Nantes – The Doctor

The last time I saw a French doctor must have been in my teens—I got my Ontario health card when I became a permanent resident in 2005 and except for a yearly dental checkup when I’m in France, I’ve been dealing with the Canadian healthcare for the past 16 years.

This is basically the only healthcare system I’ve known as an adult. I can give presentations on pregnancy and birth in Canada, offer tips about walk-in clinics and commiserate with anyone who is trying to solve a health problem that takes more than a two-minute consultation with a doctor you’ll never see again and a prescription for the ubiquitous banana-flavoured amoxicillin antibiotic.

As you may have guessed. I have a love-hate relationship with the Canadian healthcare system. I’m grateful that unlike in the US, I will never have to declare bankruptcy due to medical expenses. The Ontario Health Insurance Plan (“OHIP,” i.e. the government-run health insurance plan available three months after establishing residency in Ontario) covers most basic medical and emergency services. This is precious to me because as a self-employed translator, I don’t get “benefits,” i.e. extended coverage through an employee healthcare plan.

But like many, many Canadians, I’m also very frustrated with our healthcare system. There’s a shortage of physicians, so good luck on getting a family doctor—most health issues are handled by walk-in clinics where you’ll never see the same doctor twice and where you’ll wait for a few hours for your five-minute consultation.

In 2007, Feng went from doctor to doctor for a year before being taken seriously and referred to a neurosurgeon for a herniated disk—he ended up getting surgery three months later because by then, it was pretty bad. I spent less than 24 hours at the hospital after giving birth and it wasn’t a pleasant experience—nurses wouldn’t let me sleep (I hadn’t slept for 24 hours by then because I had been in labour) and one of them actually barged into the bathroom shouting “your baby is crying, you should take care of him first” (excuse me, I needed to… pee?). I’ve never been able to get help through two years of postpartum depression. When Mark went through this awful stage when kids are sick all the time, we spent hours in crowded waiting rooms and getting antibiotics was a 50/50 chance, including when he had pneumonia.

I can count on the finger of one hand the number of times a doctor actually listened to me. I can’t even count the number of times I was told to “wait and come back if it doesn’t get better”—and trust me, we’re not a family of hypochondriacs.

When I arrived in France, my 90-year-old mamie was overdue for the COVID vaccine and I had just secured a spot for my mom through the online booking platform. But info and practical details were confusing, so my mom decided to check with her family doctor first.

I was amazed you could book an appointment just to ask questions. Hell, I was amazed she could see us the same week, especially for non-urgent matters.

I tagged along for support and a new cultural experience.

4:59 p.m. We arrive slightly out of breath because I kept on insisting we were going to be late. The receptionist directs us to the waiting room.

5:00 p.m. I suddenly realize I forgot to copy a movie to my phone, bring a book and pack snacks—this is what we do whenever we go to the doctor in Canada because you will be stuck in the waiting room for hours, and if you forget to bring your own entertainment you will be reading pamphlets about SDTs for fun.

5:05 p.m. Doctor greets us and takes us to her office. I’m vaguely suspicious—which kind of doctor is on time at the end of the day?

5:06 p.m. My mom is wondering whether it’s safe for her to be vaccinated because she vaguely remembered an allergic reaction she may or may not have as a kid.

5:08 p.m. My mom is still talking, which is surprising because she isn’t particularly talkative. The doctor is listening and not interrupting, which is surprising because doctors are supposed to treat patients like they’re stupid and not very knowledgeable about their own health.

5:11 p.m. I’m checking my watch. My mom has been talking for five minutes straight. We’re screwed, she’s getting lost in details without getting to the point. I’m staring at her trying to send a telepathic message: “make the most of your five-minute appointment already!”

5:12 p.m. The doctor asks a question, prompting further explanation from my mom.

5:14 p.m. They talk, talk and talk some more. Clearly the doctor is a big CSI fan because now we’re investigating my mom’s entire childhood medical history from 1960 to 1966. At one point the doctor suggests we could maybe locate my mom’s childhood doctor. “He’s probably… ahem, dead,” I feel the need to say. 

5:25 p.m. The doctor decides to call a COVID-19 vaccine hotline for healthcare providers.

5:28 p.m. I’m getting a headache from all the talking. “So, it’s okay for her to be vaccinated?” I ask, trying to speed things up because we have two questions and we haven’t talked about my grandmother yet.

5:30 p.m. Oh, here we are, talking about my grandmother. Except we’re not actually talking about vaccinating her yet, we’re back to medical history and development since her last visit. This is going to be quick, my 92-year-old mamie has been telling everyone she’s dying for the past 70 years but she always feels healthy and doesn’t understand what everybody is so worried about when we drag her to the doctor.

5:35 p.m. We’ve established that mamie is a lovely lady but a pain in the butt. The doctor volunteers to get her vaccinated.

5:36 p.m. Back to my mom, the doctor is following up on resolved health issues.

5:38 p.m. I have a question about eligibility for my own COVID vaccine. The doctor takes my phone number and promise to check.

5:40 p.m. Looks like we’re do… nope. Doctor is providing helpful advice.

5:41 p.m. I hand over €25 because my mom doesn’t have change and the doctor doesn’t take debit cards. I can’t do math but I’m pretty sure the hourly rate is lower than mine as a copywriter or proofreader.

“How did you find her?” my mom asks when we exit the building. “I always find her so rushed…”

Oh maman, if only you knew how lucky you are!