Irony is a dish best served intraveinously

Last saturday morning I awoke after a swingin' night at my favorite jazz club with an apparant knife in my side. Now the Café Laurent is not a rough establishment by any means, and since I am not the bar brawling type I searched my mind for a reasonable explanation. As I felt for the offending instrument of my torment which twisted and turned inside my body as I moved to get out of bed, I found the source. As soon as I touched it with my hand I instinctively knew: appendicitis! Merde. Now denial isn't just a river in Egypt, it was a river inside my head. Even as I knew I was going to the hospital I was thinking about cleaning my flat of last night's dinner dishes, picking up my clothes, and making my bed. And who NOT to bother. Where should I go? I thought of dear Dr. P who helped me the last time I was ill, but we haven't been in touch lately and I didn't want to "bother" him. I thought about a couple of friends with automobiles who might be able to take me to a clinic, but I hesitated. Maybe it was just gas! I began washing the dishes and hoped for the best. Fast forward to 6 p.m: After three naps, I was still trying to finish the dishes. I knew by then I had better get some help. The pain in my side had not gone anywhere, and Cleopatras barge had hit a sandbar! My options were: an ambulance (so dramatic and expensive), a cab (but I must have an address to give the driver), or "bother" a friend. I called Damdy. In 20 minutes she had things under control. She drove me to a clinic which had emercency services and fortunately I was the only patient in the house. I told the doctor my diagnosis and after an examination she conferred. It was emercency appendectomy time! Part Deux: The Clinic I was ushered into a double room to be greeted by Madame Simon (pronounced "see-moan"), an emaciated 55 year old Sally lookalike from The Nightmare before Christmas. I had the choice of a double or a private room, but having no health insurance I am responsible completely for the bill so I chose the former. I would live to rethink that decision! I was immediately prepped for an I.V. and sent to the shower with a bottle of betadine and instructed to wash head to toe. Now I am thinking that since they want nothing icky growing on me before a surgical procedure, they might want to clean the mildew and mold out of the bathroom-but that's just me. And to my dismay there were no bath towels. Apparantly in France when you go to hospital you bring your own. Everyone knows that! I was offered a bedsheet to dry myself. Blood tests, pain killers, and antibiotics were administered intraveinously and I settled in for an anxious night to wait for the mornings events. I have to say that the care was great. The nurses were all very nice, most spoke english, the veinipuncturists made a scary procedure easier, and the anesthesiologist was a very masculine and handsome french hottie. I was really impressed with the staff. The building itself however was another story. It was really in need of fresh paint and new linoleum. The shower in my room had been leaking since 1972, causing the floor to have a wet and germy life of it's own. It looked more like the Hotel Sordide than the Ritz, but here I was with a freshly slit belly hoping to avoid a staph infection. Part Three: Madame Nightmare First she attempted to convert me to Christian Science. She insisted that all doors and windows be kept tightly closed at all times. She had a pantry of food squirrelled away that she refused to eat and she snored like a train! By 6 a.m. tuesday morning I was plotting her demise. I decided that morning some things are worth the money, like 200 euro more overall for a private room. There was no curtain to divide us in this clinic, so I was privy to the conversations she had with her soup. I never saw her once get up to brush her teeth or wash during the two and a half days I was there, but I know she was ambulatory. She seemed very concerned whether or not Americans believed in God and if they attended church. She ate all of her chicken at dinner and requested to finish mine as well, yet she weighed all of 80 pounds. The french have a saying, "Pompe l'air", to suck the air out of a room. Madame Simon definately Pompes l'air! Part Four: The Cost Sunday afternoon I received a visit from accounting. They estimate the cost of my little adventure to be between 2 and 3 thousand euro. They asked for a caution of 1,500 that night. The dollar being at its weakest in months this is going to hurt, but I am grateful that I do have enough in savings to cover the bill. This time. If I had securité sociale the bill would be completely covered. If I had purchased a world wide insurance plan when I arrived 3 years ago I would be at just about even. If I had purchased insurance from Cobra after my divorce I would have paid in premiums approximately 3 times what this surgery has cost. In Conclusion: I am home now, resting comfortably and healing my body. It has been an eye opening experience in many ways. While I was lying in a hospital bed hooked to an IV drip I had plenty of time to think. I thought about why I was so reluctant to "bother" my friends. They have been so supportive and kind this last week I realized that it isn't a bother to them, and I must think enough of myself to ask for what I need. I experienced the french healthcare system firsthand, and all in all I would rate it satisfactorily. I received good care, money was the concern second to my well being, and the anesthesia they provided was the best I've ever had! (I think it was propyphol, but that's a story for another day). I am keeping close tabs via internet of the healthcare debate taking place in America and I hope everyday for real reform, and a system that leaves no one out in the cold.