Bad Medicine

I don’t wish to sound ungrateful.

In comparison to many countries, most of which are in Africa and the Americas, our health care system probably looks quite sound. I know there are people who might think me harsh. It’s just that … well… I do pay a LOT of tax. And I just don’t think I’m getting very good value at the moment. I don’t use the criminal justice system, the BHG (bless her) learns more from Foxtel and Better Homes and Gardens magazines than high school, I don’t use public transport and I don’t even drive very far to make use of Boganvillea’s roads. So I therefore tend to think that my thousands of tax dollars are keeping at least a dozen elderly folk in Pal and cuppa-soups.

 

But I feel particularly ripped off in regards to medical services. I do, as we know, watch an abnormal amount of T.V. I was practically raised by a television. I shudder when I see travel brochures for resorts that are ‘TV-and-phone-free’. AHH! EEK! What would I DO without Grey’s Anatomy? Private Practice? E.R.? Get me the remote… STAT!!!

Yes, I do realise that these medical dramas ‘are not the real world’. I’ve taken enough family and friends to the casualty section of the hospital to know that George Clooney is not going to swoon out and offer to ‘take a look at it’ for me. But really, do health care staff (my lovely local GP excluded) have to be so bloody rude and rough??? And if possible, could they learn to speak English?

If I had more guts (or could be bothered being a politician) I’d very possibly implement a system whereby I give a verbal rating of each professional as they tend to me (or my loved one). A bit like those warnings you get on the phone when talking to an automated bank message that says your call may be monitored for quality and training purposes. I had such a situation today, where a rating system could've been useful.

Crap Health Care Professional (CHCP): You’re finished the scan. You can get dressed and let yourself out.

Me: Act-u-al-ly,  I’d like us to rate your professionalism, skill and scan-side manner on a scale of one to ten. ‘One’ being shit and ‘ten’ being impossible to attain given that you’re not Dr McDreamy. So then, would you like to hazard a guess where you’re sitting on my scale right now? Hmmmm???? Don’t bloody well roll your eyes at ME MISSY!!!! I pay a LOT OF TAX!!!”

But she’d already left. So I …. got dressed and let myself out. Was I supposed to fold the paper gown neatly? Dispose of it thoughtfully? Make it into a serviette display? Fine, I'll leave it on the floor with the others shall I? Now that I'm stripped down to my daks you'd think I'd at least get a complimentary spray-tan.

Brad the Tradie, like the rest of his self-employed tradesman mob, hardly pays any tax, so naturally, he gets heaps of value for his couple of bucks. He’s had a skin cancer hacked from his chest, several expensive back scans and procedures and even makes use of the public hospital system.

In fact, last time he got carted off in the ambulance truly showed the value of our tax dollar in the public health system. I followed the ambulance to the Boganvillea Hospital (glorious construction that it is), parked a million miles away, found change so that I didn't get a ticket, trudged in the heat to Emergency in my heels, announced to Reception that my husband had come in the ambulance and after all that they couldn’t bloody well find him!!! Would I like to get a cuppa at the cafeteria whilst they figured this situation out? No, actually, I’d prefer to stand here looking pissed off whilst you go and find my HUSBAND!

As it turned out, BtT was on a trolley thingy parked in one of the corridors. The ambos had put him there, loaded him full of something called Midazolam and left. I, worried as buggery, scooted to his side and asked the obvious stupid question, “How are ya feelin’ luv?” to which he responded by grabbing my arm, looking deep into my eyes and demanding fried chicken. As you do.

When I did manage to hunt down a doctor-type-looking person (hard to tell whether they are actually doctors, these tiny little foreign praying-mantis people), I mentioned that I thought the Midazolam had made BtT hungry. I was told that he wasn’t hungry, just slightly delusional and that I could go find a chair from somewhere if I wanted to sit down (in the corridor with him). Towards midnight, they wheeled him around, scanned him, told him to get up and told me to monitor him through the night in case he stopped breathing. Oh, and that he could have some hot chips now but that the cafeteria stops making fried chicken past nine.

Now, in MY world, this is how checking into Emergency goes:

Me: Hi, my husband has been brought in by an ambulance.

Receptionist (who looks a little Italian, a little Swedish): Oh you POOR thing! Here, let me take you through to the complimentary drinks ‘n’ diazepam suite. Let me just look up how many tax dollars you pay.

Me: HEAPS of tax! And yes, a glass of sparkling and a relaxant would be quite appropriate. Is there somewhere I could go so that I don't have to hang out with bleeding people in flannelette shirts, drug addicts and screaming babies?

Fabio/Hans (looking at computer, squeals with delight): Lookie! You pay A LOT OF TAX! You’re entitled to a complimentary upgrade to our club floor. You can stay overnight in a spa suite whilst our team of medical professionals tend to your husband. We’ll even wheel him up to you when he’s coherent and not whinging anymore. Now, which scent of aromatherapy candle would you prefer when we deliver your dinner?

 

Pfft. In my Midazolam dreams.

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Bad Medicine, Bon Jovi, 1988.