Taking Kaitlyn to the doctor a couple of weeks ago may have been nerve wracking, but going today for myself turned me into a nervous wreck. I felt sick to my stomach and thirsty and sweaty and close to a total panic.
When I called to make the appointment I hadn’t expected to get in so soon… I just called YESTERDAY. The doctor herself answered her phone and when I started out by saying I need an appointment but don’t speak French very well (my standard line on the phone) she said I could speak English. Then when I told her she’d been recommended to me she said because I speak English? Like it was a bad thing. I almost didn’t go because of that. But, then again, she does speak it…
The office is inside what looks like an apartment or condo building. The outside of the building has three name plaques on it, one for each doctor in the practice. My appointment was for 2:30 and I realized staring at the sign that I was the first appointment after lunch. I also realized it was only 2:15 (I’d actually gotten somewhere early because I was so nervous) so I figured I’d mill around outside in the drizzle. I also figured that was why when I hit the buzzer to open the door to the building, it didn’t work. I found out at 2:29 when I hit the buzzer again, I just hadn’t held it down long enough. It doesn’t seem to actually ring anybody, it just unlocks the door. But you have to be quick to get your finger off the button and jump to the door and push it open. (not pull.. another mistake I made the first go-around)
Ok, so once I’m in the building I followed the signs to cabinet medical. That door said to buzz and go on in (I’m pretty sure), so that is what I did. When I stepped inside I immediately realized I had no idea where to go next. Before I had to figure it out, a woman stepped into the hallway area and said Madame Radeline? Ah, the good doctor is on time. Already her bedside manners in person beat those she had on the phone.
We went in and sat down at her desk to talk about why I was there. And do I have a Carte Vitale? (national insurance card) No. I’ll pay. Well, then, gotta type my information into the computer. I was still too nervous to spell my name or give my address in French. But when she heard the street name, she said in St Martin d’Uriage? You are my parents’ neighbors. I knew exactly which house is theirs by her description… because I’ve heard it before. A couple other Cat families go to the same church as they do and had told me about a couple on my street made up of a French man and an American woman. I just haven’t spent enough time attempting to hike up and down our street to run into them. Which house is mine? Oh, yes, yes, the one across the street from the donkey. At least I have a landmark to use.
Once the paperwork was over the discussion about my health got started. I say I need a check up. In France, it’s not done every year. Well, funny, my doctors in the U.S. all treated me to an annual probe. Ok, fine. But do I want to do it without a Carte Vitale? Yes, yes, I’ll pay. She spent a great deal of time flipping through her giant book of French prescription drugs and consulting with a colleague trying to find something most compatible to my current medication. Then she flipped through it to find something for my new complaint (migraines).
Finally, the dreaded moment could be put off no longer. The actual exam. The exam table and all the instruments were simply on the other side of the room from her desk. She left to go get something she needed and when she came back I’d managed to take off my shoes. You see, the room doesn’t include any paper robe or blanket. They don’t seem like much till you don’t get any at all. Awkward. She told me it’s a cultural difference; the French are just that much more at ease with themselves. At least the room wasn’t cold.
Once I was back in my clothes she wrote the prescriptions, including one for the lab. It turns out that in France, you take your own sample.. whatever it might be… to the lab. Her bill was a whopping 21 Euros. I found the lab and paid that 14 Euro bill. (although I wrote the number 40 by mistake. I’ve got to review my numbers apparently)
She wants me to get my cholesterol checked; it’s a good idea, she says. That means giving blood in a foreign language. I wonder if I can find someone who’ll go with me to translate: I faint when I give blood, I need to be lying down, and, oh, my veins don’t cooperate. Or maybe I’ll just try to watch how much butter I use.