This research began immediately after I left Paris from La Gare de Lyon, which is spectacular inside. The TGV did its job and I arrived safely in Macon (early, if you can believe it) and was picked up by friends. I did not feel well. Allergies, I thought. Headache. Get over it. You’re in FRANCE. The next day I slogged my way through the breathtaking Chateau de Cormatin. I knew I was in trouble. The next morning, I was taken to the doctor. He sent me straight to the hospital. The office visit was 30 euros.
I arrived at the hospital with a note from the doctor, waited maybe ten minutes in the waiting room, and was ushered into a large holding area. Blood was drawn – the least painful experience of blood-letting I have ever had. What was even cooler was that my blood was divided between three bottles (like mini-wine bottles) and thus began the blood test. A specialist arrived at my bedside and informed me I might need surgery to have my tonsils removed. At that moment, I was perfectly happy with whatever he wanted to do. A second doctor came to confer. He suggested that they try IV antibiotics for 12 hours and then see how things progressed. They whisked me off for a throat scan to see how bad the blockage was. Before I knew it I was in a hospital room that looked much like any other, trying to find new ways to communicate (it’s really hard to describe how your tonsils are if you don’t know the words). They asked if I had angina. I said no. It turns out angina doesn’t mean the same thing in French and English. At this point, breathing was my number one struggle, and so I relaxed into the care of the people around me, many of whom wore signs on their uniform that they were “en greve” (on strike). Clearly, they may have been on strike but they were very much at work.
I ended up in a room with an elderly woman who certainly had dementia but probably was also mentally disabled. She talked for the 24 hours I had the pleasure of her company, yelled at the nurses, refused to eat, and demanded Perrier every ten minutes or so, which was not available. The French are most elegant eye-rollers, and I practiced the art with the half-dozen attendants who waited on my cantankerous roommate. We also exchanged medical vocabulary through our broken connections of language.
One nurse was particularly severe. I don’t know her name, but in my mind her name is Helga. She was NOT going to smile or engage with me any more than absolutely necessary. If you want to be coddled, don’t get sick in France. And then I asked her if I could borrow a pen. She begrudgingly handed me one. I thanked her. A little while later I handed her pen back to her. She smiled, took the pen and handed me a much nicer one. “Pour vous.” Just to be clear, she SMILED.
I was released after one night in hospital (in the town of Macon) with a bill for around $1700 and a list of prescriptions which cost about 30 euros. My regular insurance will reimburse most if not all of the cost. I cannot imagine what such treatment in the US would cost. I had consultations with four doctors (three of them specialists), a scan, what felt like several gallons of antibiotics, and an overnight stay. It was no palace, but it was clean and efficient.
Next has been the coddling. I have been well-cared for by my friends. Today was my first fully upright day, and it was spent travelling through the myriad villages of the region.
Getting sick while travelling has been one of my concerns. I need not have worried. I’ve had excellent care and am getting better by the minute.
Onward and upward.