by Ella Visconti

I didn’t think I’d fall into the trap. The cliché American in a Scandinavian country, oohing and ahhing over how everything was so much better. That is, until late October, when, having caught some foreign bug, I found myself the sickest I’ve been since I was a little kid. It started as an ordinary cold; sniffling, sneezing, trying not to cough on my thirty-eight-minute ride into Copenhagen every day at rush hour, sandwiched between two Danes on a bench maybe meant for three in some other country, but certainly not here where everyone was a gorgeous, muscular giant.

But then things got worse.

Wednesday morning, lying with my feet hanging off my small cot, I awoke disoriented wondering why the house was so eerily silent, void of the usual morning mantra between Tilde and Charlotte over how today just isn’t a good day to go to school because she needs a new coat, or her bike wheel is squeaky, or the rain, or the call she has to make to the friend she made on holiday. I rolled over in bed, head sloshing like a fishbowl, and checked the time. 11:03. Oh, no. Is it normal to sleep for 15 hours? I peeled my remarkably clammy body from my sheets and dragged myself to the bathroom. Staring into the mirror, dizzy, tired, and oh so unbelievably hot, I coughed.

And coughed.

And finally stopped coughing to spit greenish slime into the pristine white sink that was inexplicably never dirtied in the past two months I had been here, a mystery I chalked up to the overall magic of Danish life. Horrified, I cleaned up the crime scene and slunk back to bed, pulling the blackout shades down to banish any sliver of piercing light cutting into my skull from outside.

In the comfort of darkness I could finally think. I had been sick for over two weeks, but things were getting out of hand. I could no longer ignore the fact that I couldn’t really breathe, and everyday things only got worse. To make matters worse, my rescue inhaler was sitting in the top right drawer of my desk at home thousands of miles away, forgotten in the chaos of packing a few months earlier. I had spent a week trying to “sweat it out”, my father’s motto, echoing in my head every time I went on a run, struggling through shuddered breaths. In fact, I had tried all my family’s controversial remedies, all the ways to convince myself I wasn’t really sick. Running, and when I became too sick for that, lifting weights, and when that was finally too much, going for brisk walks. Over the past week I had made a considerable dent in my rations of DayQuil and nasal spray smuggled into Denmark, using enough to drag myself through each day, but admittedly only making me sicker. As much as I tried to avoid my family’s indoctrination against rest I had subconsciously adopted it. I truly, deeply despised resting. I sighed. Well, I guess it’s time to do something about it.

How to go to the doctor in Denmark, I punched the keys into my phone looking through small slits in my eyes to protect myself from the screen. I could give in to figuring out healthcare and seeing a doctor, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask Charlotte for help like the idiotic helpless American I feared she would think I was. I knew it was irrational, she was perhaps the most caring person I had ever met, but in my delusional feverish fog I was determined to do this myself. Ok, you can do this Ella. I read the first result,“Call doctor on CPR card.” Really, that’s it? I didn’t get my hopes up. If I had learned anything in my pseudo-adulthood at twenty it was that nothing, absolutely nothing, was easy when it came to healthcare.

I dialed the numbers from my Danish social security card into my phone. After just a single ring a woman’s voice, speaking Danish, crackled over the line. After my usual fumbling to clumsily convey I was American, two minutes later, I was hanging up the phone, an appointment scheduled in one hour. Just one hour! No automated messages, no waiting music, no irritated receptionist telling me I can add my name to a waiting list of fourteen people and they will give me a call sometime “soon”.

In my groggy stupor I had forgotten that I had absolutely no clue where this doctor’s
office was. I typed the address into my newly downloaded Danish navigation app, Rejseplanen.
Three minute bike ride. Thank god.

#

Sweating from the feat of getting dressed, I climbed onto my trusty bike and set out, one
hand on the handlebar, the other precariously holding my phone out in front of me directing me
towards my destination. Atop my cheerful yellow bike, pedaling along the perfectly maintained
bike path, wearing a thrifted Danish sweater knit by who I dreamed was someone’s grandmother,
my journey could have perhaps been mistaken as an enjoyable one to passersby. In fact, it would
be a blissful bike ride if I wasn’t feverishly sweating through the sweater, my head didn’t feel
like it was floating, and every pedal wasn’t forcing a wheeze to erupt from my lungs. Still, the
discomfort of this bike ride paled in comparison to the misery of my trips to the doctor back
home. I chuckled at flashbacks of incessant highway honking, typical Mass-holes weaving
through traffic, and exhaust-filled four lane roadways plaguing the drive to my doctor’s office
hidden in a suburban strip mall.

In exactly three minutes as promised, I parked my bike in one of the dozens of bike
parking spots outside the office and nervously entered Karlslunde Lægeklinik. Immediately I
panicked, why was there no receptionist? Where was the familiar scene of disgruntled patients
mindlessly flipping through dog-eared drugstore magazines under fluorescent lights. Sitting on
stained waiting room chairs, depressingly extra-wide to accommodate America’s obesity
epidemic? The only other occupant of the clean and welcoming room, besides a few thriving
plants, was an elderly woman. I watched her take her CPR card and scan it under a barcode
reader at a kiosk at the front of the room. Hmmmm, might as well try that. I walked up to the
kiosk and after giving up trying to decode the Danish typed across the screen, I scanned my CPR
card and got a green check in response. Ok, seems promising. I sat down in one of the aesthetic
minimalist IKEA chairs and waited for something to happen.

Sixty seconds hadn’t even passed when a pretty, Amazonian-looking nurse approached
me, “Ella?”

For a second I was self-conscious of how utterly horrible I must look compared to her;
nose red and scaly from too many nose blows, eyes puffy and leaking, and that unmistakable
sheen of sweat on my forehead from a fever.

“Hi, yes, I’m Ella.”

She looked at me, confusion etched into her face.

“I’m from the U.S, I’m studying abroad here, living with a host family.” I responded to a
question so familiar in this town she didn’t have to ask it.

“Oh, how nice! Well, follow me and we’ll get you checked out.” To my relief, her voice
was caring and friendly, in contrast to her slightly intimidating appearance.

She led me back to an examination room with an expansive window overlooking the
kindergarten on the other side of the sleepy street. Through it, I watched children toddle around
in their outdoor classroom, stopping their mission of digging holes in the dirt, throwing leaves,
and hitting sticks together to wave at the occasional passing car or biker through the picket fence.
No matter how long I lived here, my awe at the outdoor kindergartens never faded. No matter the
weather, the children would be outside all day, only pausing to eat a nutritious meal of rye bread
and fresh figs which I’d learned from Charlotte. No wonder people here are never sick, they get
more vitamins and time outdoors by age five than most Americans get in their entire lives.

“So what’s going on?” she said.

I snapped out of my daydreaming to engage in the familiar rapport between nurse and
patient. When did symptoms start? Did I have a fever? Had I been out of the country? The
dialogue was a well-rehearsed script I’d practiced many a time back home.

“I’m going to prescribe you an inhaler to relieve the cough a bit and the symptoms will
get better with time,” she said. “You can pick it up at whatever pharmacy you would like.”

I was relieved to have my inhaler, but the rumors of European medicine were true. I was
certainly getting no medication stronger than an inhaler and I would just have to do the thing
foreign to a typical American, but completely alien to me…rest.

“Ok, thank you and do I have to do anything to check out?”

She looked at me confused again.

“Like is there a copay or anything?”

She looked even more confused. “Sorry, I am unsure what a ‘copay’ is, but no you are all
set.”

As I left the office I checked my watch. Twenty-one minutes had passed. Twenty-one
minutes for an entire doctor’s appointment. Oh my god, I love it here.

#

At the apotek one stop away on the suburban train I now knew to refer to as the S-tog, the
scene was foreign to me yet again. As I entered the posh atmosphere of the pharmacy, I had to
scan my CPR card, this time receiving a paper ticket with a number printed on it just like the
grocery store deli at home. Above me, TV screens displayed my number along with others in a
list flashing green when the pharmacist had the prescription ready. While I waited, I browsed the
aisles of the pharmacy. Herbal cough drops. Essential oils. Vitamins. Why is this like Whole
Foods as a pharmacy? Nowhere to be found were the cough suppressants, pain relievers, and
gummies promising browsers weight loss or an increase in brain activity. I was warned before I
came here that medicine was far more regulated, you even needed a prescription for only two
weeks of melatonin, but this felt alien compared to the products peddled in the horrific CVS
pharmacy waiting lines. Deep in the tea remedy section I noticed my number flash on the screen.

I approached the pharmacist, a responsible looking elderly woman, who, like so many
people here, had slowed not a beat despite her age, still possessing a youthful, energetic glow. I
handed her my slip of paper. There were no pleasantries; no small talk, no fluff. This
straightforwardness of Danes was something I had first found off putting, but had quickly gotten
used to, and even grown to appreciate. After going through the awkward transition from Danish
to English for the third time today, the no-nonsense expression creased into her face softened in
compassion, as though she was proud of me for navigating this system as a foreigner. I pulled out
my debit card expectantly. Yet instead of telling me the total, she walked me through, in explicit
detail, the proper way to use my inhaler. I nodded along, pretending I was well-rehearsed in this
type of attention and care from a pharmacist until the tutorial ended. Nervously waiting for the
price to pop up on the card reader, I pleaded, please don’t be too expensive. The number appeared
on the screen. 20 dkk. Less than three dollars? I gratefully tapped my card, thanked the
pharmacist, and headed towards the train station.

As I waited for my train I realized that yet again, Denmark had won me over. The level of
trust I had in the pharmacist, earned from the thoroughness and attention she invested in her job
was something I had slowly grown used to from every single person I encountered in this
country. There were no shortcuts, no “hacks” as we loved so dearly in the U.S, but instead a
commitment to doing things properly. It created a level of trust between nurse and patient,
pharmacist and customer, even train conductor and passenger. I never doubted my train would
arrive exactly on time, just as I never doubted someone would steal my bike when I left it
unlocked outside the doctor’s office. Even with a cough and chills, I couldn’t help but think to
myself, everything might actually be better here.

#

As I swung around the bend and into the yard, I noticed the two bikes left in the
driveway. Charlotte and Tilde were home. Parking my bike next to them, the adrenaline faded
with my mission complete and I was left plagued by exhaustion. Before I could even get in the
house, Charlotte was waving to me through the window as she always did when I got home from
class. I mustered up the energy to give her a weak smile and wave back, but I watched her grin
give way to the look of motherly concern I had seen so many times on my own mother.

Meeting me at the door, she assessed my complexion, her face crinkling further with
worry, “Oh my, are you ok?”

Although wrought with concern, her face was still bright and kind. Curly strawberry
blond hair framed her freckled face. She wore her hair in two loose pigtails as she often did after
work before starting to cook dinner and I could never help but think of her as Pippi
Longstocking, grown into a tall, beautiful woman. Caring, curious, and sometimes a little
superhuman, Charlotte was one of those people I knew I’d never meet again.

“Um, sorta. I am really sick, but I went to the doctor and got an inhaler so that should
help some.”

She stared at me, eyebrow furrowed, “The doctor. You did that by yourself? How did you
know what to do? Why didn’t you ask me? Please tell me you didn’t ride your bike there.
Seriously, why didn’t you ask me?!”

I struggled to think of a lie. Because I didn’t want to bother you? Because I’m weirdly
ashamed to be sick in this place where everyone’s immune system is apparently impenetrable?
Because I want you to like me as much as I like you? Instead I shrugged and decided to tell a
partial truth, “It wasn’t too hard to figure out at all.”

As if sensing this conversation was exhausting the last remnants of my energy for the
day, she dropped it. “Well, how about you put your bag down and come join us for a puzzle.”
She gestured to Tilde diligently organizing pieces in the other room.

I nodded and shuffled to my room feeling too weak to even lift up my feet enough to take
regular steps.

As soon as I set my stuff down Charlotte was in my door frame, peering into my room as
if searching for something.

“No tea?” The level of alarm in her voice struck me as quite odd.

“Um, no?”

“Ah, we must get you some tea right now. How will you get better with no tea?”

“Um, I don’t know?”

“Come along,” she said sternly.

As I went to follow her, she looked even more horrified. “No socks? No slippers? No
wonder you are sick,” she berated me. A few months ago her tone would have scared me, but by
now I was unphased, even appreciative of her honesty and directness, so rare an experience back
home.

A bit confused, but following orders, I pulled on my new thick wool socks, purchased
because Charlotte deemed my small running socks “inadequate” for the winter months, then
sheepishly followed her to the kitchen.

Rifling through her infinite tea collection, she let out a small “aha!”, finding what she
was looking for and then opened the brown paper bag she had brought home.

“You will have a scone with lemon curd?” she asked. I held back an eye roll. I’ve lived
here long enough to know this isn’t really a question.

I smiled. “I’d love one.”

I watched as she cut into the still warm scone in half and slathered a generous layer of
lemon curd on top of each. Then she poured me a steaming mug of chamomile tea, stirring in the
raw creamy honey I’d grown addicted to.

This is like being sick in a storybook. Thinking back to my sick days as a child, I
remembered my mom calling during her lunch break to check in on me, and my dad caring for
me in his own unique way by forcing me to gargle salt water at 6:30 am before he left for work
while I gagged and complained. I hadn’t realized until now that I’d always secretly dreamed of
this fairytale treatment staying home sick.

Handing me my steaming mug and scone, she poured herself her daily cup of rhubarb tea
and shooed me out into the living room. Warm afternoon light cast a glow on one thousand
puzzle pieces waiting to be assembled. We settled down next to each other, picking out which
sections of the puzzle we would each focus on.

“I expect you to work on this while I am at work this week,” she joked sternly.

“Ha I wish but classes…”

She cut me off immediately, “Class? No, no class. You must rest. Drink tea and rest. You
need to get better.”

I laughed, then regretted it immediately as laughter turned to a fit of coughing, soothed
only by a careful swig of tea. “Ok, ok, I will rest.”

Pleased with a battle easily won, Charlotte gave her nod of approval.

Biting into the most perfectly soft, buttery scone, only made more divine by the tangy
melted curd on top, I sighed deeply with contentment. I had succumbed to the cliché. I held out
as long as I could, but I couldn’t deny the truth. Life was better here, even sickness.