a 1960’s Vogue magazine ad. (Okay, I never actually read Vogue, but I know it is a fashion journal that’s been around forever.) Back to Kosovar women. They are beautiful. They wear makeup and have their nails done. They spend time getting coiffed and groomed and dressing nice. They even wear high heels. Serious high heels.

So when one evening at dinner with some friends, one of my international friends started talking about her hairdresser and about how wonderful he is, I was intrigued. She’s not Kosovar but is a lovely woman. She was singing the praises of this man. Somehow the conversation shifted and I found myself agreeing to go with her one day to “have my hair done.”

I actually didn’t give it a second thought until she texted me to see if Saturday would work for me. 9:30. Saturday. Hair appointment.

I figure I can try anything at least once. Well, nearly anything. Getting my hair done seemed harmless, so I agreed. Maureen picked me up and drove me to the appointment. She knew what she wanted to do. She had a wash and blow dry. I decided since this was my one shot at beauty I’d trust the man in charge to do whatever he thought I needed.

I must have needed a lot. Three hours later I left with my hair cut, colored, and styled. I’ve never had so much fluff in my life. And the color? They talked about highlights.

I already had “natural gray” highlights. I thought maybe he was going to cover those up and give me a bit of a sun-kissed look. Of course in the summer, my hair turns almost red with all the sun and chlorine from the swimming pool.

Would he bring out the red? Even out the brunette undertones? Cover the gray? I’m not sure what he and his helper did, but I left feeling…different.

Having your hair done when you rarely do such a thing takes a bit of getting used to. I passed a mirror and didn’t recognize myself. My mom Skyped me so she could see it. She said she liked it. I love my mom and appreciate her, but I also know I could dye my hair orange and get it styled with spikes all over and she would say it was beautiful. Moms are like that. They see what they want to see.

I toyed with the idea of not going to church on Sunday, sure that I would be a total distraction. I kept telling myself, “It’s only hair. It’ll grow out.” Missing church for such a silly reason seemed ridiculous. I decided it is what it is and I would simply “own it.” And maybe, just maybe, no one would notice.

They noticed. But the nice thing about my church family is they truly live out the notion of being kind to each other. If they laughed, it was quietly to themselves. Some of them actually told me they liked my hair. And one woman said I looked very European. I also realized that by the end of the day I wasn’t as shocked by my own reflection as I had been.

I decided if I could make it through Sunday, I could make it through Monday. School. My colleagues noticed but the comments were positive. This wasn’t going to be so bad after all. Then the bell rang and fourteen of the most honest people I’ve ever known in my life walked into the room.

“Miss!”

“No, Miss! What did you do?”

One boy put his hand out as if to stop the blinding glare of my highlighted multicolored hair. He practically screamed. “Agh! Miss! Oh, Miss, no!”

The girls were less shocked. But the boys? Four boys gathered around my desk. I reminded myself to “own it.”

“Yes?” I asked sweetly. I reminded myself this was the same crew that told me to never wear mascara after the Balla. They’re the ones who said they didn’t like my lipstick. I figure they simply don’t like change.

“Miss, why did you do this?”

I looked into their startled faces and tried to explain.

“Well, a friend of mine took me to the hairdresser. It sounded like fun,” I began.

That’s about the time one of the boys brought his hand down hard on my desk. “Miss! You always tell us don’t do things just because a friend tells you to!”

Uh…they had me there. I told them I thought it would be an interesting experience. I promised I wasn’t talked into anything.

Will I do it again? I don’t know. In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy the opportunity to explore this new European side of me. As long as I never forget those words of wisdom my mother offered me. “Pretty is as pretty does.” It is the only truth I can bank on. Well, that and the unfiltered comments of fourth graders.

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email." 

Kosovo: Chapter 7, Scene 3 A Friend...and Then Some

I’ve written much on my blog about the nationals here in Kosovo. Most of my local contacts daily are with Albanian Kosovars, though I have met a few Serbians and a couple of Roma people. I have shared how gracious and good these people are to me. From the bus drivers and people at my local market, to the teachers at my school and the leaders of my church, the Kosovars are precious to me.

So today I decided to share with you some insight on another group of people I love and adore: the internationals. Although by definition I suppose most would call this group, expats (ex, a prefix meaning “out of” and patria, meaning “home country”) I hear my Kosovar friends refer to us as internationals.

My friend Jill is ALWAYS busy...
But never too busy to help a
anyone in need.

We are a community. I work with several Americans, a Scotsman, and a German. I go to church with a lovely group of Brits, Americans, and Dutch. We are all here for different reasons. And all for the same purpose: to serve. But what I find most incredible is the way serving here takes on new meaning.

I have to go to the doctor every three months. My friend, Jill drops everything to take me. She doesn’t fit me into her day, she plans her day around me. “Just tell me when you need to be there,” she says.

And there’s Kelsie, who learned I had a cold and offered me

Christopher likes to eat out and so do I
Great one for trying new places!

medicine. It was okay, I already had some from the last time I had a cold in the fall. That was the day the Erskin’s walked to another friend’s house to get Nyquil for me.

When the people who usually drive me to church were out of town, Janette offered to pick me up. Christopher is known to notice when I’m working hard, so he’ll suggest we go for dinner. Not to mention he knows all the songs to the musical Oklahoma! Gordon listens to me and encourages me. And Grace always seems open to give me a lift if she has a car available or to do anything I might need like shopping for a fancy dress! (If you missed that one, CLICK HERE. It was hilarious.)  

Grace is always there for me...and everyone else.
What a giving spirit this girl has! 

Maureen went out of her way to pick up a paper cutter for me for a project I wanted to do for school. And she loaned me a portable heater during the winter when I was still trying to figure out my heating system in the apartment. She and Dustin kept me busy and entertained during the winter break.

Paul and Angela open their home to me for dinner and coffee anytime I like. And they share their sweet little one with me, reminding me of my own small grandchildren in America. And Annie always has a smile and a hug for me at school…reminding me of my older grands.

Annie always has a ready smile and a big hug.
Those came naturally with her serving heart.

I could go on and on. People who find themselves living abroad form a close community quickly. They share and give fully, without reservation. Selflessly and seamlessly. They are givers, not takers. They love serving the Kosovars. They love serving each other. And I love these people.

So what do I give back? I don’t know. I’m not sure I could ever do for them all that they have done for me. They make me feel like God’s favorite child.

My youngest daughter once pointed out we serve an “and then some God.” He always gives us what we need…and then some. I knew moving to southeastern Europe would have challenges. I knew I would need a friend or two here. I prayed about it. And God provided. He gave me what I needed…and then some.

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email."