The Vainglory of Socialised Medicine
A very powerful question was proposed to me a year ago by my tres transglobal friend Charlie, which will ascertain one's true origins. It was,
If you were really ill or in need of a surgical procedure, which country would you want to be in?
The question is more effective than an immigration officer in tall boots. I was a stars-and-stripes chequered liberal bygone fantasy. Blushing at this reality check, I recalled my second-hand experience with hospitals in Central Europe when, my friend Craig, an intrepid Scotsman, found himself with a goiter enlargening in his neck like a bacteria-coated baked-potato, reheated, twice. (Think: Botulism. But in his case, he was burning the candle from both ends and questionably burning one thing in particular too much.)
He's tough though. A true Scot. Tough enough for Czech hospitals. Which is not to condemn the institutions itself nor the workers in it, of whom are gratefully Slovakian and are highly qualified (Czech Docs go West; Czech nurses go to Saudi Arabia in the economic circ
le), but the rubles of post-communist countries. After the Curtain unveiled itself, the tools and rooms and equipment have not been replaced and somehow the bystander and undoubtedly the patient, picks up on these objects because the decor is also equally dour. (Grey-coat paint, crooked Baroque paintings and a television with one channel.)
That evening when I wandered around the hospital courtyard trying to translate Czech medical terms to locate his unit, which was Stomatology, which does not refer to the stomach as one might preclude, but that of the mouth, so I had to stumble in the wrong places. Places where no sentient being would choose to be. The eeriness of the situation had me moving through empty rooms where only souls lie horizontal revealing wheelchairs with studded wheels behind half-opened curtains and gurneys from WWII military units. Roman Polanski couldn't have done better.
Or recalling treatments further East in Bosnia-Herzegovina, where a basic hernia surgery will keep a man bedridden for three months and he'll have a six-inch stitch to show for every lover and beach goer. In Srpska, prescriptions know no expiration date and/or are receiving cheaper versions from China. Scary.
But those two examples are geopolitically nullified. Now, West of what Michael Palin raves about as the less discovered Europe, I am safely harnessed in a British brace and heretofore, I can assess Western socialised medicine. Because after four months of touch-and-go preliminary research, I've finally acquired all the forms and paperwork to be on the National Health Plan. It can take awhile between work and shop to find a clinic that is still accepting new patients but I have been let in through the gates.
My borough is off the famous/infamous Brick Lane, where I'm a minority in what is a Bengal block. My Doc speaks English with an Asian inflection just gracefully- save for her reticence on choosing the right action verbs to describe processes that weren't outside her scope. Inflame instead of spread, par exemple. Having not seen a Doc in over two years, and ready to fire a host of questions collective from me and my Mother, I was ready to get a full-on poke and prod. What I got instead was 10 minutes.
If you were really ill or in need of a surgical procedure, which country would you want to be in?
The question is more effective than an immigration officer in tall boots. I was a stars-and-stripes chequered liberal bygone fantasy. Blushing at this reality check, I recalled my second-hand experience with hospitals in Central Europe when, my friend Craig, an intrepid Scotsman, found himself with a goiter enlargening in his neck like a bacteria-coated baked-potato, reheated, twice. (Think: Botulism. But in his case, he was burning the candle from both ends and questionably burning one thing in particular too much.)
He's tough though. A true Scot. Tough enough for Czech hospitals. Which is not to condemn the institutions itself nor the workers in it, of whom are gratefully Slovakian and are highly qualified (Czech Docs go West; Czech nurses go to Saudi Arabia in the economic circ
le), but the rubles of post-communist countries. After the Curtain unveiled itself, the tools and rooms and equipment have not been replaced and somehow the bystander and undoubtedly the patient, picks up on these objects because the decor is also equally dour. (Grey-coat paint, crooked Baroque paintings and a television with one channel.)That evening when I wandered around the hospital courtyard trying to translate Czech medical terms to locate his unit, which was Stomatology, which does not refer to the stomach as one might preclude, but that of the mouth, so I had to stumble in the wrong places. Places where no sentient being would choose to be. The eeriness of the situation had me moving through empty rooms where only souls lie horizontal revealing wheelchairs with studded wheels behind half-opened curtains and gurneys from WWII military units. Roman Polanski couldn't have done better.
Or recalling treatments further East in Bosnia-Herzegovina, where a basic hernia surgery will keep a man bedridden for three months and he'll have a six-inch stitch to show for every lover and beach goer. In Srpska, prescriptions know no expiration date and/or are receiving cheaper versions from China. Scary.
But those two examples are geopolitically nullified. Now, West of what Michael Palin raves about as the less discovered Europe, I am safely harnessed in a British brace and heretofore, I can assess Western socialised medicine. Because after four months of touch-and-go preliminary research, I've finally acquired all the forms and paperwork to be on the National Health Plan. It can take awhile between work and shop to find a clinic that is still accepting new patients but I have been let in through the gates.
My borough is off the famous/infamous Brick Lane, where I'm a minority in what is a Bengal block. My Doc speaks English with an Asian inflection just gracefully- save for her reticence on choosing the right action verbs to describe processes that weren't outside her scope. Inflame instead of spread, par exemple. Having not seen a Doc in over two years, and ready to fire a host of questions collective from me and my Mother, I was ready to get a full-on poke and prod. What I got instead was 10 minutes.Ten minutes.
What was on the top of my worry list was the 2-lettered leper, TB. Considering my time out East of here, with reason to believe that the chronic lung-hacking which was honeycoated with plum brandies, was something more serious. So I had reason to believe that I was exposed to TB. And I was fearful that I could be putting others here in the Kingdom at risk. So I had insisted on getting a simple bubble in the arm test.
What was on the top of my worry list was the 2-lettered leper, TB. Considering my time out East of here, with reason to believe that the chronic lung-hacking which was honeycoated with plum brandies, was something more serious. So I had reason to believe that I was exposed to TB. And I was fearful that I could be putting others here in the Kingdom at risk. So I had insisted on getting a simple bubble in the arm test.
What I was entirely conceptually unawares of, is that Britain doesn't do that kind of test, and will not do any kind of test unless they have evidence to believe that I do possess the disease.
So symptomatic treatment is the methodology at work.
I asked my Doc twice to reiterate and she continued to kill the seconds by elaborating on coughing blood and fevers. TB though, can be dormant for many years before it shows signs. So, after throwing an emotional fit, she was persuaded that I would get a Heaf Test, provided that we follow protocol, which meant that I had to make a case that I would be exposed to TB-infected populations. I didn't think that was a strong case. But because I live in Tower Hamlets (Brick Lane, Bengal bliss), TB is rampant, and thus, we made the case. I showed to be unprotected for TB through and 48 hrs later, I got vaccinated for life.
But I had other terms to discuss.
Alas, TEN MINUTES.
This is just the clinics. Britain erstwhile is going through a MRSA (bedbug) crisis with Britons going to France to avoid lines and even India for affordable private treatment. My parents and yours go North or South for their pills. I don't blame them. I blame the HMOs, the insurance premiums, and the pharmaceuticals.
But the Docs? The facilities? How much of those branded Pfifer pens and schmoozing white coats on 18 holes in Aspen are providing the medical infrastructure and how much of that infiltrates the public health sector?
Where to from here?
But I had other terms to discuss.
Alas, TEN MINUTES.
This is just the clinics. Britain erstwhile is going through a MRSA (bedbug) crisis with Britons going to France to avoid lines and even India for affordable private treatment. My parents and yours go North or South for their pills. I don't blame them. I blame the HMOs, the insurance premiums, and the pharmaceuticals.
But the Docs? The facilities? How much of those branded Pfifer pens and schmoozing white coats on 18 holes in Aspen are providing the medical infrastructure and how much of that infiltrates the public health sector?
Where to from here?
Maybe they're doing something different. One little coup is that my Doctor thinks in less than ten minutes flat that I need therapy, which by the way, is free at the mercy of taxpayers.
Thank you denizens of Britain!
posted by kc at 20:26
