This is not a political post about the difference between the jolly old NHS, that continues to limp along despite having no money, and the American health care system. I still don't entirely understand the American health care system. All I know is that we pay a large insurance premium every month and that if I get hit by a car the only thing I have to worry about is that I was hit by a car.
Upon arriving in the US and being presented by a breakdown of where Charlie's monthly salary goes, aside from into our bank, I was astonished at the amount we're paying for health insurance. Given that thesalarycalculator.com does not include such things in its calculations my first thought was 'they had better be using gold plated speculums and prescribing me diamonds'.
Given that I had a few other bits and bobs to figure out once we landed- like finding somewhere to live; finding another place to live because the sublet guy stopped answering his phone; hiding from the hotel receptionist because she figured out that I probably wasn't entitled to the 'employee's family discount' because my 'brother' was an African American man of a similar age to my white British father; and visiting the New Bedford DMV aka Worst place on earth- I didn't register with a doctor until recently.
Over here a GP is called your Primary Care Physician, I found that my main interaction with the medical world would be through PCPs hilarious and a bit gangster but it seemed to be lost on anyone else. Probably because they all have a PCP and also because it's not that funny.
Having found myself a doctor who had five stars on various mydoctorisntbeingsuedformalpractice.com themed sites (something else vastly different from the form in the UK) I booked in for a registration appointment. I have had registration appointments in the UK before, having moved about a bit, so thought I knew what I was in for: 7 minutes (or less if the NHS guidelines have changed since we left) of standard questions whilst sitting on a 1960's vinyl seat at a 90 degree angle to my doc's desk, maybe having a shiny light stuck in my ear but probably just told to pop back if anything needs seeing to. Not so in the US of A.
First I met the nurse, who was completely enchanted by my accent and demanded to know how much rent was in England. I was weighed, measured, had my blood pressure taken, questioned about everything I knew regarding my medical history and discussed my mental and emotional well being and health. I was starting to think I might have gotten in a muddle and that this was actually the doctor when I was informed that the first stage of my induction was over and my Doc would be in to see me shortly.
That is when the dreaded words were uttered:
"Just get undressed and the Doctor will be in in a minute"
I hate being asked to undress by a medic. Unless there is an obvious area to be examined such as your thigh whilst you are clad in skinny jeans, there is no way to know to what extent "get undressed" actually means.
Now starts the internal debate about to what degree to undressed before the Doc arrives and assumes you are a moron for either not understanding or ignoring the patiently obvious instruction to get undressed.
Just the jeans? Well if the jeans are coming off then the socks should to because you'll look stupid. But then being clad in a giant jumper (weather inappropriate clothing day but we'll speak of that another time) and my pants (American's- panties/underwear) looks unbalanced. So off with the jeans, socks and jumper- hmmm blood pressure cuff thingy won't work on top of shirt and shirt is too tight to roll up- ok off with that to. Down to pants and bra.. waiting for doctor. Hmmmm she said pap smear as well so that would really mean pants to, and they did leave a gown to put on so maybe I should take these off to? And what the hell why not the bra, in for a penny in for a pound.
So, clad in the hospital gown- opening at the front as it said on the label , atop the examination couch I waited the arrival of the Doc. Then that little voice in my head quipped:
"Wouldn't it be funny if the gown wasn't left out for you and they just wanted you to take you jumper and shirt off"
.....
Thus ensued the naked panic of a very finite amount of time before the doctor enters the room and discovers the naked English women.
Trying to calculate how many minutes I had taken creating my state of undress so as to work out how much time I had left before what could be a very uncomfortable situation, was made tricky by the lack of any windows. Not that it was such a vast amount of time that the movement of the sun in the sky would have helped, but it made the situation feel all the more acute.
My mental frenzy was interrupted by the doctor who, not shrieking with outrage at the sight of my hospital clad birthday suit, smiled and introduced herself. I had either gauged it just right or this was the most professional health care worker in the world.
A further hour of medical examinations commenced and lets just say it was thorough. I feel a bit like she should have bought me dinner first. This is health care people, but not as the British know it.
Sent on my way with a list of blood tests to report for downstairs and an assurance that my 'preventative health check' was free, I stepped into the Autumn sunshine feeling shell-shocked but in the full knowledge that if there was anything wrong with me, that woman would know about it.
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