I landed back in Lisbon after a whirlwind tour of the US — a family reunion in Michigan, an art show in Chicago, and an AI conference in San Francisco. It was a week before my 55th birthday. We got home in Cascais, and within minutes of walking through the door, my world came crashing down — literally and figuratively. A very large photo frame that had been taken off the wall and left standing on a shelf came down crashing on my hand as I kicked the shoe-shelf door shut on entering the house. The glass broke and cut straight through the tendons. I initially thought it was a simple cut, bleeding profusely. It took me about 6 hours when I was on operation table in an emergency room, to realize the impact.
What followed over the next eight hours I'd rather forget — and exactly why I'm writing this down, so it stays remembered on my terms. These are my notes for family and friends on the less instagrammable aspects of life in Portugal. Not happy memories but encouraging for those who have moved here as an expat.
Life catches you off-guard no matter how prepared you are. And trust me, I was prepared for the usual stuff. I'd stored the numbers, knew which private hospital was closest, had an insurance agent on WhatsApp. None of it made the next few hours painless — but all of it mattered.
CUF: The Private Hospital
In the next two hours I realized how lucky we were to live in a major Lisbon metropolitan area. When the nightmare scenario arrived, all testing scenarios came to pass.
A pharmacy in adjacent building, a great hospital only 10-mins uber ride away (that is available 24x7). We were so glad we lived in Lisbon area.
I walked to the pharmacy for supplies. The pharmacist took one look and told me to go to the emergency room. We were exhausted from the transatlantic flight.
We have private insurance policy. I quickly alerted my health insurance agent (Yann) about the incident and called an Uber to CUF, one of Lisbon's better private hospitals. My insurance agent — a Portuguese-French guy who is genuinely a godsend — was texting me support in real time(although it wasn't his job), in case I needed any help in English.
The admission to the hospitals, (private and later public both)- the insurance (Victoria) turned out to be lot easier than I anticipated. Coming from US - the terms copay, deductible were hounding me across the Atlantic but nothing was mentioned. The decisions we made to select the "Right" heath insurance policy was time tested.
At the ER, things were less chaotic than back in Chicago, and they prioritized me over other patients. I was assigned staff who could speak English. After a wait, a doctor examined me. My index finger wasn't lifting — which usually means nerve or tendon damage. When I told her, she realized the seriousness: this needed a plastic surgeon, and CUF didn't have one on call. She started making calls. Twenty minutes later, she'd found one — at a public hospital.
The Transfer
Twenty-five minutes and twenty-five euros later, we landed in another ER. It was packed, but the system moved with surprising precision. I was prioritized due to my wound and a large bandage.
I didn't have my número utente — the Portuguese healthcare number. "Never mind," they said, and signed me in on my resident card instead. The English-speaking triage nurse gave me an orange band. Portugal's system runs red, orange, yellow, green — red being closest to dying. Orange got me into room eight within fifteen minutes.
In the emergency room I was welcomed and treated by an amazing plastic surgeon who was kind and working at amazing speed.
The doctor unwrapped CUF's bandaging, and the bleeding started right back up. My surgeon spoke excellent English, cleaned the wound, and told me we were headed into emergency surgery.
The Surgery
Soon after, Local anesthesia, antibiotics and painkillers through an IV, X-rays. Then a second surgeon (also amazing) walked in — calm, clearly senior, quietly directing the first. For the next hour and a half, they worked on my hand: a tourniquet cinched around my arm to stop the blood flow, the wound opened, the severed tendons found and stitched back together, the skin closed over it. I watched all of it. The pain from the tourniquet was unforgivable.
This is a less graphic image, three weeks after the surgery.
At some point the lead surgeon told me, in her serious English, that this was a more serious accident than I'd let myself believe. That's when it landed. Not "recovery," not "inconvenience" — the actual possibility of losing function in my index finger. Tears rolled out of my eyes on the table, realizing what that actually meant for an artist and a typist. A frame falling off a shelf, and suddenly my life had a different shape than it had four hours earlier, arriving off a flight from Chicago with no idea what was waiting at home.
Today, 7 weeks after, typing these sentences slowly with my left hand — I have full realization of how different life is without the essential motor skills of my right hand. Now I start my PT from next week for getting my motor skills back.
Coming Home: The Blur of Recovery
We walked out of the ER around 9 p.m. like zombies — a full twenty-four hours since we'd left home in Chicago, between the flight, the time change, and the surgery. I still don't know what held us upright that day.
Pic from that night after the RETURN, in the comfort of my own bed.
The next two weeks are mostly fog. Hand elevated at all times, antibiotics, painkillers that thankfully weren't as necessary as I'd feared. I slept for what felt like days, jet lag and trauma doing similar things to a body. So did David, while handling everything else.
The Artist Part
Two weeks after the surgery, I decided to take the matters into my left hand. Sitting on the couch with hand elevated to avoid swelling was very depressing. I started working on my Artist companion app (voice first) and slowly started working on my two incomplete paintings. Sometimes, I use fingers instead of brushes, focused on the mood rather than technical perfection. The idea was to get the confidence back, that I can function with just my left hand if the case may be.
The paintings completed during recovery — each one a small act of defiance against the (st)illness.
Three Graces has gone to the framers. Its story — and the caregiving themes woven through it — is told in full in The Memories and Time.
A word on Portuguese Healthcare: What I Actually Learned
I have private insurance, and I was genuinely impressed — by both the private and public systems. People do wait long hours for non-urgent care, and I won't pretend otherwise. But every doctor and nurse I interacted with was compassionate and deeply professional. For anyone living here, or thinking about it, here's what I'd pass on:
- Our decision was spot on to stay in Lisbon. I am not sure we would have gotten this quality of care far away from major metro area. The quality of care was one of the best in world.
- The doctors are excellent. Every single one I met knew their work cold.
- Private and public hospitals, used together, work. CUF got me stabilized and referred; the public hospital did the surgery that saved my hand.
- Scope your hospitals in advance — like a cruise ship safety briefing, know your nearest exit before you need it.
- Learn survival Portuguese. A few plain words, not full sentences, are often the difference between being pushed back and being heard.
— Satish · Estoril, Lisbon · 2026
