“You Will Feel Some Discomfort”

That’s what a doctor or dentist will often say during and after a difficult procedure.

 It also applies when moving to another country.

I knew that there would be some things I would have to deal with like the language barrier and altogether unfamiliar surroundings, beautiful though they may be, but there is more.

Like feeling “stupid”.

The other day I attempted to call a local doctor to make an appointment. I have prescriptions that will need to be refilled and one in particular is getting close. That and the allergies I have suddenly developed are causing me more than a little discomfort on some days. I am also curious about the health care process here. It was, in fact, one of the major considerations of my decision—that it’s deemed a right and the patient, rather than profit, is what drives the system.

I awkwardly dialed the number, there’s 10 digits like the US, but are given in pairs here **-**-**-**-**.

“Allo? French French French French French…” pause. I assumed it was a standard greeting.

I bumbled and blundered and for some reason I couldn’t seem to put together a simple sentence, so I resorted to the default “Do you speak English” (in French) except I actually asked her if she spoke French.

To which she replied exasperatedly, “Ouiiiii!”

My faux pas only added to me further butchering the conversation, such as it was, and I got out the words “need appointment” and “I am American”, her response to which was… hanging up.

As you might expect, I looked at my phone as if it had bitten me and, feeling like an idiot, I didn’t call back. I was, however, grateful that this interaction was not in person.

I don’t blame the woman one bit. It can be frustrating when it’s necessary to have to communicate with someone who doesn’t speak the language. It was also close to lunchtime (which, for the French, is two hours), but I was surprised by the abrupt ending.

Most of the people here have been very kind and patient with me, and I think I am learning to get along, albeit slowly. Most of my interactions, though, are brief and functional, not conversations… yet.

But it got me wondering about the many people in the US who are not patient with foreigners trying to get along in a new and strange place. And that made me feel very uncomfortable. I am ashamed and embarrassed for the Americans who are intolerant of “others”. They believe that the American way is the only way… because that is where they are comfortable, and someone else’s discomfort is not their problem.

I believe I am fairly self-aware and as an American, I took this on the chin—we surely collectively deserve it—and I sat with that awful insight for a while.

…

Later that same day, I decided a trip to the Boulangerie because a sweet treat was in order. Not that I have denied myself sweet treats all along here (duh!), but you know… sometimes a nice pleasure can help take the sting out of a bad day. I walked to the one that was open.

I got my usual baguette and a nice looking pastry that said “Pomme de Terre”—she didn’t have many goodies left at that point—and off I went. I made a cup of tea and warmed the pastry a little and got settled in front of my computer.

I took a sip of tea and a bite of the pastry. It wasn’t sweet.

Much of the actual pastry, the flaky yumminess that they have mastered in France, isn’t really sweet. It’s the assorted fillings that make them delicious. Again, American’s addiction to all things sugary is another embarrassment and the reason for so many of the health issues… but I digress.

I wondered at the bite and thought, “I didn’t get any filling… that’s it.”. So I cut the thing in half and took a bite right from the middle—still not sweet. Nor was there any filling.

Then I remembered. Pomme de Terre is potato. In my ungainly (and arrogant) American brain, I had mixed it up with “Pomme”… which is apple.

The “Stupid” taps me on my shoulder again.

…

The previous week I had to go get more allergy medication. At the time I was using a nasal spray because most of my issues were with my nose—sneezing and runny. While better than in Paris, the problems persisted. The pharmacy in this town didn’t have the brand of spray I had been using so offered a different type, a corticosteroid.

I misunderstood the directions to mean the dosage was twice daily but had actually only used it once a day for 2 days.

On the third day, a Saturday, I was awakened at 4:30am with a bout of sneezing. I sprayed my nose again with the new medication. Within minutes I felt an unusual reaction—I could feel my blood pressure rising.

Theeeeen the panic attacks set in.

It’s 5am. On a Saturday. In France.

Do I call someone?

Do I wait this out?

Is this real or am I imagining it?

Then the US healthcare patient stepped up and took over my brain.

How much will this cost?

How much is an ambulance?

What if I’m having a stroke or heart attack?

Is it too early to call my English friend locally?

Do I have to find my insurance certificate?

What if it wipes me out and I have to go back?

What if they won’t help me because I am an American?

This private interchange went on for about 6 hours with every imaginable question and counterpoint when I finally called my friend. She had a blood pressure machine I could borrow but she wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon. She said it matter-of-factly that, in the meantime, if I didn’t want to delay I could call 112 (the French 911) and they could get me a doctor’s appointment.

Wait…what?

“It couldn’t be that simple.” I thought. I poo-pooed the need for an ambulance because all I could think of was “how much will that cost?!” and that it could make a serious dent in my finances and send me, tail tucked, back to the US.

I decided to wait for her to bring it over and distracted my monkey-brain with movies and other things until then.

I have spent my entire adult life, with the exception of my two-plus years with cancer when I was on Medicaid, balancing my health against my bank account while also trying to factor in normal living expenses.

THIS…is what the US healthcare system does to poor people. They aren’t allowed to be “big” sick without dire financial consequences.

Do I really need a doctor?

Is there an over-the-counter medication that will help?

Have any of my friends had similar issues? I could call them for advice.

I’ll just cut out the _____ for a while.

I’ll exercise more.

I’ll meditate more.

I’ll complain less.

I’ll work more so I can save up for the doctor if this keeps happening.

What can I sell if I need to go sooner?

Who would let me borrow money if I needed it?

What if?

What if?

What if?

Anytime I think I might need to see a doctor, all this…and more, goes through my head. Every. Single. Time. It’s knee-jerk.

So, because I do have medications that require periodic checkups with a physician, I will also try to cram in questions about other problems.

When I had my last in-office doctor’s visit in the US, there was a sign in the exam room stating that if you had more than one issue, it was required that you schedule a different appointment for each. I shit you not.

Americans have to do their own triage.

My friend did bring over her blood pressure machine and, while a little elevated, I was well within the safe range. But was that because I knew I would get help eventually? Or because the effects of the medication had, by then, worn off?

She also explained to me how things work here. The people who take calls at 112 will assess your complaint and advise you accordingly. They will *ALSO* get an emergency doctor’s visit for you, get you a ride (for free), if needed, or…the doctor will make a HOUSE CALL!

A HOUSE CALL! Can you believe it?

It’s going to take a while for me to extricate the programming imbedded in me on this subject and others, as an American. The French are not perfect either, by any stretch—to get things done is on their schedule, not yours, but in many ways it seems logical because it commands respect for the person doing what needs to be done. It doesn’t have that overarching attitude of “I’m paying you so you must do it my way and when I need it done.”

It’s uncomfortable to come to terms with American missteps as they compare to the way other countries treat the same problems.

It stings a little to have the shoe on the other foot now that *I* am the foreigner. But I am going to stick this one out.

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness…  ~Mark Twain