Some patriots refer to the USA as their “Motherland.” Others call it the “Fatherland.” I do not know which is correct; but, until our country’s gender identity is resolved, the United States should be banned from women’s sports.
But that is not why I write today.
I write because my recent experience with Spanish health services might be useful to patriots considering their Motherland’s—or Fatherland’s—own medical apparatus.
Two weeks ago I was having a bit of a cough, and when I coughed, my left chest hurt a little. The next day it ached— still only on the left side and just a little—all the time. On the third day it was improved, but I played padel and became exhausted after just half an hour. Did summer heat cause the fatigue? Was it because I am a fat old man? Or was it connected to the lingering ache in my left chest?
I would ask a physician.
I am enrolled in Spain’s public health system, which is free to tax-paying residents such as myself. I could have waited two weeks for a medical appointment, or I could have walked into an emergency room and seen a clinician right away. I did not think this an emergency, but I did not want to wait two weeks.
I also pay for private Spanish health insurance. The cost is about what I pay for Medicare Part B—which is to say, not much. Using this insurance, I was able to get a next-day appointment with Dr. Nora Thais Galipienso Goñi, an internal medicine specialist working out of IMED Hospital in Elche.
Dr. Goñi spoke excellent English and seemed to resent only a little that I related my medical history in that language. After an interview and examination, she sent me to the hospital’s emergency ward, where IMED keeps its coolest diagnostic equipment.
I waited maybe ten minutes, at most, before Dr. Grisales Arroyave, who reminded me of Hugh Jackman, directed me to a small room. He and his staff did an EKG, an X-ray, and took a blood sample. He showed me the EKG and X-ray and explained why neither was a cause for concern. He later took my wife aside and, using warm and superb English, assured her that I almost certainly was fine; but, just to be sure, they would admit me to the hospital for further tests. They would release me after a cardiologist looked at the results.
I was wheeled to a private room with big windows and an okay view. It had a spacious bathroom, a mini fridge, TV, WiFi, and a roll-out couch for guests. I have paid $200 for hotel rooms that were not as large, or as nice.
That afternoon they hooked me up to an IV drip. They said it included a painkiller but, if so, it did nothing more than kill my pain—which already was insignificant. The drug’s failure to provide Halcion-induced Nirvana disappointed a little, but the medical staff was otherwise excellent.
A nurse stuck little tabs all over my torso so that they could, from time to time, administer an EKG. The next morning, yet another English-speaking doctor came in—I didn’t catch her name, but she looked a little like Salma Hayek—and said all my evaluations were unremarkable, and I could leave that day.
My deductible for this top-notch care: Nada.
My co-pay: Zilch.
I do not know how my situation compares to what you may have experienced in the Mother/Fatherland. Possibly you are fortunate enough to have insurance that immediately authorizes a hospital stay and extensive screening despite very mild complaints. Maybe you also do not have co-pays or deductibles.
But do your doctors look like Hugh Jackman and Salma Hayek?