Mark Twain once wrote, “The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated“. Now, I know how he feels. Of course, one also has to allow for the possibility that there were no rumors, only hopes… but more about that in a subsequent missive. The Copperhead keeps reminding me that the last time I wrote a blog entry with for Memorial Day–he tells me of calls he is received from deep in the heart of North America informing him that “the public” is demanding more. So, despite my basic chauvinist, elitist and generally contrarian nature, I shall accede to their importuning.
As I grow older and I am more often confronted with my health problems, I grow more and more thankful that I live in Uruguay instead of the United States. My recent 15 day stay in hospital here both demonstrated and confirmed the correctness of that opinion.
It all started on July 4th. We closed the office early after all the bank wires had been sent from or received by our banking partners in Europe. Since it was after business hours in Europe, and a bank holiday in the US, we decided to take a half-day holiday here. In order to take full advantage of the slightly longer weekend, several of us decided to spend the weekend in Punta Ballena (Whale Point) near Punta del Este.
Taking even a short trip for me is always a massive undertaking–it most closely resembles a modern version of Marco Polo preparing for his caravan to Cathay. For this particular trip we took both the van and a two-wheeled open trailer that we had bought some months ago. My cargo included my electric handicapped scooter, a wheelchair and enough luggage for a week—you never know when a freak blizzard will keep you from returning home, especially with the high incidence of snow storms here (1 every 500 years or so).
Anyway…the trip to Punta Ballena was entirely uneventful, but when I stepped out of the van and sat in my wheelchair, the pain was incredible. I went to bed almost immediately, and spent the whole night in agony—not being smart enough to call a Doctor or the home medical service included in our insurance. (I guess 17 years without medical insurance has trained me to first try to “tough it out”.)
The next day I returned home to Montevideo as the pain increased, but without any concomitant increase in my intelligence—I still hadn’t thought to call the Doctor.
On Monday, Santiago insisted on calling the Doctor. When she arrived she took one look at me and immediately ordered me into the hospital. Apparently there was a pocket of infection still remaining in my body from my eight-year-long ordeal with Staphylococcus Aureus.
Santiago, Borko and I immediately went to Sanatorio Americano, as instructed. While the medical care here is extraordinarily good, the administrative side of the HMOs here is somewhat less so—we ended up waiting for 3 hours for the specialist to arrive…
However, once he arrived, things started to happen. He examined me and then ordered an echogram of the infected area. To my surprise, he went along with us to the echogram and watched while it was being taken. All told he spent close to an hour with me. (When was the last time a US doctor spent an hour with anyone outside of his yacht club?)
The upshot was that I was given an appointment for more tests at 8am the next morning at COSEM’s (the HMO is COSEM) clinic on Bulevar Artigas.
That was when the administrative demons kicked in again… When we arrived at the clinic the next morning we were told that the Doctor sent us to the wrong clinic and that the first available time slot they had for me was at 11am (which could mean anything from 11am until dark…).
I accepted the news with my usual equanimity and stoicism; and immediately got angry and left the clinic. Santiago was not happy with me—he and I have serious religious differences; he believes in Doctors while I am an agnostic towards them…
Santi insisted on calling another specialist and making an appointment for that afternoon as a private patient—I assented because, in my weakened condition, it was easier than standing up to Santi and Borko on one of the rare occasions when they actually agreed on something.
I saw the private specialist later that afternoon. After he examined me, he immediately called the specialist I had seen at Sanatorio Americano and they agreed that I should be hospitalized immediately. One of the benefits of living here is that everyone in the medical community knows everyone else, so things get done quickly despite administrative obstacles.
So we returned to Sanatorio American where I spent the night. I was in a double room adjacent to the emergency room because the hospital was nearly full.
I wanted a private room, so Santiago arranged with COSEM to get me a private room at Ospidale Italiano (Italian Hospital), where I paid the (almost insignificant) difference in cash. I ended up with a suite: a bedroom, sitting room and private bathroom. They even set up a folding bed in the sitting room for Borko to spend the night. It is an ironclad custom here that no one goes to hospital alone. When I spent a single night in the hospital last year to have the balloon put in my stomach, Uruguayos were scandalized that no one stayed in the room with me…
I was the “guest” of Ospidale Italiano (Hospital Italiano)for two weeks, during which time I had two surgeries.
The most amazing thing about my two weeks there was that everyone seemed to really care about my health and about doing their respective jobs properly, and, even cheerfully!
I suspect there is some infinitesimal grain of truth in the claim that I am “not the easiest patient” one could have—though I can’t imagine on what basis such could be claimed. Nevertheless, the nursing staff were unfailingly pleasant, every during the most difficult periods—nurses in the US would surely have strangled me with my bed sheets or at least smothered me with my own pillow.
One night, I even received a visit from the Chief of Surgery at Hospital Militar. He heard I was in hospital at Hospital Italiano, and since he had another patient there, he stopped in to chat with me for 15 minutes or so. I was incredulous.
Perhaps even more amazing was that two or three times during my stay (I can’t remember which due to the medications dripping into my veins) a representative from COSEM stopped in to make sure I was satisfied with the care I was receiving! I cannot imagine that happening anywhere else. If I had told a US insurance company that I was pleased with the care, they would have moved me to a cheaper hospital that afternoon.
I could go for pages with the random acts of kindness I received, and which I never experienced in hospital anyplace else in the world. I simply do not understand why anyone would want to go to the US when they have a medical problem and endure its faceless, money-driven bureaucracy.
Since then, I have returned to Hospital Militar to have the balloon removed from my stomach (after having lost about 35kgs), and my plans included several more hospital stays in the coming months. All will be in Uruguay, and while I don’t exactly look forward to them, it is easy to face them optimistically.
