A Tale of the NHS

The waiting room on my second attempt.

"We have one less number to wait," the chubby woman with a barber haircut and slightly German accent said as she nodded to the floor below the ticket dispenser.  She was advising the couple who had just sat down and were wondering aloud how long they were going to have to wait holding the No. 89.  No. 85 was on the being-served screen and No. 87 was on the floor next to the water cooler.

Once the advice from the woman sunk in, the very tall African man stood and put one long leg over the coffee table and then the next, bent over, picked up the stray ticket and returned to his mate, ticket in his beak - I mean hand.  She was an aged rocker - lamb skin lined leather jacket, similar hat, big sunglasses and heavily made up.  She giggled and thanked him in her slightly Spanish accent as they nestled into their little love nest of chairs between me and the slightly German woman.  It was all a bit sickening given their age.

But, they were chuffed now - one number less to wait.  Unfortunately for me, I held No. 88 and was now three in the queue rather than two.  After I had sat down, I had seen No. 87 on the floor.  My view was there was no point picking it up as it would only take them a few seconds to realise and skip over it.  Oh, well, my mistake.  It wasn't like I had a lot to do that day since I had set the day aside for my first experience with the medical side of Britain's National Health Service (NHS).

The news is filled daily with horror stories about the NHS and how terrible it is.  It's similar in New Zealand which also has a socialised health care system.  Having lived the first 27 or so years of my life in the USA, however, I've never understood what all the complaining was about.  I mean once you get over the brainwashing that teaches Americans that Socialism = Communism, the whole idea of socialised medicine is very appealing when you look at how expensive and how unfair the US system of everyone for themselves is, but I digress...

I'm not one to go to the doctor, but I had been having shoulder pain for two or three months and it had been getting progressively worse.  It had suddenly got to a point where, I wasn't able to reach back to take my mobile from my back pocket without pain shooting through my arm.  So, on Tuesday I had made an appointment for Friday to finally see a doctor.  And, FYI, I could have had an earlier appointment.  I chose Friday, because I had other things on during the week.

While I was in the mood for torture appointments, I also stopped off at the NHS dentist around the corner to finally see to the tooth that's been sometimes painful over the past two or three years.  I had to register there so that took a few minutes and then I set up an appointment for early on Thursday morning hoping it wouldn't take long.

I turned up at the dentist at 8:30 on Thursday morning and paid my £18 (unlike in New Zealand, the NHS covers some dental work here) and took a seat.  A few minutes later, I was in the chair with fingers in my mouth.  The dentist said she couldn't see a problem.  So, she took an x-ray and found a slight shadow under a filling in the problem tooth.  She wondered if that might be decay and the pain was being caused by the filling pushing up when I chewed.  So, she wanted me to come back for removal of the filling to see what was going on underneath.

After she cleaned my teeth which was a lot bloodier than any clean I'd had before (Rob says it was due to the laser they use now), I arranged an appointment at the desk on the way out.  I paid an additional £31.  The NHS rate for a procedure is £49 but if it's done within a month of the check-up you pay only one full fee.  This was all unexpected.  As I was starting out I was thinking, "How cheap is that?"  Hell, in NZ I would be paying at least $110 for each visit and I didn't want to think about what dental in the US cost these days.

I wasn't thinking about what I was doing though and next thing I knew I was heading for the ground and then bam! pain was shooting down my left arm, across my back and up into my head.  I had tripped up the three stairs to the door and had landed on my elbow and forearm of the already painful shoulder.   Pain was emanating from said shoulder and shooting every where and I wanted to scream, but there were a couple of people in the waiting room and I reckoned I'd already made enough of a scene.  So, I pushed myself up compounding the pain and dragged myself out the door where I stood next to a brick wall to catch my breath.

I was only two blocks from home.  So, once I gathered my senses, I started walking home feeling a bit sick.  Strangely, by the time I got to the light at the next corner it was all starting to feel better and by better I noticed the shoulder wasn't feeling as bad as it had before the fall.  By the time I got home, I noticed the shoulder was a lot better.  I could reach my back pocket without any pain.  The fall had knocked something into place.  I was sure of that based on the pain factor, but Rob was more skeptical when he got home that evening.

Turned out the doctor the next morning was skeptical as well.  I mean, all of the pain had not gone away, but it was certainly better than it had been.  The look on her face, though, said she didn't think the fall had anything to do with it.  I'm sure she was wrong.  She ordered up some x-rays and after I asked, she ordered up some blood tests for diabetes too - I have a bad family history on that one.

I was now sitting in the small waiting room of the NHS facility a few blocks from the medical centre holding ticket No. 88 and waiting for the big red number to start moving on from 85.  While we waited, an older woman came in and took a ticket.  She had No. 90.  She took a seat and the Spanish rocker leaned over and gave her No. 89, saying she'd now be one closer.  The older woman thanked her in some sort of Southeastern European accent.

This game of pass the ticket was going to go on for fucking ever!  And I could see the regret in the German woman's face for setting the game in motion.  Then, an older French woman entered the room.  She didn't have to speak for you to get that she just looked French.  She asked where you get the numbers.  We all, in unison, pointed at the dispenser.  She took a number and sat down.  Now, I wondered how long it was going to take.

The woman holding ticket Nos. 89 and 90 was fidgeting with them in her fingers.  It wouldn't be long now.  Sure enough she offered No. 90 to the French woman.  The French woman declined and hope had been restored.  Now, if no one else came in the glitch in the system could finally be corrected.

Finally, 85 on the screen change to 86 and the German woman went through the door for her blood letting.  The sudden movement of the numbers made something click in the Spanish woman's head.  You could see the wheels turning.  You see, there had been the German woman and me in the room when she and her partner had entered and now she was next, but I was still there.  When it finally dawned, she turned to me and asked me what number I had.  I told her No. 88.  She giggled again with the deep lines in her face scrunching up and said, "It looks like I jumped the queue."  "No worries,"I said as the German woman exited.  A few seconds later No. 87 appeared and off went the Spanish woman.

A few more seconds and 88 arrived on screen.  Clearly another blood technician had arrived.  I walked into the room.  There were two chairs and the Spanish woman smiled at me as I entered.  I took a seat.  The tech asked if I had eaten that morning and boom, I remembered the doctor had said it was a fasting test. And, boom, I had eaten that morning.  And, boom, I'd just gone through waiting room torture for nothing and boom, I headed out the door all my blood still intact and toward the lift to the the x-ray room.

The waiting room for the x-rays was even smaller, but the 'helpful' German woman was sitting there waiting.  She started up a conversation about this and that and what ails her and I suddenly realised that the British 'no talking' rule of the Underground didn't seem to apply in waiting rooms.  But then I also realised that not one of the people I met that day except for the doctor had been a born and breed Brit.

Anyway, she was there because she had broken her foot a while back and things didn't heal right.  Her little toe was floppy and it looked like the break might be splitting down her foot.  So, she was there for an x-ray.  And fortunately, it was then a woman came out of x-ray followed by the x-ray tech who then took the German woman away.

About five minutes later, she came out carrying her sneaker and sat down next to me.  As she put on her shoe, she apologised for helping those people queue jump.  She said she had been horrified when the man actually picked up the ticket.  She had just meant to point out that there was one less number to wait through.  She hated queue jumping and was very sorry.  I told her in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter and it was no problem.  She said that maybe, but she was the one feeling guilty.   And, it had fallen to the floor in the first place when she took her number.  Due to back problems she hadn't been able to pick it up.  She apologised yet again.

I thought, "What do I do now.  Go get a cat o' nine tails so she can preform some flagellation ceremony for redemption?"  I said, the only person who could have been harmed was me and I'm fine with it so there is nothing to worry about.  This led to a story about how her mother had told her that when you make mistakes it is best to apologise but to not try to explain because it just causes complications. Now, I was thinking, "Why don't you listen to your mother then?"

Fortunately, I was saved by the tech who called me in.  He asked what the problem was with my shoulder.  I told him and faced that skeptical look once again when I related the fall story.  He positioned me with my shoulder tight against the machine with my arm straight down with my palm turned out toward him.  I learned that this was one position that still hurt like hell and he had me hold it there for sometime while the x-ray was taken.  Then it was over.  He checked and reported no problems with the bones.  So, I guess the next step is going to be the ultrasound the doctor had mentioned, but I'm not sure if I have to call her or she calls me.

Anyway, I finally got the blood tests yesterday too.  The German woman had been truly helpful on making that easier on the second try.  She had advised not to turn up when they open, because everyone has that idea to be first.  It doesn't work.  Somewhere around 10:30 is much better and she was right.

When I got there yesterday, there was a man and a woman.  The woman was pacing the floor and making odd nervous noises.  A thirty something well- dressed British woman came out of from the room with the cotton wool taped to her arm.  The pacing woman blurted out, "How was it?"  The woman was a bit surprised by the question, but replied, "About average, I guess."

This sent pacing woman into a faster pace.  The man who turned out to be the thirty something's partner whispered, "I think we have a nervous traveller here."  Now, clear on her role, the woman corrected her earlier statement and said it had been great, no problems at all.  That slowed the pace, which was good, because pacing woman's number was up.  Through the door she went.

An older British woman came in and sat down.  When she heard the screaming and moaning from behind the door - pacing woman was not going quietly - she cracked a joke about what must be going on in there.  She was quite chatty about how her doctor hadn't filled in any of the test boxes.  So, she just picked the ones she wanted.  Clearly, chatting in a stress filled waiting room was A Okay in British society.  Then it was my turn.  I barely felt the needle go in and three vials later I was on my way.

My first experience with Britain's NHS had been absolutely fine and nothing like the publicity.  I can't say it was enjoyable, but it was certainly amusing.  My shoulder is getting progressively better, but so far I think I have only the dentist's steps to thank for that.  The best part was what would have cost about $60 in New Zealand and hundreds of dollars in the US cost me a big fat nothing here.