hospital

A l’hôpital

Posted on by MELewis

I had to go to the hospital the other day. Rest assured that I am well (she says, knocking on brain).

It was a routine check-up with my ENT. That’s ORL in French, for the barely pronounceable ‘oto-rhino-laryngologue’. Imagine the mental gymnastics I have to go through every time I have anything to do with this particular medical specialist. E=ear which translates to O=oto; N=nose translates to R=rhino (think: rhinoceros); T=throat translates to L=laryngo. Just as we add ‘ologist’ to any specialty in English, in French you just add ‘logue’.

It’s a mouthful in any language.

Our closest hospital is a 30-minute drive in theory, but I have to allow an hour for traffic and for the fact that I inevitably get lost. It’s not that hard to find the actual hospital but it takes at least ten minutes to navigate the parking lot and figure out where the entrance is. The parking lot is built into a hill (well, we do live near the Alps after all) with four tiers of open-air parking spaces. There are many steps and winding paths leading down to a central drive with tiny signs showing how to access different departments. How practical for patients, I always think, many of whom are about to give birth, presumably not 100% mobile or not quite feeling up to a hike.

I almost always go in the wrong door. This usually leads to the Emergency entrance where I panic and run in fear of seeing someone in death throes or alternatively catching some fatal virus. This time I remembered my last visit two years ago and knew that the main entrance was up and down a series of valleys across which I cut like Heidi.

Arriving at this thriving hub of French culture, where the usual welcoming committee of huddled smokers by the door greeted me while holding on to their IV units, I noticed the new innovation of a welcome and orientation desk. There was no one there and anyway I remembered from my last time that I had to check in at the area called ‘Consultations externes’ just to the left of the main lobby. I was delighted to see only two people ahead of me and took a number. Two minutes later my number came up and I approached the person seated at one of the cubicles. “Ce n’est pas ici,” she said, shaking her head with a rather pleased air and directing me to the other side of the building. A different waiting area for a different set of consultants and services.

Off I went, still on time as for once I’d arrived a few minutes early. I successfully avoid the ER for the second time and arrived at the correct reception area. Here there was no number system but a longer lineup of people waiting to be triaged towards an admin cubicle for check in.

Having determined that I was in the right galaxy, the woman directed me to a zombie whose charm began with a ‘Je vous écoute’ (‘I’m listening’, not the nicest greeting but not as rude as it sounds to English ears). Eyes trained on her screen as she typed in my details, she continued a conversation with her colleague at the next workstation, complaining about some ongoing IT issue. I was invisible until she handed me a paper and told me to proceed to waiting room number 4. “And the waiting room is…?” I asked, having no idea where to go next. “Just behind the divider,” she said, as if the question was absurd. “We have several waiting rooms…”

Seeing the number 6 on the wall, I almost turned around and went on a dangerous tour back to the ER when I realized that the large room had several smaller areas, confusingly labelled ‘salle d’attente’ (waiting room), each with its own number. I found mine and squeezed into a seat. The place was packed. 45 minutes later, eyeing the ladies’ room with increasing envy but afraid to leave in case my name was called, a tiny white-coated nurse came and called out the name of the fellow sitting opposite me. Up he jumped, clearly ready to dance in joy and followed her to the door.

As she left, I heard her mumble something vaguely resembling my husband’s name. Not wanting to risk missing my turn, I grabbed my stuff and ran after them. At the door I asked her if she had in fact called my name. Yes, she confirmed, although admitted she hadn’t said it very loudly. I nodded and joked that thankfully I have good hearing for a deaf person.

She laughed. The ice was broken. Away we went.

The ENT, whom I saw after another 15 minutes in yet another waiting area, confirmed who I was and why I was there. Agreed it was good to get my hearing checked again and asked me to sit in his examination chair.

Before I could ask him what was next he had shoved a metal object up my nose. “It’s ORL,” he reminded me when I acted surprised. I couldn’t help but be grateful he was not my gynecologist.

A quick spin around my upper orifices and off I went back to my seat to wait for the soft-spoken nurse to come and perform the hearing test in a sound-proof booth across the hall. I passed with flying colours. While my left ear is completely deaf due to a surgery for an acoustic neuroma several years ago, my right ear is still going gangbusters.

How I hate hospitals. I say that with all the humility and gratitude of someone who has had the opportunity to take advantage of their services and to come out alive and well. All without having to mortgage my life away to pay for it.

I left with a spring in my step, along with a prescription for an MRI to check that all is well (more on that nightmare later), having paid a grand total of 40 euros. Which princely sum will be entirely reimbursed once I send in the paperwork.

Still. French hospitals. The less I have to do with them, the happier I am.

What’s your best or worst hospital experience?

Find the entrance

Posted on by MELewis

Entree_LyonAfter my post about getting lost, I thought I’d share another little challenge of finding one’s way in France.

There is a little game we play in this country. I call it, ‘Find the entrance’.

I discovered this when I arrived in Paris in the 1980s during the midst of a terrorist wave. The main entrances to many public buildings were barricaded by police, with access strictly controlled through a side door. The Alliance Française was one of these high-profile buildings, a hotbed of foreign nationals plotting to conjugate French verbs. I learned to never assume the front door was the entrance, and to always carry proof of identity.

When we moved to Lyon some years later, the plot thickened. Lyon is known as a secretive city and filled with many very old and winding streets including the famous ‘traboules‘. How well I remember going for my first prenatal appointment at Hôtel Dieu in Lyon. (The hospital has since closed and is undergoing renovations to be rebirthed as a luxury hotel and shopping complex). It felt oddly reassuring to be giving birth in such a historic place, always assuming that the medical inner workings were a bit more modern than the exterior.

Hotel DieuThe magnificent Baroque façade of this 17th century building on the Rhône river took up several city blocks. I walked the entire length of it without finding the entrance. Twice. There was a driveway labelled ‘Urgences’ but that seemed to be reserved for ambulances (although later, when my daughter was born, we used that entrance to access the maternity department). There were several large and looming doorways with rounded arches that were closed and without handles. Finally, on my third approach, I noticed a discreet sign saying ‘Entrées hôpital de jour’ (which I later learned means ‘outpatients’).

My little game continues to this day, though we live in a more remote corner of the country.

Mairie DouvaineImagine you have an appointment at la Mairie to get your passport renewed. You know where the city hall is, of course, as it’s usually one of the more obvious buildings in town. Often it has a large clock tower and looks rather like a church, with a sweep of steps and a stately set of wooden doors. Do not be fooled into thinking you should try to open them.

All those gorgeous doorways you see in photos of France? They are not the entrance. Nine times out of ten those doors are locked and only opened on state occasions or emergencies. The real entrance for le public is usually around the block or on the side, through a set of ugly modern doors that slide open, sometimes even with an elevator or a ramp for handicapped access. Practical, if something of a letdown in aesthetic terms.

Even when you find the door, you may not be able to get in. You may need a code, or an appointment, or be outside the official public opening hours from 13:45 to 16:15 (that’s 1:45 to 4:15 pm for North Americans). I exaggerate, if only slightly.

Finding the entrance in France is so much more than getting yourself to the right door. I’m still trying to figure it out.

Sometimes the exit can also be challenging. You have gone through so many sets of doors, corridors and stairways to reach your destination that you may have a hard time remembering the way out. I still get the giggles when I remember my husband, having just blown his stack in a public building following an interminable wait, turned on his heel to leave in a huff. Only he found himself standing in front of two glass doors that were locked. Sortie à gauche, we saw too late. Dignity intact, if slightly bruised, we exited stage right.

Oddly enough, it dawns on me that our new house, the one we had built here in France two years ago, has the front door in the back. Maybe I’ve been here too long…

What about you? Ever have trouble figuring out where the entrance is?