Dateline Jerusalem – It was a “balagan,” Hebrew for chaos, fiasco. A good friend said it was like an adventure. We could not help laughing at the comedy of errors. Although people from all over the world flock to Israel for its outstanding medical care, its advanced, innovative medical technology, we peons are subjected to socialized medicine and over-worked doctors. Only those who can afford to get private medical care, which is available for a fee but definitely not as expensive as that in the States, get the world-renowned Israeli medical care. Some friends disagree, but that has been my experience.
Humor is definitely the best medicine. Having been sent via ambulance from my doctor's office to the nearby hospital, I could be seen waving hello to shocked friends who happened to be sitting in the hospital ER lobby as I was rolled in on a gurney. It was a good thing another friend was volunteering at the hospital that day and that another friend knew a teaching nurse there. Without friends to advocate on my behalf, it would have been a lot worse. I definitely appreciate the brilliance of my physician brother who monitored my progress from the States. But, he is surprised I have survived the last 5½ years in Israel, especially since he has nothing good to say about my care to date. If he had not questioned or made suggestions, the doctors here would not have discovered some of my problems.
In the ER I never was hooked up to telemetry or given a chest x-ray, normal procedure for my symptoms. While waiting in my ER bed, a nurse told me to get off the bed to make room for another patient. Remember, I had been sent from my doctor's office via ambulance. Then the ER doctor yelled at me for attempting to get off the bed in my condition. My friend had to explain, in Hebrew, that the nurse had instructed me to alight from the bed. The doctor was livid that the nurse did not consult him, especially since the ER doctor was admitting me to the hospital for observation. He began to yell at the nurse. It seems yelling is the most common thing to do at this hospital. By the time I was discharged, my friends and I became professionals at yelling at the arrogant, negligent doctors and nurses. One of my friends made a doctor apologize for his behavior!
Hello? Is Anyone Home? Anyone?
Observation in this emergency room meant I would sit in a chair in a waiting area of the ER, out of sight of my doctor and nurses, without vitals being taken or being approached by anyone for 6 hours. I guess the hospital's idea of admitting me to the hospital for observation meant that if I did not drop dead of a heart attack during the wait for a hospital room, I must be okay. Who needs telemetry monitors, or nurses checking vitals, when there is such a foolproof method? My time was occupied by watching a woman in a pink top and pink pants with matching pink hair. I also spent time watching people make cell phone calls under hospital signs forbidding cell phone use.
When my friend asked the nurse when I would be going to my hospital room, she was told that it could take a few hours – or up to a few days! Finally I arrived in my room with four roommates and one bathroom with paper towels being used for toilet paper. But there was a sign indicating that paper towels were not to be put in the toilet. Figure that one out.
A new hospital wristband was placed on my hand. However, it had the wrong allergies written on it. Hoping nothing would happen to me before the correct information was placed on a new wristband took another four hours. I was given pills by the nurse, without water to swallow them. I found that some of these medicines were ones to which I have had adverse reactions in the past. A good thing I was alert.
I always carry a paperback in my purse. Because the individual TVs at each bedside would work only for a fee, and there was not a room telephone in sight, I was so glad to have reading material. However, the nurse said it was time for bed, and my bed light would disturb others. Sitting in bed wide awake in the dark only made me feel more uncomfortable. I got out of bed and took a plastic chair and my book into the corridor outside my ward. For over an hour, not one nurse or doctor came by to question why I was out of bed reading in the hallway.
Finally I was released from the hospital with a list of a battery of tests, scans, ultrasounds, and procedures to be undertaken as an outpatient. I have no idea why these were not given to me while still in the hospital. Of course, I could not get an appointment for one of these procedures until the day I am supposed to be arriving in the States to visit family. But my hospital experiences were nothing compared to going to a cardiologist after release from the hospital. Not once did he examine me or listen to my heart with a stethoscope. He just input information into his computer and wrote out a prescription for me to undergo a procedure. I mentioned it to a friend who told me that he used to be her doctor. As a result, she now pays extra for Israel's world-renowned private medical care. Another friend claims she has had nothing but excellent medical care at that same hospital. She raves about all of her doctors.
L'hitraot. Shachar
