[img]96|left|Shachar||no_popup[/img]Dateline Jerusalem — Occasionally I will get writer's block and fall back on topics that I may have covered before, but hopefully with a new or different perspective.
Usually this occurs when I have a deadline and it is the middle of the night (or early morning hours, depending on how you look at it). This week, I have plenty of time, plenty to write about, and although the topic is one I have covered before, my perspective is from a 180-degree angle difference.
When I first arrived here, I was so impressed with the healthcare. Being against socialized medicine all my life, I found that the Israeli healthcare system and its doctors were so outstanding that my perspective on socialized medicine did an about-face. But that changed within the last 4 months. Last night was the climax.
As many of you know, I injured my left shoulder, arm, elbow, wrist and hand about four months ago. My primary care doctor is excellent and diagnosed some problems. But the orthopedist I was referred to, without examination of my left side, determined my problem had nothing to do with my symptoms. He ordered an x-ray, but not of my shoulder or arm, and sent me to physical therapy. My primary care doctor and the physical therapist, however, believed that I had a bursitis (the therapist felt it) and golfer's elbow (the doctor examined me). Both thought I had a possible frozen shoulder. I have been in physical therapy for four months without pain relief or improvement.
Yesterday I fell on the hard tile floor of my apartment, bruising my left elbow while my right ankle swelled up like a tennis ball. I called my healthcare system and was instructed to go to a clinic and wait for a nurse to evaluate me. Then I would be sent to another location for x-rays, if necessary. I could not stand or even put the slightest pressure on my foot. The pain was excruciating. I had no idea how I would ever make it out of my apartment, let alone travel by taxi from one location to another.
I made arrangements for my taxi driver, a man who charges me less than the going rate and is available at my beck and call, to pick up a friend from her home, bring her to my apartment so she could help me out of my apartment into the elevator and then out to the taxi for the drive to the clinic. We managed by having me lean on a folding bridge chair that I pushed along the tile floors and brick sidewalk in front of my building.
Protexia is the operative word in Israel. It means that things get done and opportunities are made in Israel if you know the right people. My taxi driver knows the right people! He insisted that it made no sense to go to the clinic when it was obvious that I needed x-rays. So he drove to one of his friends, the head of the healthcare system in my area. She came out of her air conditioned office to observe my condition, took my medical ID card and walked two blocks to the clinic in 90-degree heat and 75 percent humidity to get me a referral from the clinic for x-rays at the local hospital, which is not part of my healthcare system. Had I gone directly to the hospital without a referral, I would have been responsible for the bill.
The hospital experience did not go as well. My friend, a native born Israeli who is obviously familiar with the language and how to read Hebrew, was unable to follow the directions given her by the ER intake nurse. It was only after she asked a janitor that we headed in the right direction. The x-ray technician held open the door and called my name. As my friend began to push my wheelchair toward the open door, the technician abruptly turned around and let the swinging door shut, almost crashing into my outstretched leg. Had it not been for my friend's quick reflexes in pulling back the wheelchair, I am positive I would have had more injuries.
It Does Not Get Better
After the x-rays I was instructed to wait for the results and meet with an orthopedist. Three hours later, after my friend finally became the typical rude and aggressive Israeli whose ranting and raving gets service in this country, the orthopaedist called my name. He, too, held the door open and then turned and pushed it shut as my wheelchair was entering the doorway. I screamed out loud in fear of the door crashing my leg as my toes actually brushed the closing door. My friend ran in front of my wheelchair pushing the door open just in time to prevent the collision as I lifted my leg up in a 90 degree position.
My ankle was sprained, not broken, but I tore a ligament and had to be put in a cast. The drying white cast material covered my skirt, one shoe was lost or thrown out, and I was sent home without pain medication, information on how to care for myself, or crutches. And it was not a walking cast. The entire ordeal took approximately five hours. My taxi driver drove all around the city to try and find an open pharmacy or place where I could get crutches. Everything was closed.
For the entire roundtrip from my friend's house to mine, to the office of the head of my healthcare plan, to the hospital, looking for crutches, back to my apartment, and then to bring my friend home again, I was charged only $15 and the taxi driver refused to take a tip. He even called his neighbor to see if she still had crutches from when her son was injured.
Never a dull moment for me in Israel. Although I am no longer enthralled with the healthcare system here, my faith in humanity is bolstered by the likes of my friend, the taxi driver, and the head of the healthcare plan for my city.
L'hitraot. Shachar (Dawn)
Shachar is the Hebrew name of a California-based attorney and former Los Angeles County deputy sheriff who moved to Israel three years ago.
