Run-in at the NHS

There's not much new here to report. It has been a VERY quiet weekend at A Flat on Abbey Road. Unless, of course, you count the hustle and bustle caused by the frequent, fast-paced trips to "the loo" necessitated by my current condition.

This condition manifested itself with a day and half of extreme tiredness, followed by some very nasty symptoms. I am assuming it is the "noro-virus" whose presence has been posted at the hospice volunteer office. In fact, I may have picked it up at a routine medical appointment over at the local hospital, despite the meticulous hand-washing and use of anti-bacterial gel.

Yes, we finally completed the paperwork for our being covered by the National Health System. This the the socialized-medicine version of "managed care" which the UK government provides to citizens and all others who are considered "ordinarily resident". That latter category includes us, as we have visas which allow us to reside here.

My NHS number was the first of the family's to arrive. One is assigned to a doctor based on one's post code. You can petition to change doctors if you wish. I applied to a GP practice based at the hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth right around the corner. There is a group of GPs newly affiliated with the hospital who have been featured in stories in the local newspaper a lot. These stories revolve around the fact that the GPs are beholden to provide the standard of care mandated by the national medical boards, which means that if patients request contraception or referral to "family-planning" facilities, the GPs must of course provide that care. Prominent local Catholic officials took exception to the Bishop of the Archidiocese of London allowing that to happen at a Catholic facility. I think that the hospital needs the income generated by the practitioners in its new wing, so the board of directors at the hospital OK'd the policy.

In addition to being the closest medical practice to our home, I very much wanted to support these GPs (all women) with the growth of their practice. The doctor to whom I was assigned is the only one taking new patients at this time, so I didn't have much choice in the matter anyway.

The prescriptions I got from the good Dr. D. were set to run out of refills, so a timely visit to the new practitioner was in order. The visit cost zero pounds. I checked in at the desk fifteen minutes early for my appointment, and scanned magazines in a pleasant waiting room. Several other people joined me there, and several others left in the time that I was there. No one ever came to fetch any patients, however. Then, I heard a dinging sound, and looked up. There was an electronic sign on the wall, very much like the one at the Registry of Motor Vehicles in Massachusetts. Public service-type announcements for flu "jabs" and health reminders scrolled by in red lights. Each time one of the doctors was ready for their next patient, the sign dinged, and the patient's full name (with MR. or MRS. in front of it) was displayed, along with the Doctor's name and the room number. This is what was causing the change of personnel in the waiting room! Luckily I had not missed my notification, which came about ten minutes after my scheduled appointment time.

The young doctor was seated when I entered her office, and greeted me with a handshake from the comfort of her chair. I established that I was new to the NHS, to St. John's Wood, and London, enquired how long the appointment was. As I was a new patient, twenty minutes was the answer, instead of the usual ten. I told her I was really only there for routine prescriptions. We discussed those, she took my blood pressure (still seated), asked me to get on the scale, believed me when I reported my weight (not getting up to check it for herself) and I was on my way after about ten minutes with two scripts which cost me seven pounds each to fill at the local pharmacy. Total cost: fourteen pounds (twenty-one dollars at current exchange rate). One of the prescriptions was for an expensive migraine medicine that Blue Cross/Blue Shield would no longer cover, preferring to give me another medicine by another manufacturer. This particular medicine (Maxalt) works the best of any, so if I wanted it in the US, I could pay cash for it at the price of $375 for six pills. I always elected to suffer through with the inferior (for me) medication. Here in the UK, the same medicine is formulated as minty melt-in-the-mouth tablets, which means they can be taken anywhere at any time with no need to purchase or procure a drink of water. Handy when one is on a bus to Hendon to procure keys to the front door of the flat (See posting from Sept. 08). At a cost of 45 GBP cash for a privately-prescribed six pills, I was willing to fork out the dough. Now, blessedly, each pill will only cost about one pound and change.

Knitters' note: I have finished Son's cranberry-colored sweater (jumper), washed and blocked it, and it is now drying on the cot in the living room. I should be able to mail it out early this week if I can get to the post office and back without incident.

This is probably where I ran-in to the noro-virus. Note to knitters: not to be confused with the NORO virus, which is an inability to stop stockpiling colorful Japanese yarn. I had one day of symptoms, followed by one day of reprieve in which I successfully fulfilled my hospice volunteer duties. Another day of symptoms, followed by a half-day of feeling all better, followed by an ill-advised attempt to take TeenE shopping on Oxford Street, followed by a visits to the underground public facilities at Oxford Circus. They are not well-marked, so its a good thing I had already made their acquaintance the last time I went to Top Shop. I guess I will stay close to home for the next 24.