Less than 24 hours from now, a man will render me unconscious and use a wicked sharp blade to carve off a big unnecessary lump of me.
I don’t think I’d be human if this prospect didn’t bother me just a little bit.
At least I don’t have to worry about health insurance, I suppose.
:: Read on
Those crazy Republican fuckers are right, socialized medicine sucks.
When I lived in America, I had cause to interact with its world-class health service twice.
The first time, I was in LA at a conference.
After a heavy night of boozing, I woke up with a big throat problem, my uvula swollen up so bad I could hardly breath, and went to the nearest walk-in ER.
The doctor diagnosed two serious diseases, both potentially fatal.
He prescribed me $300 worth of pills and pointed me in the direction of the nearest Rite-Aid.
The condition itself cleared itself up within about five hours. I called my mum, an NHS nurse, and she told me I was merely dehydrated due to a massive hangover.
The side-effects of the medication, on the other hand, kept me in a state of constant gut pain for a week.
A few days later, I received a $100 hospital bill and a $200 doctor’s bill, which I duly sent off to my health insurance company.
Several years later, I ran a credit check on myself and discovered that the hospital had been chasing me for five years over the bills, which my insurance company had refused to pay for bureaucratic reasons unknown.
I had a $600 hangover and a big black mark on my credit rating.
The second time I visited a doctor in America, I was in agony with what I shall refer to as “lower back pain”.
I couldn’t even get to see a doctor.
The insurance card in my wallet apparently wasn’t an insurance card, for reasons beyond my ken, and the cunt of a receptionist refused to even give me a ballpark figure of what it would cost if I paid out of my own pocket.
I ended up having to go to an ER again, paying $100 for meds and receiving another silly-big bill that my insurance company refused to pay.
I still have no idea why. The manual the insurance company sent me, explaining what I was and was not covered for, was as thick as a fucking phone book.
*
I moved back to the UK in late 2007.
The plan was to hang around for a couple months and then head off to Asia for a year. I figured I’d need some shots.
I was 14 or 15 last time I visited my National Health Service family doctor (in the UK, they’re called GPs). Half my life ago. That was enough time for my records to be expunged from their system.
So I called up to make an appointment.
“Are you registered here?” the receptionist asked.
“No,” I said.
“Okay, that’s not a problem,” she said. “We can have you fill out a form. Can you make Wednesday at 2pm?”
I showed up at Wednesday at 2pm, dreading the form.
I had to fill out my name, address, telephone number and date of birth. It took all of 30 seconds. I did not have to provide ID.
After a five-minute wait I got to see the nurse practitioner. She asked me which countries I was going to, then checked on a computer to see what the current vaccination advice for these countries was.
She made me an appointment for the following week to get the first of my shots.
The next week, I showed up, and she gave me the first shots. I was now pretty much immune to tetanus and two flavours of hepatitis. Which was nice.
I had two more appointments over the next two weeks, to receive the rest of my injections. Because that’s how the medicine works: you need to take a course.
Despite it being essentially elective treatment, I didn’t have to pay for any of it.
I then went to Asia and didn’t contract any nasty diseases.
I’ve been back in the UK for some months now.
Recently, I decided to get something checked out.
I’d had it for a while, but I’d self-diagnosed using the internet and figured out it was the kind of thing that is so trivial that doctors often don’t even bother treating it.
But it was beginning to annoy me, so I called the same GP and asked for an appointment.
“Are you registered here?” the receptionist said.
“No,” I said.
“Okay, that’s not a problem,” she said. “We have nothing tomorrow. Can you make it Wednesday at 2pm?”
I showed up Wednesday at 2pm, filled out the same form with my name, address, phone number, and date of birth. I did not have to provide ID.
I asked if I could officially register with the practice. I was told it might be a problem as I lived outside the surgery’s catchment area and I might have to pick somewhere closer to my home.
I waited for five minutes before I could see the doctor.
I went in. The implausibly cheerful doc took all of 45 seconds to confirm my self-diagnosis, tell me there was nothing to worry about, and refer me to a specialist.
He then called through to reception and asked them to officially register me with the surgery, without being asked.
The next day I went in, filled out a form, had a five-minute medical.
Didn’t have to pay anything for anything.
In my limited experience, there is nothing worse than the American healthcare system, and I’ve been to hospital in Vietnam.
:: Read on