DOCTOR! DOCTOR! CAN’T YOU SEE I’M… FAKING?

Chic@s, having recently given you the glad tidings that March had seen me restored to hearty good health, the cool winds of April have blown in with a viral infestation of unmitigated malice.

What, Man Flu yet again, I hear you ask? No… worse, much worse, I fell prey to a bronchial infection so severe that it was diagnosed as viral pneumonia, and triggered two days (most of which were spent in the waiting room) at the Hospital Costa del Sol.  

On the positive front, this gave me an opportunity to appraise what Spanish public healthcare has to offer, and how it might compare with the UK National Health Service.

On the negative side, the two days I spent in the Hospital Costa del Sol were indubitably two of the most miserable and missable days of my entire life.

So, let me give you a bit of background first.

My daughter visited for a few days last week, and while we didn’t go as crazy as we once might have done, there is little doubt that five days of life at her pace took its toll, and by Friday — when she leaves — I’m feeling a tad under the weather. And with my wife due to arrive the following evening, this does not bode well for domestic accord… let alone anything else.

By Sunday evening I’m coughing like Madge in Benidorm while my lungs play orchestral manoeuvres in the dark, and I barely sleep a wink. Neither does my wife.

So… clearly this is bad and this isn’t going to get better on its own anytime soon, so it’s time to call Ghostbusters, or Helicopteros Sanitarios, the Prescription Jockeys who I pay around three hundred bucks a year to come out and mop my brow every time I have a bit of a sniffle which I think might develop into something nasty. This is surprisingly good value, because you’d be surprised to hear that I do call them out quite a lot. You’re not surprised? Oh, okay then.

Anyway, the team of four arrive (one doctor, one nurse, one driver and one who’s probably there just in case I get nasty) and the doctor very quickly pronounces that I need a hospital to conduct blood tests, an X Ray, and would I like them to take me to their private hospital in Banus? I’m quoted around 1500 bucks for a couple of basic tests (tests which, from experience I know they will “accidentally” extend) so no, I categorically would not, and off we set in their ambulance to the Hospital Costa del Sol.  

A word about the Hospital Costa del Sol. This is the only hospital to serve the area between Malaga and Algeciras, if you don’t count the new hospital in Ronda, which you can only access on rare occasions when the mountainous road hasn’t been washed away. This is a massive area, and hugely inadequate for the indigenous population, before adding alcoholic Brits, other visiting idiots, and unfortunate people like myself into the equation.

It’s no surprise to find that the waiting room is fuller than an Amsterdam whore house on a Saturday night. My triage consists of checking that my name is spelt correctly, and having an admission wristband (which instantly falls off) put around my wrist.

I’m then pushed in to join the cast of thousands in the waiting room. It’s a good job that I’m in a wheelchair, because there isn’t a seat available for love nor money.

My wife arrives about an hour later and nothing has happened. There are a couple of poorly positioned monitors which inform you — should you be lucky enough for your callsign to come up — where you should go. My callsign is WG435.

A second hour passes and still nothing has happened. I’m now absolutely freezing, and shivering like a nervous puppy even with a fleece and a coat on, and it can’t even be cold in here because there’s a Polish gym guy standing in the corner flexing his biceps in shorts and a vest.

We’ve now found a seat facing the “Control,” a glass enshrouded cubicle curiously placed near the centre of the room, a sort of administerial tardis sort of thing. This is where the nursing gestapo direct operations from, and this gives me an idea.

Now, to be fair, I didn’t exactly fake a heart attack, but I slightly overplay my symptoms to the extent that someone in Control notices and directs questions to me, which my wife answers.

‘Does he have chest pain?’

Yes, he nods. He does.

‘He’s very cold,’ adds my wife.

And with that I’m taken seriously enough he be wheeled into the emergencies room where I’m wired up to an ECG machine, only for it to confound my reported symptoms.

‘Nothing wrong, there,’ the nurse informs me, ‘but your blood pressure is pretty high.’

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ I reply, which is almost certainly lost in translation, although she does speak reasonable English.

‘The taking of blood pressure in situations like this,’ I unhelpfully add, ‘is as pointless as administering leeches in the Middle Ages. I’m stressed, in an uncomfortable position, my arm is nowhere near at the level of my heart, and that’s before we even get to what’s actually wrong with me.’

This, of course she ignores, and I’m sent back into the waiting room to await the appearance of WG435 on the monitor, in the manner that the never arriving Godot was awaited by Vladimir and Estragon.

I like to watch people… don’t we all? And I pass the time looking around the room, observing and making deductions about my fellow invalids.

Most are Spanish and elderly; tolerance, resignment and the need for a smoke etched on their faces. No one is willing to risk leaving the room, and for them I’d imagine their biggest problem would be getting through the hours of waiting without a fag.

I’m stressed, in an uncomfortable position, my arm is nowhere near at the level of my heart, and that’s before we even get to what’s actually wrong with me.’

There are a few Scandinavians, presumably here on the same European health card ticket as I am. Then there is a smattering of Brits who present in varied degrees of scruffiness. Some would have residential status and entitlement to healthcare, and some — like me — would not. And then there are the healthcare hyenas… quirky people of questionable sanity who clog up hospital waiting rooms seeking attention for the simple reason that they have nothing better to do. You have them in the UK too. They are usually fat, female and in their 50s or older, and like to engage in pointless and irritating conversations with others, as do old ladies in the post office. Some actually arrive in their slippers hoping to convince some poor sap on the admission team to admit them.

Another hour passes and then, to our great surprise, WG435 pings onto the monitor.

Blood is taken, and an X Ray conducted all within the space of five minutes, and then we’re back in the waiting room, facing another wait.

It’s gone seven o’clock now, we’ve been here for eight hours. We can, of course, checkout anytime we like, but we can never leave. And I do mean that, because if I leave, then I am entitled to no further treatment for this complaint. I can’t even come back tomorrow and start again.

It’s 9:35 and once again WG435 flashes up, telling us to go to consulting room 3, where a black lady doctor with very limited English informs us (via my Spanish friend on the phone) that — probably due to my “faked” heart attack — they need to run some more tests. More blood is taken, but I still require an MRI scan, and that cannot be done until tomorrow.

I’m told I will have stay in overnight. I will be allocated — at some point — a sleeping area, which I understand will be a sort of armchair which reclines… a bit.

This is, in fact, pretty much what it turns out to be, and by 1am I am led to the Observation Ward and settled down in one of these. It’s not as bad as it sounds, quite comfortable in fact, and apart from the constant beeping of monitoring instruments which sound like a cross between a circus clown’s car horn and Madge’s hooter, it’s actually quite peaceful. I’ve slept in a heck of a lot worse places.

Morning comes and I’m starving, but there’s no breakfast for me until the scan has been done.

I don’t have long to wait for this, and not long after, a youngish chap who speaks good English and introduces himself as a cardiologist informs me that all is well in the heart department, and that once he’s written my report, I’m good to go.

‘What about the medication?’ I ask, because I do like my antibiotics, and that was the purpose of calling the Prescription Jockeys out in the first place.

‘You do not need anything,’ he replies. ‘Your infection is viral, so this does not require antibiotics. But if it doesn’t clear up in a few days or gets worse, you’ll need to come back and we’ll take another look at you.

Great, I think… I can hardly wait, and immediately form a cunning plan to get my hands on some antibiotics. Just in case.

So, you might be wondering… or there again, you might not, what did I make of Spanish public healthcare?

Given that any country’s public healthcare provision (should it be lucky enough to have one) is intrinsically a self-fulfilling prophesy of doom, my experience at the Hospital Costa del Sol was no worse — and almost certainly significantly better — than what I would expect to have to endure at a state hospital in the UK. It’s over a decade since I last had to pass time in the waiting room of a UK Accident & Emergency (A&E) institution, but I would hardly expect the experience to have improved since then.

Putting the hours spent waiting to one side, I would have been surprised to have benefitted from such prompt and thorough clinical analysis and treatment at an NHS hospital.

I would have expected to have been given an appointment to come back for blood tests in a few days’ time, and to book an MRI scan for a few weeks’ time. I would not have expected to have been analysed, monitored and treated so (relatively) promptly.

So, on the whole then, I found it pretty good.

*

With one exception, which is my footnote to this lengthy Easter blog.

It’s Tuesday midday, and wife and I have just jumped into a taxi outside the hospital.

We’re on the A7 speeding towards Marbella, to a shower and breakfast, when I remember that the nurse in the observation ward, which was my last point of contact with the Hospital Costa del Sol, had forgotten to remove the catheter from my arm.

You would like to think that the ward sister wouldn’t wave you off before checking that you’re not still attached to any medical accessories, wouldn’t you?

I’m not going back, I tell my wife, I’ll pull the thing out myself when we get home.

Have you ever removed one of these things? No? Well, should you ever find yourself in a similar situation, do not attempt this procedure, unless you

1. are a skilled nurse
2. don’t have a problem with the sight of blood. A lot of blood.

Remember the time — a few months ago — when I turned my apartment into something resembling the scene of a multiple homicide-slash-the set of a horror movie while attempting to cut my toenails?

Yep? Well, that’s that I did again when I pulled the thing out: blood everywhere.

Amig@s, this has been a lengthy one, but I hope you have enjoyed it, and as the late great Dave Allen would have said, may your god go with you this Easter weekend!