As some of you may know, I have recently been in and out of the hospital in Hanoi, tending a relatively deep wound on my left elbow. My experience at the hospital reminded me of times I have been in the hospital in other countries, namely the US and France. I figured, this could be an interesting way to explore my different experiences with different health care systems.
So begins my 3-part series on Hospitals:
Part 1: Stitches at Bryn Mawr Hosptial, Pennsylvania, USA
Part 2: Kidney Infection at the hospital in Grenoble, France
Part 3: Infected Elbow Wound in Vu Linh and Ha Noi, Vietnam
I encourage readers to share hospital stories, and scar stories, be they from home or abroad. Enjoy.
Part 1: Stitches at Bryn Mawr Hospital
I am a scar story junkie. I can’t help it. There’s something about having a physical remnant of such a vivid memory that makes me enjoy the cringe-inducing details even more. I love swapping scar stories over a drink, because you never know which of your friends have been stabbed, or broken their pelvis skydiving, had major surgery, or cut themselves while trying to cut cheese using their leg as a cutting surface. You can always learn a little bit about someone from their scars.
I’ve got quite a few scars on myself. Most of my scars have come from me doing stupid stuff, like trying to flip off of tables on to beds, or to jump from one piece of furniture to the next while playing ‘the floor is lava.’ I’ve got a few boring scars as well. This is the story of a parabolic-shaped scar on my right pinky. The story itself is not too exciting because I hope that you will focus on my hospital experience instead.
It was August 3rd–the morning after a particularly long birthday celebration along the Lancaster Ave strip in Bryn Mawr, PA. You know the drill: The Grog, then Erin Pub, then Maloney’s. Having been the DD (aka. the responsible party) of the night before, I was up relatively early. It was before noon, and all my friends were still asleep. What to do? I cleaned my room, tidied the living room, and began to tackle the pile of dishes on the kitchen counter. I believe I was listening to the Talking Heads and scrubbing glasses. I picked up the french press, grabbed the grubby sponge and stuck my hand inside. As I wiped the sponge around the interior of the glass, I heard a pop and felt a little sting. The glass had broken cleanly in two and effectively sliced off half of the skin on my pinky. As my blood mixed with the dishsoap, I reached for the paper towels and clamped down on my finger, holding my hand above my head. I was contemplating the drive to the hospital as my roommate Julie walked into the house. Before she even had a chance to drop her things, we were back in her car driving the 3 minutes to the emergency room.
I walked into an empty emergency room, filled out some papers, talked to an admitting nurse and was directed to a room to wait for a doctor. It was actually a very nice PA (physicians assistant) who tended to my wound. She took a look at it, injected me with some topical anesthetic, cleaned the wound and stitched it right up with 5 sutures. Much easier than the 99 stitches she once had to do for a chainsaw accident, ouch!, she said.
In and out in about 45 minutes, I stopped by the outpatient services to give them my name and insurance information. Later, I (my mom) was sent a bill for $1000. They told me to come back in a week or so to cut out the stitches. Hell no! I thought. I’ll do it myself when they’re ready to come out. I don’t need to pay you a hundred dollars to operate a pair of scissors.
This is about the time in the story when anyone not from the US will open their eyes wide and drop their jaw, usually repeating the words ‘one thousand dollars?’ Yes, that’s no typo… $1000 dollars. For 30 minutes of care and 5 stitches. That is how much health care costs in the states. Imagine what it would cost for a broken pelvis, or a stab wound… Maybe you’ve seen ‘Sicko,’ that Michael Moore documentary and thought, ‘there’s that crazy dude again, probably exaggerating and trying to stick it to the man.’ Not this time, though (well, not too too much). We Americans are used to getting screwed by the health industry. Ask around to your friends. Behind many a scar story, there’s a hefty medical bill–or sometimes not, if they didn’t have health insurance and therefore couldn’t afford to go to the hospital.
It happens more than you think…
