When we dream of moving to Paris, our heads (my head) are filled with romanticism: the beautiful architecture, the sky unencumbered by skyscrapers, the stores on every street bursting with color of seasonal fruits and vegetables, the cafés where one can order an expresso and then sit for hours, a city full of walkers-everyone walks and enjoys walking. What we don’t think of until we are here and in need is the strictness of French bureaucracy, black and white. Either you accept it or you drive yourself mad trying to figure out ways to make it move faster. And the fact that everyone speaks French. Which, depending on our schooling, when arriving in our adopted country, we come with different levels of fluency.
For the first three or four years, I would take someone with me when applying and reapplying for my one-year residency card, renewable yearly. I kept my US health insurance not realizing that I could apply for the social security and carte vitale after I’d lived here for over three months (That may change. The French parliament is proposing that US retirees pay a fee for their carte vitale). Once I got my Carte Vitale, I looked for doctors who spoke English again not realizing that they charged at least 50% more for that service. But I was too afraid that I would miss something crucially important if I depended on my B2 level of French.
Recently I have been struggling with a few issues: intense vertigo being the main health issue that I worry about. I’ve always had some form of vertigo although it would go away for years. It has returned with a vengeance. After I returned from the trip to Spain in September, it hit on a Monday, more of an attack. By Tuesday evening, I was crawling around on all fours. I’d had some neck pains before I left and thought I’d taken steps to deal with my neck.
If you have never had vertigo, it is not only awful, it’s frightening, debilitating. The world spins around at high speed making most people nauseous. You start to vomit and can’t stop even when there is nothing left. Vertigo is not a matter of life and death (although I once got it while driving on the freeway from Walnut Creek to Oakland. I had to pull over and lie down on my front seats until it passed). Vertigo is isolating. With this last episode, I have had no idea when it would hit or what triggered it. Lying flat I knew was one culprit. I didn’t go to any of my gym classes. A heaviness like a cycle helmet of concrete hung around my head at all times. I was afraid to move my head from side to side. I probably looked to others like my spine extended through my head and I had abandoned all flexibility.
My doctor, who speaks English, referred me to a Vertigo clinic but I couldn’t get in for four weeks. Everyone I knew who had had some experience with vertigo had advice for me. And I was willing to try anything. Now six weeks after the first onset, I don’t feel very educated on what’s wrong. I know it has to do with crystals in my right ear and getting them to return to their proper place. However, with age, crystals tend to get stuck and refuse to budge making balance a very precious commodity. The doctor at the vertigo clinic induced vertigo then sent me home. I was upset. And scared to do one of the maneouvers that is supposed to budge those pesky crystals back into their proper place.
This week I went to a kiné. A kinesteologist but different from American kinestheologists. They are a combination of osteopath, massage, and physical therapy. Cédric, I was told, speaks English, I was told wrong. And once more I have found myself in the hands of a health professional communicating in French. The first time I went to a health professional who spoke no English, I used my translator, DeepL, to write out in English what the problem was and what I hoped for. DeepL would translate into French and I’d make a word document which I’d take to the professional. Today, I told myself to trust that I spoke fairly good French and just go. I couldn’t help but think of Ginger Rogers doing everything that Fred Astaire did but backward and in heels. That’s the way it feels. I’m going to my doctor. I’m going because I need the wisdom and expertise of a health professional. I’m doing it all in French.
I’m told by French people that my French is fine. I think that means I get along. I couldn’t possibly go to a French movie without subtitles, enjoy it, then go to coffee with friends and have a discussion. Half the movie would be in argot (slang). The only place I know to hear pure French so I practice is the news. I prefer France 24. But I’m not a great fan of the news at the moment.
So I struggle along. If I were completely healthy, I think living in French is hard work, it’s tiring. I forget that. Now, dealing with vertigo, and living in French, I’m tired a lot. I don’t like being tired. I judge myself and feel old. My Irish doctor says vertigo has nothing to do with age—get over it. If only….
Would I trade all that in to return to the States and deal with that health care system and converse with doctors in English? Not on your life. This is a small price to pay. And truth be told, I need every kick in the ass I can get to keep practicing my french.
A bientôt,
Sara
Out My Window 