Part 58 - Health Wars

It was Friday afternoon, and the stabbing pain I was feeling forced me to my sad, but inevitable conclusion. I was going to hospital.

Awesome. Great. Excellent.

My doctor checked me out before hand, and her gentle manner made the examination she had to perform far less...intrusive. We found nothing and I headed for the bug, white building.

I checked in at the local private hospital, hoping to take advantage of the thousands of dollars that had been poured into my private health care fund over the last 5 years. What a wonderfully deep pool to take advantage of! I thought. I kept thinking of the pile of gold coins that Scrooge McDuck used to swim in.

The nurses where incredibly helpful, and the waiting room could be described as peaceful. Boring in my book, but probably calming for some.

The emergency room doctor was rough. That’s the best way to put it. I have noticed that foreign doctors, who are used to “tougher” patients, don’t quite have the bed side etiquette that a locally trained doctors have.

I once saw a doctor from South Africa. He was black. He needed to remove some crap from my neck. He asked me if I wanted some painkillers, to numb the pain. He told me that in Australia (specifically Berwick); women would come in and ask him for (serious) painkillers for headaches. He thought it was ridiculous. He said in South Africa, people had a much higher tolerance for pain, and would undergo basic procedures without any pain-numb-ers. “Numb me up,” I said.

So, the rough emergency room doctor was rough, and made me sore. There was no need to shove that missile shaped object so forcibly.

The rough doctor had no idea what was going on, and suggested I be attached to an IV drip, and stay the night in the hospital. I was ready for this disappointing news. But, before I could be settled in, I was advised, somewhat reluctantly by the nurses, that my private health care did not cover this type of hospital stay and that I would be out of pocket $900 for the bed for just one night.

My health care covers some very specific things; including accidental injury, dentistry, as well appendix related emergency. However, what it did not cover was everything “other”. So anything not specifically mentioned was not covered.

I couldn’t help but laugh. That pool of gold coins, I guess, would remain un-swam-ed.

The private hospital experience was a very interesting one that can be best described in the following 3 points:

- So (so very very) quiet

- Clean. Sterile, sure, but like a house that has been cleaned too many times that day. Like a place where the soul has been vacuumed away, the ambiance scrubbed out of the walls.

- Long waits, large fees

So off to public care we went. Clayton. I wasn’t happy about that. Going back to the fucking ‘burbs.

The public hospital was familiar to me thanks to recent runs to Royal Melbourne. The hustle, the bustle. The noise. The sheer noise. It was alive. It was pumping. It was great.

I felt so much more comfortable there. Even in the waiting room, even after I was checked in and had to wait some more. I sat quietly, with my book, and read and read and read.

I stayed in hospital until approximately 4 in the morning. The doctor, who was gentler than his private counter-part, was not able to find an issue with me. I was rather downtrodden by this response. I had spent some 8 hours now, sitting in two hospitals, and nobody knew what was wrong with me.

“Go home, take some Panadol and Nurofen.”

The public hospital experience was a very interesting one that can be best described in the following 3 points:

- Busy. You can hear lives being saved, people being taken care of.

- Clean, sure, but alive with energy.

- Long waits, no fees

So, finally home, Panadol and funnily enough, the pain subsided rather quickly. It’s funny how the hardcore (not a reference to American Punk scene circa 1981 to 1986) painkillers had had no affect on this specific pain, but regular old Panadol did the job.

The public/private hospital experience had one thing in common. Every time someone in a uniform approached you, you had to explain everything to this new person again. You go to triage, and give that nurse your info. They write it down, into a computer. I am not sure if they are saving the info, or just practising their dictation skills.

The reason I say this is because when I see the next person, I have to explain it all to them again. Okay, you’re busy. Fair enough.

But then the doctor comes along, and I have to explain it to that nigga too. And every time, everyone is writing everything down. For what? For records? Records people don’t check. After all my hours sitting on my arse, waiting. After the “fuck you!” from the private hospital. After the “we don’t know what’s wrong with you,” it was the constant “So, what is wrong with you?” question that really got me down.

Got love the fact that a leftie like me preferred the public experience.