The Socialist Emergency Room

Friday night at dinner, my American friend Kathleen noticed that one of my knuckles was deeply bruised. When I glanced at my hand to see what she was talking about, I was surprised to see that my knuckle was a deep hue of purple. Kathleen and my husband, Craig expressed their concern over the injury. The bruise didn’t bother me because neither the knuckle nor the finger hurt. Kathleen’s husband didn’t get involved with the diagnosis.

Upon waking the next morning, Craig wanted to look at the affected finger and was shocked to see that the discoloration had taken over the entire finger. Still, it didn’t hurt unless I applied pressure to the finger. I was able move the finger without any discomfort.

Thinking I had some hideous disease that was eating away at my body (Ebola or leprosy I’m sure crossed his mind) Craig insisted I call a doctor. The first doctor answered his own phone, but told me that he wasn’t seeing patients that day. The other GP in town only had an answering machine to which I could relate my troubles.

Craig decided that I must go into the big town to the emergency room at the hospital. The purple was spreading and he didn’t relish the idea of running errands with me looking like Barney the Dinosaur.

We loaded ourselves into the car just as the church bells were striking the lunch hour, and that made both of us wonder out loud whether emergency rooms in France are open from noon to three.

They are.

However, upon arrival, there was no one manning the reception desk so we had to ring for service. Waited for a response. Described the problem. The nurse buzzed us in. Then we waited for the nurse to appear to make a triage assessment.

After a brief wait, the pert nurse, with short cropped hair, beaming a big smile, came out to look at my finger. She asked me a few questions about how the finger was injured. (I didn’t have a clue.) She told me to take a seat and they’d get to me when they were free.

I sat down and Craig and I debated whether the nurse had told me that my problem was “pas grave” or “grave.” The first interpretation meant that we were idiots for coming to the emergency room. The second meant that Craig might be cashing in my life insurance policy soon.

There was a sign on the wall outlining what patients could expect from the hospital. You American readers will get a hoot out of this one: Everyone can expect to have access to the best care our facility can provide regardless of your financial situation!

There was a sign posted at the vacant receptionist desk that warned me that my waiting time would be determined by the severity of my injury, not by my status on the waiting list. So the fact that I had skipped lunch to be at the head of the line meant nothing. Some selfish stroke victim would be allowed to cut in front of me after they had partaken of a hearty lunch.

When we arrived, my husband and I were the only ones sitting in the waiting room. However, ambulances kept sneaking in and dropping off patients who had no intention of wasting their time standing in line for care.

Three hours later, the nurse came to get me and took me back to the examining rooms.

Leaving the quiet waiting room, where I had now been joined by a crying family, and an impatient woman who had fractured her wrist, I entered a long, wide, and very busy hallway flanked by examining rooms on each side. The facility was immaculately clean; state of the art; and buzzing with doctors and nurses. I’ve been admitted to several emergency rooms in the U.S. and I am reporting to you that this small town hospital surpassed the ones I had previously seen in cleanliness and modernity.

The nurse examined me again, and then told me a doctor would come to see me. While I waited, I assessed the victims that were being wheeled before me and they ran the gamut from heat attack victim, horse riding accident, motorcycle accident, old age, broken arm, and one broken ankle.

The staff was extremely cheerful, and even the patients who were in pain couldn’t help but smile back. I felt as if I was in some Twilight Zone episode which revealed a strange country that had very clean modern hospitals, free health care, and extremely solicitous staff.

The female doctor told me that nothing much was wrong with me. Perhaps I had been bitten by a spider. Since I had the full range of movement in the finger, and it didn’t hurt, she wasn’t going to do anything. She said the discoloration might spread; but that I was not to worry unless it went past my wrist. Then I should return to the hospital. I should also return if a fever developed in my hand. She smiled kindly throughout the consultation.

Oh, I almost forgot. I didn’t have to fill out one form. The nurse wrote my address down on a sticky note!

Clean, modern hospitals; friendly staff; free healthcare for citizens (cheap for foreigners); no paperwork . . . God I hate socialized medicine!