Thursday, March 2, 2006

Purely by coincidence, we are staying across the street from the Hospital Nacional. This is a great landmark for taxi drivers, especially in our otherwise nondescript (but pleasant) residential area. It's also great because I've been needing to see a doctor for a while. <br>
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It's nothing serious, but something that really needed to be looked at. I've been putting it off partly because of the embarrassing nature of the problem (no, I am not going to share it) and partly because of my extreme dislike of the type of medical services that I'm accustomed to as an uninsured person in the U.S.

I dread going to the neighborhood clinic in NYC, and Michael dreads it as much, because he knows that when I get home I'm going to be furious and miserable and starving to death from sitting in the grimy waiting room for hours and then dealt with cursorily and sans any shred of privacy.

I understand that public health clinics are understaffed and underfunded and overcrowded and everything. But that does not make it any less embarrassing for me to have to explain why I'm there in a whole room full of people getting weighed and blood-pressured. It doesn't make it any less boring and butt-numbing to sit in a room full of sneezing patients for three hours waiting for them to catch up to my appointment.

And then when I finally do see someone medical and I hear, oh you're here for a physical? Let's have you call and make an appointment to have one, I'm like, I just spent $90 cash and missed half a day's work for this appointment that I made last month. Why do I have to make another one when I'm already here and you're already here?

And all the while the attitude is "look, you're lucky you're seeing a doctor at all, Poor Person. If you don't like it, get some insurance." So I usually do what most uninsured people do: wait until it gets serious.

So it was with great dread that Michael and I stepped through the doors of the Hospital Nacional. In addition to my dread of medical care, I didn't even know if I was going to the appropriate place. (Do they handle walk-ins? Are foreigners allowed?) But it worked out beautifully.

The woman at information heard my problem and escorted me to urgent care, where she introduced me to another guy, who took us into an office and closed the door and explained, in English, that he would be evaluating my situation and deciding whom I needed to see.

I told him the deal while he steepled his fingers under his chin and mm-hmmed in a very serious and doctorly manner. When I was through, he wrote me up a little "prescription" to see a Doctora Bermudez in another building. He said she spoke English and was there right at that moment. Then he walked me out, got me a little map and showed me where to go.

I asked him how much the appointment would cost, approximately. "Twenty dollars," he said.

We went over to the other building and found the office. One of the receptionists did not speak English, the other did. She gave me a short form to fill out and told me she'd come and collect it from me in the outer waiting room, which happened. The waiting room had glass walls and a sweeping view of the city and the Bahia de Panama.

I saw the doctora about twenty minutes later. She was very nice and professional, spoke great English, and said she wanted to kill the person I'd seen (at the health clinic I ranted about above) who had told me nothing could be done about my little problemita. She prescribed a bunch of stuff and told me to come in the next day for a fasting blood test. She wrote down her office and cell numbers for me. "I don't have my cards with me," she said, "Carnival..."

The prescriptions cost me $42 and were filled in the lovely hospital farmacia.

All in all, it was an amazing experience for me to get such prompt, friendly and respectful service. And for so little money. But all afternoon in my head I've been wondering how much $20 is to the average Panamaniac. Surely more than it is to me, but how much more?

I've been trying to work it out by various means - if a Coke costs .60 and a fifteen minute taxi ride is $1.25 and we saw a sign advertising furnished studio apartments for $275 per month... but I can't get a grasp of it. The easiest thing would be to ask, but it's kind of a sensitive subject. (So if anyone knows...?) But also, I did go to a private hospital. Probably there are cheaper services available. But then there's the next question - are the public, presumably cheaper, clinics as miserable here as they are in NYC?

Well, anyway, after my wonderful, uplifting experience with Panamanian medical care we went back to the Voyager Hostel to see if there was anything new on the bulletin board. They wouldn't let us in. The guy who answered the door blocked the opening with his body as though we might try to rush him. He wouldn't event tell us how much a bed costs.

Q: "How much is a bed?"

A: "Do you have a reservation?"

And apparently the information board is only for people staying there. Which seems counterproductive to me, but whatever.

At the Internet cafe (an awesome place that has free wi-fi and employs the mentally challenged) we heard back from Captain P., the Danish sailboat captain. The boat situation looks good. He seems nice and he's got space. But we need a bit more information.

Michael had asked for advice on the Thorn Tree and was advised to ask for all kinds of stuff: Skipper's name and passport number, radio call sign, type of radios on board, approximate route, and whether he has an EPIRB, which is a device that goes into the water if a boat sinks and floats with the currents, giving rescuers a good idea of where to find survivors and/or bodies. So he sent another e-mail asking for all that.

So hopefully the sailboat will work out and the Voyager Hostel can just bite us.

 

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Hospital Nacional, Panama City.

Street scene, Panama City.

The requisite photo of me at work. Pension Las Palmeras, Panama City.