Vibo Valentia

For those of you who don't know, we unfortunately lost our unborn baby while in Italy. So I've been given the task of blogging about it.

After an early morning dash to the toilet, Louisa woke me up.  She had bled through the night, and was understandably worried.  It wasn't even 6am yet as we jumped into the car and the gates to the camping ground were locked. Luckily there was an old man wandering about that I think might have worked there. He looked at us oddly as I asked if he could unlock the gates and for directions to the nearest hospital. The language barrier that makes travelling interesting was starting to get in the way again. But seeing the panic in our faces, he guessed enough to let us out.

Using the GPS we programmed in the nearest hospital and luckily making no wrong turns we managed to find our way fairly easily. But then we had to find an accident and emergency department, which they obviously hide. We wandered about the deserted corridors and despite not finding the obvious signs of doctors and injured patients that you expect, we found the A & E. There was no desk or waiting rooms so we asked what turned out to be an nurse. He with limited English he told us to wait and he would find a doctor that might be able to help us.

After what seemed an age the doctor arrived, and with the few words of english he spoke, he explained that there was no maternity ward at that hospital so we needed to go to another one about 30km away. He arranged an ambulance to take Louisa so I took the car, with the intent of following.

The ambulance set off with just the lights flashing and I think I did well to keep up, despite the building traffic and one way streets they went up. That was until they turned the sirens on and sped off through the uncooperative traffic, who saw me as trying to cut in front of them. A tunnel and a wrong turn meant that I was now lost, panicking and trying to find the hospital.

I eventually spotted an 'Ospedale' sign that we had laughed at the day before and despite my distrust in Italian signage I followed.  I arrived at a hospital, unsure if it was the right one, so wandered about trying to find my wife that was taken to a hospital in an ambulance... in Italian, or not. Luckily a woman sorting Louisa's ambulance report noticed that I was speaking English, and so figured out I must be the husband of the English lady who had just arrived upstairs.

I was eventually led upstairs to a doctors examination room. I passed Louisa in the corridor, as she was being taken to give some samples. She seemed okay enough, so I took my seat.  The news was delivered in a blunt matter of fact way. Louisa had already been given an ultra scan and had been told the bad news.  The doctor told me that we were no longer dealing with a pregnancy, the baby had died. I was stunned, shocked and angry, our little Costa had seemed healthy enough at the scans. We were starting to tell people, we were out of the danger zone. This couldn't be right?

The doctor continued that Louisa must be admitted to hospital for the foetus to be removed - that was all we were told at this stage.  Speaking very little English the doctor seemed unable or unwilling to answer any further questions.  We were shown thought to the ward by the doctor where we sat together in the nurses office while they took some blood samples and filled out various forms admitting us into hospital.  Then  a nurse showed us to Louisa's bed. We stopped outside the room, both of us in tears, afraid to go in. The nurse kept beckoning us in, but it seemed so unfair to be in a room with two new mothers and their babies, but that's just the way they do things in Italy.

After getting Louisa settled and gathering our thoughts we started to get things in order.  We would need a translator soon, so we contacted our friendly travel assistant Pam. She is the ideal friend in these situations, willing to help, near a computer and a phone. She replied soon after, with the number of translator service, and the most useful idea to contact the British embassy. I was sent to contact both, and after setting up an account with the translator, called the Embassy. Unfortunately this was Italy and it was 1:30pm and lunchtime, no-one was available to answer the phones. A recorded message instructed me to call back after 2pm.  When I did finally get hold of someone, what a godsend it was.   An Italian speaking Irish man named Andrew became our best friend.  He sprang into action, calling the hospital to find out what was happening, then calling back to explain it to me. Then he gave me his personal phone number, telling me to call him whatever time we needed. He was willing to translate the doctors, and to support us. The relief I felt at that point was overwhelming.

Soon after that all the visiting families were shooed out of the ward, visiting hours were over. Not knowing what was happening, I was almost forcibly removed by a large stroppy nurse, who simply pointed to the visiting hours sign, when I asked what was happening with my wife.

So I mingled outside the ward like the rest of the families, watching the little old ladies trying to peek though the doors, clearly put out from being taken away from their new grandchildren. I was still in shock, and milling about, when a large lady came up to me and started talking to me. She seemed to be asking me for something. Eventually I concluded that she wanted a health insurance card.
"no I don't have one"
"no, for you wife"
"no she doesn't have one either"
"but you must have one"
"umm?"

So I was marched downstairs to see the head of the hospital. In Italy apparently everyone is issued with a card which entitles them to health care. Without one, no free health care, and we didn't have one. I took a deep breath, "how much?"
"€900 a day"
"how many days are we talking?"
"maybe four"
"ok" I look at my wallet with a €50 note in it. "insurance?"

So we have travel insurance, but it's free and comes with our bank account, so we might be covered.  I needed to call our bank, to get put through to the insurance company, and sort it out. But my phone is flat.
I am led to a room with a man, who says about 5 words then pushes some buttons, and then repeats. I realise that this is the telephone exchange for the hospital. I am sat down at a computer and get given a head set and the number is dialled for me, 'this'll be easy' I think. "please enter you customer number."  I try typing it into the computer, "we must have your customer number in order to proceed" I look an the operator next to me.
"Good Bye". The man in charge looks at me expectantly. How do I explain that I need to enter customer number in order to even speak to someone?
Google translate is a brilliant tool!
Eventually I get through, and it turns out we may be covered, if we haven't travelled against our doctors recommendations. We didn't think to ask before flying, more stress, but the man in charge of the hospital is happy, he now thinks that we're insured.

So having done as much as I could do at that point, I went to see Louisa again, nothing had changed and nothing was about to happen. We decided that I needed to pick up the tent we had abandoned that morning. I got in the car, and made my way back to the camp site, taking a less direct route than the ambulance, but it was signposted. When I arrived I swung the car in next to the tent. As I did, a staff member spotted me, told me that I couldn't park there (in Italian of course) he had a discussion about where I could park, while I tried to explain that I was about to pack up and leave. It was an interesting game of charades! Eventually he walked off and left me to get on with it.

Then it came to paying the bill for the previous night, as it was past the standard checkout time I was expecting to have to explain that we hadn't been at the beach all day, but in the hospital, to avoid being charged for another night. Luckily, a young Italian man was checking in, he was back on summer holiday from studying in Birmingham, so his English was perfect (despite the brummy accent). I explained what had happened, and he told the camp director, who sympathetically charged me for only one night.

While I was packing up the tent I got a message from Louisa. She wanted me to buy her a nightie, some nana knickers and various other things. What a shopping trip this would be! I took a detour on the way back to the hospital. I had seen 'Vibo Central' advertised everywhere, so figured that this was the place to get everything I needed. It was, but in true Italian fashion, the advertising wasn't the most accurate. 'Vibo Central' was anything but central, and upon approaching it, I realised that this was where I had lost the ambulance.

Later on with my womanly goods purchased I returned to my wife, who despite the comings and goings of an Italian family visiting the woman in the next bed to entertain her, was somewhat lonely and fed up.
We decided that it was best to approach the doctor about what was happening. We discovered that one of the other patients spoke English and was able to translate for us.  Through her we were told that nothing was to be done that day and that we must wait until the morning. So we hatched a plan, and asked the doctor if Louisa could come and stay with me at the hotel rather than spend the night in the hospital. He hummed and ahhed a little then agreed, but explained that we must come back early in the morning to start the treatment, and that Louisa was not allowed to eat anything after midnight. Then with the most serious look explained that we must sign his register to discharge her. We were so grateful that Louisa wasn't required to stay in the hospital alone surrounded by crying babies and nosey relatives.

So we hurriedly packed up Louisa's things, under the curious eye of the relatives of the next bed.  They had no idea why there was an English woman that didn't look pregnant, laying in a maternity ward all day, who then packed up and left not having anything done. Unfortunately we didn't have a hotel already like we had told the doctor, but we were sure that there would be one close by. The Lonely Planet says little about Vibo Valencia and less about accommodation so we were forced into firing up the GPS on my phone and finding one that way. We wandered down the hill away from the hospital only to realise that we were going the wrong way. We then walked back up the hill, to find the one attraction in the town, a Church. The hotel we were aiming for either didn't exist, or thought it wise to hide all signage.  Luckily there was another nearby.  We enquired about a room, and after reasoning that insurance might help us out we agreed to the price. In honesty, we just didn't care anymore, and just wanted a quiet room and an internet connection.

But then we had the hardest job of the day, we still had to ring our parents and let them know they could no longer expect a grandchild in January. We sent a text to ready them for the unpleasant news, and waited for them to come online. To me it had all still seemed unreal until this point, as if there might be some other explanation, or that it might just go away, like a bad dream. But to start telling people, made it real. Kerry and Christine were the first to come online, and we broke the news. With Kerry's typically level head we discussed the options and any way that they could help.  Then we waited for my parents to come online. But true to style, mum had left her phone in the car, and when I called, I was greeted  by my niece Calie's cheerful voice. Eventually Mum came online, already knowing the news. We attempted to have a conversation, but neither of us could get the words out.

And so concluded the worst day of our lives. We spent the night in a lovely hotel room and in a comfy bed, but with hearts, plans and dreams shattered around the world. Needles to say, that sleep wasn't the easiest thing to come by.