A funny old week for modesty. First, France's education minister Vincent Peillon has called for 'secular morality' classes to be introduced in schools, leading his predecessor to recall similar calls by disgraced Vichy leader Marechal Pétain. But, wait a minute, isn't this the country known for its laissez-faire regarding sex? Then, everyone's 'horreur' at the topless pictures of Kate taken in Provence - yes, France, a country famous for its topless beaches.
Well, now an on-line petition has been launched in a bid to get rid of those awful open-back hospital gowns. - those that show a patient's backside. The petition was actually started, not by a patient but a doctor on his blog. It's apparently already reached 4,000 signatures and when it gets to 10,000 it'll be sent to French Health Minister Marisol Touraine. Clearly, patrons all along the boulevard cafés argue 'aren't there more important health issues to discuss than that?', whilst others say 'mais non, c'est une probleme du respect'.
Him indoors, recalling his August sojourn in an Albi hospital, knows exactly what they mean about modesty. When handed a suppository, he asked 'I'm s'posed to put it WHERE?'
Showing posts with label French hospitals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French hospitals. Show all posts
12th August 2012
Him indoors isn't happy - no more alcohol!
It'd been building up for months and couldn't be denied. The dreaded visit to the doctor's. Tests at the Clinique Claude Bernard in Albi were prescribed. In England it's normal to have to wait months, even years, for a visit to a medical specialist, but in France just 5 days, then 7 days for admittance to the clinic. What an amazing experience it all was. No stupid starched caps, tight blue dresses or black fishnet stockings - and that was just the nurses. Everyone at the Albi clinic - from the doctors, to the nurses, down to the cleaning staff - all wore loose cotton tunics, loose cotton trousers and soft shoes. Everywhere was so clean, calm and friendly. The room where he stayed the night was like a hotel - complete with wardrobes and en-suite bathroom. And, after his treatment the following morning, within 30 mins he was given a glossy brochure with a typed report, colour photos of his insides(!), plus a lengthy diagnosis. And you know what? Because we had top-up insurance, it hasn't cost us a penny.
Had to smile in recollection. When the nurse was struggling to fix a catheter in his arm and he kept wriggling, she said 'Do you want some Scotch (French for sellotape)?'
It'd been building up for months and couldn't be denied. The dreaded visit to the doctor's. Tests at the Clinique Claude Bernard in Albi were prescribed. In England it's normal to have to wait months, even years, for a visit to a medical specialist, but in France just 5 days, then 7 days for admittance to the clinic. What an amazing experience it all was. No stupid starched caps, tight blue dresses or black fishnet stockings - and that was just the nurses. Everyone at the Albi clinic - from the doctors, to the nurses, down to the cleaning staff - all wore loose cotton tunics, loose cotton trousers and soft shoes. Everywhere was so clean, calm and friendly. The room where he stayed the night was like a hotel - complete with wardrobes and en-suite bathroom. And, after his treatment the following morning, within 30 mins he was given a glossy brochure with a typed report, colour photos of his insides(!), plus a lengthy diagnosis. And you know what? Because we had top-up insurance, it hasn't cost us a penny.
Had to smile in recollection. When the nurse was struggling to fix a catheter in his arm and he kept wriggling, she said 'Do you want some Scotch (French for sellotape)?'
24th May 2009
Ever since I broke my arm last year and experienced the French health care system - literally at first hand - I've been telling everybody about the excellent French system. It's also been interesting to hear our Canadian friends say how much better French health care is to the Canadian one, where people still have to sit in long queues waiting in casualty units.
However, Sarkozy wants to change it all. French doctors are in uproar over a proposed reform they say will sacrifice the quality of medical treatment in order to save money. Where have I heard all this before? France’s generous health care system is undergoing a serious shake-up that has set doctors on edge for the last few months. But, in the meantime, local hospitals like La Chartreuse in nearby Villefranche de Rouergue continue to welcome everybody, comme d'habitude: carte-vitale holders, tourists and even inmates held by the police, offering all inpatients a choice of wine with their meals. Just like back home - I don't think.
French Health Minister Roselyne Bachelot and the Senate met on 12 May to push through a reform to balance the books in French hospitals and boost the powers of the hospital directors. Haven't they heard of the disastrous mistakes the UK has made over the last fifty years or so?
Please, Mr. Sarkozy: don't follow the terrible litany of errors of the NHS. What's that old adage? If it ain't broke, don't fix it!
However, Sarkozy wants to change it all. French doctors are in uproar over a proposed reform they say will sacrifice the quality of medical treatment in order to save money. Where have I heard all this before? France’s generous health care system is undergoing a serious shake-up that has set doctors on edge for the last few months. But, in the meantime, local hospitals like La Chartreuse in nearby Villefranche de Rouergue continue to welcome everybody, comme d'habitude: carte-vitale holders, tourists and even inmates held by the police, offering all inpatients a choice of wine with their meals. Just like back home - I don't think.
French Health Minister Roselyne Bachelot and the Senate met on 12 May to push through a reform to balance the books in French hospitals and boost the powers of the hospital directors. Haven't they heard of the disastrous mistakes the UK has made over the last fifty years or so?
Please, Mr. Sarkozy: don't follow the terrible litany of errors of the NHS. What's that old adage? If it ain't broke, don't fix it!
18th November 2008
One of the things we really like about living in France is the excellent health care. So, it was with chagrin that I learned of a planned healthcare shake-up in 2009. The Health Minister, Roselyn Bachelot, wants every hospital in France to have its own manager with its own individual budget. Non, non, non! She's only got to look across the Channel to see what a disaster that idea has been. Why do 'new suits' always want to change everything? If it ain't broke, don't fix it!
The other day I read with sorrow of the death of the young actor, Guillaume Depardieu, who was the son of actor Gerard Depardieu. He was only 38. Despite the otherwise excellent health care in France, he died in hospital from pneumonia following a knee injury. Have you noticed how many people seem to die of pneumonia in hospital? Frank Sinatra comes to mind. Now, you wouldn't think that someone would die of pneumonia in a place like L.A. Could it be that the drugs that hospitals dispense around the world are just TOO STRONG? Could it be that the medicine is worse than the original complaint? The too-strong drugs override the body's natural immunity and cause you to die of something ridiculous like pneumonia, which you would never have contracted at home. As my brother always says: keep away from hospitals, don't take drugs, let your body recover from colds all on its own, and you'll live long!
The other day I read with sorrow of the death of the young actor, Guillaume Depardieu, who was the son of actor Gerard Depardieu. He was only 38. Despite the otherwise excellent health care in France, he died in hospital from pneumonia following a knee injury. Have you noticed how many people seem to die of pneumonia in hospital? Frank Sinatra comes to mind. Now, you wouldn't think that someone would die of pneumonia in a place like L.A. Could it be that the drugs that hospitals dispense around the world are just TOO STRONG? Could it be that the medicine is worse than the original complaint? The too-strong drugs override the body's natural immunity and cause you to die of something ridiculous like pneumonia, which you would never have contracted at home. As my brother always says: keep away from hospitals, don't take drugs, let your body recover from colds all on its own, and you'll live long!
I told you I was ill!
Finale.
I shook my head from all this past reverie and put my mind to the job now in hand. We had the French attestation (paper confirmation) so went along to our local doctor in the next village. His office was situated on the Place de la République, over the railway line with its frightening red and white barriers permanently at half-mast, over the picturesque bridge shading the river Seye, and then left at the little lane by the expensively-lit pharmacie.
In the salle d’attente waiting room were seated three other people, all elderly. We entered, wishing them all a bonjour, as is the custom. We refrained from the usual ça va? (asking how they were) because clearly if they were all right, they wouldn’t have been there. We looked around for a receptionist, but evidently such an officious person, so beloved back home, wasn’t required here. We waited. Soon, the doctor breezed in, issued bonjours to us all, then welcomed the next in line into his surgery.
I tried to make polite conversation with the lady sitting on my right.
‘Monsieur le docteur, il est un bon docteur?’ (Is he a good doctor?)
‘Mais oui,’ (of course) shaking her head at such a stupid question.
I shut up and concentrated on translating the several posters pinned to the walls. As I was neither pregnant nor likely to be suffering from Aids, I didn’t bother attempting to read further. When the time eventually came for us to go in, I shook hands with the doctor and explained as best I could that I had come as translator for my husband. He nodded and ushered us into his surgery.
‘What has brought you to my surgery this morning?’ he enquired politely, whilst punching up some details on his PC.
‘Our Citroën C4!’ said H, quick as a flash.
Nothing wrong with his humour then.
The doctor looked puzzled, as well he might. However, we have hit upon a useful introductory phrase, which always seems to work. ‘J’ai mal au…….,’ (I've a pain here....) pointing to the offending part of the body. Soon the offending leg was being prodded, pummelled and the knee hit with a hammer. The doctor looked, then gravely pronounced:
‘C’est normal pour un homme de votre âge.’ (It's normal for a man of your age).
‘But, my other leg is just the same age, and that one doesn’t hurt.’
The doctor grunted several times, making copious notes into a file, before telling me that it was best if we sought a second opinion at the local Hôpital Chartreuse in yet another town, Villefranche de Rouergue.
‘Why do we need a second opinion, when we don’t know the first yet?’ said he logically.
‘Shh,’ said I resignedly.
The Hôpital Chartreuse proved clean, friendly and efficient. I had decided, whilst there, to take up the offer for me to have a mammogram. The French health service, rather like the NHS, invites all ladies over fifty to have a free test and as I had undergone this procedure several times in the UK I didn’t think it would be a problem. However, I had forgotten that tiny problem of language.
‘Please fill in this form,’ said the receptionist.
I glanced quickly at it, but was puzzled.
‘Why does it ask me for the name of my daughter? How did you know I had a daughter?’
‘I don’t understand, madame.’
‘See, here,’ said I pointing to the first line. ‘Nom de jeune fille…’ (young girl's name)
‘No,’ she explained resignedly. ‘We need you to put the name you had before you were married.’
I felt foolish. And the feeling persisted right into the consulting room. The nurse gabbled something quickly before leaving the room. Did she say I was supposed to undress? What if she didn’t say that and then I am led in my nakedness along a public corridor? Oh God, why ever did we come to a foreign country…?
But once I had at last finished with my radiology, and I was thankfully pronounced fit and well, we proceeded to the Physiology Department, where H’s treatment proceeded much better. The Korean doctor we saw there was charm personified. I explained as best I could H’s leg problem, furnishing the doctor with the usual difficult-to-read note from our own doctor. He got straight down to business, asking if the patient could lie down on the narrow, short (!) bed (all Frenchmen are short) whilst he did several tests on H’s nerves and muscles. At some point the doctor unravelled a long cable with a needle on the end. I thought I’d better say something.
‘Uh, mon mari n’aime pas les aiguilles.’ (My husband doesn't like needles). This translates medically as either ‘my husband has a low pain threshhold’ or more realistically ‘my husband is a coward.’ Either way, the doctor seemed to catch on straight away. He told me that as soon as he was about to puncture the patient’s foot with the long needle, I should divert his (not the doctor’s) attention. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this, but waited for him to nod, before suddenly coughing. My cough was followed instantly by a howl of pain from the unfortunate patient.
Voilà!
The doctor said that in his professional opinion the difficulties with the leg stemmed from problems in the lower back and the fact that H wasn’t getting any younger. I translated. To which H replied: ‘it’s not younger I want to get, but older...!’
Anyway, the doctor pronounced that the problem with the leg was nothing too serious that could not be corrected by the purchase of a bicycle.
‘See,’ I told H, ‘it’s what I’ve always thought:
He says you’re to get on your bike!'
End.
I shook my head from all this past reverie and put my mind to the job now in hand. We had the French attestation (paper confirmation) so went along to our local doctor in the next village. His office was situated on the Place de la République, over the railway line with its frightening red and white barriers permanently at half-mast, over the picturesque bridge shading the river Seye, and then left at the little lane by the expensively-lit pharmacie.
In the salle d’attente waiting room were seated three other people, all elderly. We entered, wishing them all a bonjour, as is the custom. We refrained from the usual ça va? (asking how they were) because clearly if they were all right, they wouldn’t have been there. We looked around for a receptionist, but evidently such an officious person, so beloved back home, wasn’t required here. We waited. Soon, the doctor breezed in, issued bonjours to us all, then welcomed the next in line into his surgery.
I tried to make polite conversation with the lady sitting on my right.
‘Monsieur le docteur, il est un bon docteur?’ (Is he a good doctor?)
‘Mais oui,’ (of course) shaking her head at such a stupid question.
I shut up and concentrated on translating the several posters pinned to the walls. As I was neither pregnant nor likely to be suffering from Aids, I didn’t bother attempting to read further. When the time eventually came for us to go in, I shook hands with the doctor and explained as best I could that I had come as translator for my husband. He nodded and ushered us into his surgery.
‘What has brought you to my surgery this morning?’ he enquired politely, whilst punching up some details on his PC.
‘Our Citroën C4!’ said H, quick as a flash.
Nothing wrong with his humour then.
The doctor looked puzzled, as well he might. However, we have hit upon a useful introductory phrase, which always seems to work. ‘J’ai mal au…….,’ (I've a pain here....) pointing to the offending part of the body. Soon the offending leg was being prodded, pummelled and the knee hit with a hammer. The doctor looked, then gravely pronounced:
‘C’est normal pour un homme de votre âge.’ (It's normal for a man of your age).
‘But, my other leg is just the same age, and that one doesn’t hurt.’
The doctor grunted several times, making copious notes into a file, before telling me that it was best if we sought a second opinion at the local Hôpital Chartreuse in yet another town, Villefranche de Rouergue.
‘Why do we need a second opinion, when we don’t know the first yet?’ said he logically.
‘Shh,’ said I resignedly.
The Hôpital Chartreuse proved clean, friendly and efficient. I had decided, whilst there, to take up the offer for me to have a mammogram. The French health service, rather like the NHS, invites all ladies over fifty to have a free test and as I had undergone this procedure several times in the UK I didn’t think it would be a problem. However, I had forgotten that tiny problem of language.
‘Please fill in this form,’ said the receptionist.
I glanced quickly at it, but was puzzled.
‘Why does it ask me for the name of my daughter? How did you know I had a daughter?’
‘I don’t understand, madame.’
‘See, here,’ said I pointing to the first line. ‘Nom de jeune fille…’ (young girl's name)
‘No,’ she explained resignedly. ‘We need you to put the name you had before you were married.’
I felt foolish. And the feeling persisted right into the consulting room. The nurse gabbled something quickly before leaving the room. Did she say I was supposed to undress? What if she didn’t say that and then I am led in my nakedness along a public corridor? Oh God, why ever did we come to a foreign country…?
But once I had at last finished with my radiology, and I was thankfully pronounced fit and well, we proceeded to the Physiology Department, where H’s treatment proceeded much better. The Korean doctor we saw there was charm personified. I explained as best I could H’s leg problem, furnishing the doctor with the usual difficult-to-read note from our own doctor. He got straight down to business, asking if the patient could lie down on the narrow, short (!) bed (all Frenchmen are short) whilst he did several tests on H’s nerves and muscles. At some point the doctor unravelled a long cable with a needle on the end. I thought I’d better say something.
‘Uh, mon mari n’aime pas les aiguilles.’ (My husband doesn't like needles). This translates medically as either ‘my husband has a low pain threshhold’ or more realistically ‘my husband is a coward.’ Either way, the doctor seemed to catch on straight away. He told me that as soon as he was about to puncture the patient’s foot with the long needle, I should divert his (not the doctor’s) attention. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this, but waited for him to nod, before suddenly coughing. My cough was followed instantly by a howl of pain from the unfortunate patient.
Voilà!
The doctor said that in his professional opinion the difficulties with the leg stemmed from problems in the lower back and the fact that H wasn’t getting any younger. I translated. To which H replied: ‘it’s not younger I want to get, but older...!’
Anyway, the doctor pronounced that the problem with the leg was nothing too serious that could not be corrected by the purchase of a bicycle.
‘See,’ I told H, ‘it’s what I’ve always thought:
He says you’re to get on your bike!'
End.
I told you I was ill!
Part 2.
Later on, the afternoon proved to us what we had always suspected: the French are a nation of form-fillers. Eventually, I was issued with un attestation from the Caisse Primaire d’Assurance Maladie (CPAM) attesting to the fact that we were both now eligible for French medical benefits. It seemed that in practice, all French citizens pay up front for their medical costs and receive some back. The normal ratio is one hundred percent up front, and five days later, seventy percent of the cost is refunded directly to your French bank account. We still didn’t understand when we might receive our carte vitale, that all-important card that would give us credibility in our new country, but in the meantime I suppose the attestation will have to do. Mind you my inner neuroses were working non-stop. I could visualise that nightmare scenario of our lying in the road somewhere waiting for the ambulance to arrive, then groggily trying to explain to the trauma team just why we hadn’t a carte vitale but that we had got a vital piece of paper that was probably in my handbag somewhere!
Of course, if we hadn’t been residents and merely visiting the country, we could have applied for a CEAM card, which gives visitors the benefits of European-wide health insurance. But we had to come to terms with it. We were now bone-fide residents and must deal with the issues involved.
On the plus-side, it was clear that the standard of hospital treatment in France is second to none, and we were told there are virtually no waiting lists for operations or hospital beds. Apparently public and private medicine operate alongside one another with no difference in the standard of care between them. Everyone tells us that the quality of health care and facilities in France is among the best in the world, and much private treatment costs considerably less than back home. If ever we develop cataracts, for example, the cost of private treatment would be around nine hundred pounds sterling here, compared with three thousand pounds in the UK. Enough said.
However, our neighbour Franck told us that la France has long been a nation of hypochondriacs, famously satirised by Molière in Le Malade Imaginaire. He told us that he reckoned the French visit their doctors more often than most other Europeans and buy large quantities of medicines, health foods and vitamin pills. This must be why, in nearly every run-down dilapidated village we have driven through, the pharmacie looks the most modern, expensive building in the place.
H looked thoughtful. ‘The French must be hypochondriacs; I mean, everywhere I look are adverts for Piles.’
‘No!’ I told him horrified. ‘Those aren’t adverts for haemorrhoids; piles is the French word for batteries!’ I just knew that this foreign language thing would get us into trouble.
When Franck told us that the incidence of heart disease in France is among the lowest in the world because of the high consumption of red wine, my resident alcoholic’s face lit up. Well, it would, wouldn’t it?
We both wondered, though, why the NHS couldn’t operate in the same manner as the French health service. It seems obvious to everyone except the UK government that the increasing size of the population can no longer sustain a completely free health service. Some sort of charge needs to be levied on all wage-earners. We thought long and hard about the difficulties we had always experienced with English hospitals. The problem seems to lie not in the staff, who always appear surprisingly cheerful in the circumstances, but with the fabric of hospital buildings built in another time with a different set of values. No longer are staff in English hospitals prepared to scrub floors on their hands and knees, preferring modern polishing machines instead. Hospital clinicians seem conditioned to rely on modern antibiotics to kill germs absorbed internally by their patients, rather than the preventative, old-style carbolic administered liberally on floors and walls to disinfect the building rather than the patient. I just don’t know why the British put up with such a system. Closing all the old Victorian hospitals and building new, purpose-built buildings capable of maintaining high levels of surgical cleanliness would be a start. The hospitals everyone loves are not the bricks and mortar that hold them together, but the people who actually serve within them. These caring people will still be there in newer, cleaner and more hygienic surroundings. It is the very least staff should expect and what patients deserve, particularly in times of crisis. And if all this requires wage-earners to contribute more, then so be it. It would be worth it.
......to be continued next Sunday
Later on, the afternoon proved to us what we had always suspected: the French are a nation of form-fillers. Eventually, I was issued with un attestation from the Caisse Primaire d’Assurance Maladie (CPAM) attesting to the fact that we were both now eligible for French medical benefits. It seemed that in practice, all French citizens pay up front for their medical costs and receive some back. The normal ratio is one hundred percent up front, and five days later, seventy percent of the cost is refunded directly to your French bank account. We still didn’t understand when we might receive our carte vitale, that all-important card that would give us credibility in our new country, but in the meantime I suppose the attestation will have to do. Mind you my inner neuroses were working non-stop. I could visualise that nightmare scenario of our lying in the road somewhere waiting for the ambulance to arrive, then groggily trying to explain to the trauma team just why we hadn’t a carte vitale but that we had got a vital piece of paper that was probably in my handbag somewhere!
Of course, if we hadn’t been residents and merely visiting the country, we could have applied for a CEAM card, which gives visitors the benefits of European-wide health insurance. But we had to come to terms with it. We were now bone-fide residents and must deal with the issues involved.
On the plus-side, it was clear that the standard of hospital treatment in France is second to none, and we were told there are virtually no waiting lists for operations or hospital beds. Apparently public and private medicine operate alongside one another with no difference in the standard of care between them. Everyone tells us that the quality of health care and facilities in France is among the best in the world, and much private treatment costs considerably less than back home. If ever we develop cataracts, for example, the cost of private treatment would be around nine hundred pounds sterling here, compared with three thousand pounds in the UK. Enough said.
However, our neighbour Franck told us that la France has long been a nation of hypochondriacs, famously satirised by Molière in Le Malade Imaginaire. He told us that he reckoned the French visit their doctors more often than most other Europeans and buy large quantities of medicines, health foods and vitamin pills. This must be why, in nearly every run-down dilapidated village we have driven through, the pharmacie looks the most modern, expensive building in the place.
H looked thoughtful. ‘The French must be hypochondriacs; I mean, everywhere I look are adverts for Piles.’
‘No!’ I told him horrified. ‘Those aren’t adverts for haemorrhoids; piles is the French word for batteries!’ I just knew that this foreign language thing would get us into trouble.
When Franck told us that the incidence of heart disease in France is among the lowest in the world because of the high consumption of red wine, my resident alcoholic’s face lit up. Well, it would, wouldn’t it?
We both wondered, though, why the NHS couldn’t operate in the same manner as the French health service. It seems obvious to everyone except the UK government that the increasing size of the population can no longer sustain a completely free health service. Some sort of charge needs to be levied on all wage-earners. We thought long and hard about the difficulties we had always experienced with English hospitals. The problem seems to lie not in the staff, who always appear surprisingly cheerful in the circumstances, but with the fabric of hospital buildings built in another time with a different set of values. No longer are staff in English hospitals prepared to scrub floors on their hands and knees, preferring modern polishing machines instead. Hospital clinicians seem conditioned to rely on modern antibiotics to kill germs absorbed internally by their patients, rather than the preventative, old-style carbolic administered liberally on floors and walls to disinfect the building rather than the patient. I just don’t know why the British put up with such a system. Closing all the old Victorian hospitals and building new, purpose-built buildings capable of maintaining high levels of surgical cleanliness would be a start. The hospitals everyone loves are not the bricks and mortar that hold them together, but the people who actually serve within them. These caring people will still be there in newer, cleaner and more hygienic surroundings. It is the very least staff should expect and what patients deserve, particularly in times of crisis. And if all this requires wage-earners to contribute more, then so be it. It would be worth it.
......to be continued next Sunday
4th August 2008
After 3 years of hilarious situations and continuing traumas, I'm still here in the S.W. of France! June was a particular case in point. I managed to break my shoulder - that bloody dog again! He decided to chase after another canine, pulling me heavily to the ground. The best bit was that I got to experience the pompiers (emergency service) at first hand - or my only hand as it happened. The French health service is fantastic. No waiting around in crowded A & E departments - I was taken straight to a doctor on arrival. X-rays of my offending shoulder were displayed within 5 mins, prognosis made and the vagaries of a complicated shoulder-sling explained. Why can't I have a plaster cast? I asked stupidly. And just where exactly would we put it? replied the doctor patiently. Quite. I learned that in-patients in French hospitals get served wine with their meals. Just like in the U.K. (I don't think). And they can choose from glossy brochures exactly which extra services they might like during their stay. Another thing I noticed was the uniforms. Nurses and technicians employed in the hospital I attended wore super cool white or yellow loose-fitting tunics and trousers. They made the ridiculous UK hospital uniforms look like something from Florence Nightingale's era. (No stupid starched caps, matronly blue dresses, black stockings etc. etc.) - and that's only the men!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
