When dawn came (I can’t say “when I woke up,” because I didn’t sleep), I couldn’t wait to get out and find someone in Paris who could help me.

Our breakfast in the courtyard was lovely: croissants and fresh rolls, coffee with warmed milk, orange juice, yogurt, fruit, and granola. I enjoyed it as best I could.

We stopped at the desk to ask about a pharmacy or urgent care center. They suggested trying the pharmacy first (pharmacists in France can diagnose and even prescribe for some things). If the pharmacist couldn’t help, they could refer us to a medical facility.

It was short walk through our lovely St. Germain neighborhood on a crystal clear blue sky morning to the pharmacy. The lovely, young Asian pharmacist asked me many questions, trying to get a clear picture of what was wrong. First she suggested some medication, but when she found out I had been sick for eight days, she thought I should see a doctor. We got directions to a place that had urgent care and set out. It was a hot day, I was tired, feverish, and coughing, but I felt I was finally going to get some relief. Unfortunately, we turned the wrong way out the door of the pharmacy and had gone about 20 minutes before we realized we had to go back to where we had started, then 10 minutes in the other direction. Hope propelled me along.

The clinic was located in an old building that took up an entire block. The main entrance led into a courtyard, and we followed signs to the clinic entrance on the ground floor. I explained my situation to the woman at the desk and she directed us to the elevator. “My colleague on the 1^st floor can help you.” When we got out of the elevator, the stark and somewhat grungy room was lined with worn plastic chairs. An L-shaped counter had four numbered windows. There was a machine, like the ones at the DMV, where you select what you are there for, then take a ticket and wait to be called to a window. Since I didn’t know which ticket to take, I didn’t know where to go. Santo said to just ask one of the women.

I waited for one of the windows to be free, then asked the woman there if she spoke English. “A little,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?” I explained my situation again.

“So you would like to see a doctor?”

“Oui,” I said. “Is that possible?”

“We only have two general doctors. You will have to wait.”

“How long is the wait?”

“At least two hours.”

That’s when I broke down. I know now that two hours really is not at all an unreasonable amount of time to get emergency medical care, but hearing this released the tears that had been held back by the last shred of hope I had been clinging to. If the waiting area had been air-conditioned and comfortable, I knew I could do it. But sitting in this steamy room for two hours, at that moment, seemed unimaginable. I sat in a chair against the wall, Santo next to me, defeated.

The woman I had spoken with got up after a few minutes and went to one of the doctor’s offices. When she came back, she called me up and asked me for my passport. After taking my information, and a 25 Euro payment, she said that the doctor behind door number one (was this Let’s Make a Deal?) would be able to see me and I should wait for her to call me. I didn’t know if she had pleaded my case and I would be seen sooner, or if I would be waiting for hours, but waiting seemed the only thing to do in any case.

Less than twenty minutes later, a lovely middle-aged doctor in a white coat called me into her office (behind Door Number 1!), which was also the examining room.

“You need English, yes?” she asked.

“I do,” I answered. “I’m so sorry I don’t speak French. I am so grateful.”

Her English was halting, but competent. She listened to my lungs, but did no further examination, just questions about my symptoms, how long, etc. “We will take care of this,” she assured me. “I will give you everything you need.” She had smiling eyes, and was very sympathetic and patient. My angel of the day!

She prescribed an antibiotic (laughing out loud when I told her how we pronounce the word), an inhaler, nasal spray, and decongestant. “In two days,” she said, holding up two fingers, “you will begin to feel better.” I thanked her profusely, prescriptions in hand. We made the short walk to the pharmacy where the pharmacist filled the prescriptions on the spot, making sure I understood the dosing instructions.

Back in the hotel room, I took my medicine, changed into my nightgown, and crawled into the  cool sheets, hopeful that I might actually be able to sleep. I felt bad for Santo though. He loves Paris and was so looking forward to our time here. “I think I just need to rest for a while,” I said. “Later we can go out to dinner and do the night cruise on the Seine.”

“If we do, we do,” he said, “If we don’t, that’s OK, too. The important thing is for you to get better.”

“But I feel bad,” I said, breaking into tears again.

“There is no need to feel bad. I feel bad that you’re sick.”

“You go and enjoy the day,” I told him. “Get yourself some lunch, visit a museum, whatever you want.”

Even with the medicine, I still could not sleep in bed, so decided to sit up and do some writing. About an hour later, Santo texted me that he was having lunch at a sidewalk café and sent pictures of his choices. I was so glad he was enjoying a good meal and being out and about in Paris. In another hour, I was getting really weary and decided to try to sleep again. Just as I was getting into bed, Santo came back. He would rest in our solarium while I tried to sleep and heal. He had purchased tickets for the night cruise from the hotel that could be used any time. He had also brought back bread and cheese, so we could stay in for dinner, then enjoy the cruise.

I finally was able to get some sleep. When I woke up, Santo was writing at the small table in the solarium. He smiled, “You finally got some sleep!”

“Yes, thank God,” I said. “I’ll freshen up in a few minutes.”

“You’re not going anywhere tonight. You need to keep resting. We can do the cruise tomorrow night if you’re up for it. The most important thing is for you to get better.”

As much as I hated to spoil the evening for Santo, I was very relieved not to have to get up and out. We enjoyed our French picnic (we were getting very good at these European picnics), I took my medicines, Santo sipped wine from the bottle he had purchased, and we enjoyed Paris as best we could.