I’ve been having some problems with an old injury
that was stirred up by a recent fall. This meant that I was going to have to
see our doctor, a thought that filled me with dread. This is not because Dr.
Sattern isn’t a nice chap. On the contrary, he is very pleasant. The
difficulties lie elsewhere.
We live in a rural part of France and either our
doctor is very popular, or there aren’t very many of them about. I’m not sure
which is correct, but it takes an awfully long time to get to see him. The
appointment process itself is extremely quick and, if necessary, almost
immediate, but the subsequent time spent in the surgery waiting room can often cause
one to lose the will to live. An emotion that is quite ironic in the
circumstances.
For some unknown reason it’s not uncommon to hang
around for two hours or more after the original appointment time. This has, on
more than one occasion, caused my husband Jack to comment that there’s really
no point in having a schedule at all. He may be quite right there.
Jack has a characteristic aversion to doctors. I
remember the time when we were living in Britain and our surgery closed down. We
had to transfer to a new doctor and, in order to register, every patient was
required to go in for a quick medical check. The paperwork could then be
completed. For Jack this was anathema. His time was at a premium anyway, but
that wasn’t all. As a healthy person he couldn’t see the point of sitting in a
roomful of people, many of whom were likely to be carriers of various diseases.
He’s never particularly enjoyed human company anyway, and this presented a
perfect logic to absent himself from a procedure that he considered to be
flawed.
After many letters and phone calls from the surgery
Jack eventually spoke with our new doctor. To his credit he agreed with
everything Jack said, and arranged to see him out of hours. Jack duly went
along at 8pm one evening when the surgery was empty. Apparently he had a
thoroughly pleasant chat with the doctor about golf, and the trials of having
to team up with one’s wife. He may even have had his pulse taken – that I
couldn’t be sure about, but at least he was now registered.
Therefore, as far as my husband is concerned, he has
to be half-dead before he’s prepared to contemplate a move in our French
doctor’s direction. I, on the other hand, needed to go. I made the call to his
receptionist and asked for an appointment. My natural optimism fleetingly got
the better of me when I foolishly asked for a period which was the calmest. “Hah!” came the harsh cry from the
fatigued assistant. She told me that there were never any calm periods, but I could take my pick from a number of
slots that had not been taken. Unfortunately I couldn’t make any of these, so
asked what his diary was like for the next morning. “But madame there are no scheduled appointments tomorrow morning. The
surgery opens at 8.30am and you must arrive and wait your turn.”
“Parfait,”
I replied. This was the obvious way to deal with the problems of hanging around
for hours. I would simply arrive very early and get to see him first. Perhaps I
should have taken more notice of her “bon
chance” after I shared my strategy with the lady but, in my enthusiasm, I failed
to register its subtle significance.
The
next morning I got up bright and early and began my journey to our surgery. And
it’s just as well I did because I very quickly caught up with a farmer driving
his car between 25 and 30kph (yes, that’s kilometres). Sadly, this is not
unusual. We haven’t quite worked out why some of them drive so slowly. It could
be because their battered old cars are past the sell-by date and simply have a
top speed of around 30kph. It may be because they’re conserving fuel. Then
there are those who indulge in the peculiarly European tradition of driving a ‘Voiture sans Permis’.
Literally
translated as ‘Car without Licence’ these vehicles are legally defined as a four-wheel
vehicle with an unladen weight not exceeding 350kg, a maximum speed not more
than 45kph, and maximum power less than or equal to 4kW (5.6hp ). They are
treated as mopeds and can be driven with or without a licence. Even if exercised
to the full, their theoretical top speed is exactly half the normal single
carriageway speed limit. But driving at full speed seems to be a rare event.
I
couldn’t be sure why we were travelling so slowly but, in the absence of a
passing lane, there was no possibility of overtaking the sedate old gentleman in
front of me. This turned my 15 minute drive into 30, but it shouldn’t have
mattered. Fortunately time was on my side and I was still very early.
It was market day in the town and quite busy
already, it was also very hot. I squashed my car into one of the few remaining
spaces, breezed confidently into the surgery, and stopped in my tracks. The
place was already seething with people and it wasn’t even 8.15am – I couldn’t
believe it. What a dirty trick! It must have been the cleaner who’d let them
all in. I looked at the assembled company and said my obligatory “bonjour messieurs dames” which was
greeted by a series of croaks and one extremely loud sneeze. I then looked
towards the receptionist’s desk and saw the pile of health-service cards which
were already stacked high. These would determine the order of play. I had half
a mind to slot mine gently in the lower part of the tower, but one look from
the rheumy-eyed patient on card-duty put me off straight away. Instead I
dutifully popped it on top and sat down on the remaining horizontal surface,
the children’s toy box. Incidentally this is another of Jack’s pet hates. He
views the lids of these boxes with great suspicion, convinced that they are dangerously
contagious objects having been fiddled with by small ill children.
8.30am came and went and every time the door opened,
as a group, we all looked up expectantly, hoping that it would be our doctor.
Sadly not. I remonstrated with myself for my naivety at forgetting that he is
never on time, ever. Dr. Sattern is something of a local celebrity around our
parts owing to his willingness to volunteer for just about everything. Fire
brigade, neighbourhood police, relief hospital medic, you name it, he’s stuck
his hand up. I think his public-spirited behaviour is quite laudable, but Jack
thinks he’s just a public-spirited egomaniac. Whatever the truth, his numerous
extra-mural activities often cause him to be very late.
Happily Madame
Colcutt, the receptionist did arrive on time, barked a “bonjour” at us all and glowered at the mass of cards. She then
reconnected the phone from night answer machine mode which caused the receiver
to explode with noise, and become alive with flashing lights. This lasted most
of the morning for the over-worked lady.
Finally at 9.34am Dr. Sattern strolled in looking
perfectly relaxed and not at all as though he had just left the emergency helicopter
outside. Those of us who had watches stared at them, others glanced at the wall
clock, which was clearly missing a battery. A groundswell of grumpy mutters was
followed by a few hacking coughs. There was a moment of innate solidarity –
none of us was happy that he was so late, but relieved that the proceedings
could at last begin. A further period of tension ensued while we waited for our
doctor to strap on his stethoscope and call the first patient. Furtive glances
flickered around the room, each of us trying to guess who would be the first to
go in.
“Madame
Sarget,” boomed Dr. Sattern, his stethoscope swinging dangerously from side to
side, threatening to whack an old chap on the beret. We all stared fixedly at
this lady, willing her to get a move on, but this was unlikely to happen. Poor
old Madame Sarget was desperately elderly
and, by the look of things, on her last legs. In retrospect, it was probably
just as well that she did go first. Anyway, we were up and running and the strain
in the room visibly eased. People began to chat among themselves, read waiting
room magazines which, as Jack would point out, had all previously been soiled
by other patients, or play with their mobile phones. However, after about half
an hour our collective spirits were dampening. Madame Sarget was still in there, and there were still over 20 of
us left in the waiting room. It didn’t take a mathematician to work out that if
we all took that long it would be tomorrow before the end of the list was
reached. Things were not going at all well.
Finally, after about 35 minutes, she hobbled out.
Well, at least she was still alive. The next three or four patients only took
around 15 minutes each so it was safe to believe that we might now be on a
roll. We relaxed and later on looked with a mixture of pity and smugness at a new
group who arrived and had to line up against the wall (standing room only now).
Dr. Sattern duly reappeared having dispensed with another ‘done’ patient, but
to our utter dismay, called three of the newcomers in. This caused collective
outrage. Two of the patients immediately strode up to the receptionist to
complain. In part this was an unwise move because it enabled one of the
standers to slide into a now-vacant seat.
The initial thrust of the complaints committee was somewhat
thwarted because their attentions were waved aside by Madame Colcutt, who’s phone was still welded to her ear and
threatening to catch fire with overuse. She finally barked a “ne quittez pas s'il vous plait” (hold
please) at the receiver, stabbed a button and stared defiantly at the angry
mob. I couldn’t hear what was said, but it seemed that our deputation wasn’t
entirely successful. There was much head wagging, pointing of fingers and a
slam of the desk diary by madame. Our
contingent returned to wedge themselves onto the now full couch, and explained
the situation. It seems that these people (who didn’t seem to speak French),
had arrived very early, started off the card pile, and then gone off to have a
relaxed mooch around the market. Genius! Their return timing was nothing short
of impeccable. They were, in fact, blameless.
Time wore on and I was beginning to wish that I had
brought a cushion. As each new patient was called in we started to eye one
another with suspicion. Was there any possibility of queue-fixing? It was
difficult to say. The other problem was the heat. The air conditioning unit was
in a similar state to the wall clock. It didn’t work. With temperatures rising
steadily it would have been around 32 degrees centigrade outside by now, and
not much less inside. I’m afraid this took its toll on the assembled company,
some of whom began to perspire and smell rather ripe. Those with coughs and
colds became noisier. I was certain that the air was thick with a
colourful mix of infections, which were now being wafted around by several ladies using rank looking dog-eared magazines for fans. Blood pressures were
collectively rising. This was a thoroughly bad combination, but at least we
were in the right place in the event of an impromptu health disaster. Then, as
if matters could get any worse, in came a screaming child with its mother.
It wasn’t immediately clear which of the two was the
patient. The mother looked absolutely exhausted and the child yelled in a most energetic
fashion. Sadly they made a bee-line for me, but it wasn’t my company they
sought, the child wanted to get at the toys. I got up stiffly and waited my
turn for the musical chairs moment when one might become vacant. I must say
that, at times like these when there’s the possibility of a seat to be won,
it’s amazing how agile the otherwise infirm can be. Unfortunately it was
breathing room only, so I stood next to the mother and the child, who was now
busy shredding toys.
This part of my morning was probably the lowest. The
unfortunate little boy, who was around four years old, had a streaming cold but
hadn’t yet acquired the skills needed to manage the stuff that was running out
of his various orifices. His mother avoided any attempt to help him with his general
hygiene, and completely ignored the bawling snivels and rivulets of liquid
running down his face into his mouth. Instead, she busied herself by sending
text messages. I watched, grotesquely fascinated, as he carefully excavated
each nostril and smeared the contents of his gunky nasal passages onto his shorts
and the toy box lid. Evidently of the opinion that something was not quite
right, he then took out a bag of tiny sweets and proceeded to stuff one or two
up the empty passages. Oddly enough these got stuck and caused immediate
irritation. He then let out a gusty sneeze, causing all sorts of unsavoury
fluids to fly across the room, and one of the sweets to fire out of his nostril
like a pellet. This sent it skimming across the floor. Where would it end up? I
was gripped. It eventually skipped over a small clod of mud and came to rest on
an old lady’s stocking. Luckily, and despite it being bright orange, she didn’t
notice.
I was so transfixed, wondering what was going to
happen next, that I didn’t notice the activity going on around me. Dr. Sattern,
stethoscope swinging pendulously, had reappeared and was calling my name! Faces
stared accusingly as I wasted precious time by scrambling about trying to re-pack
the contents of my bag, which I’d managed to drop on the floor in all the excitement.
I gathered them up as quickly as possible, minced around the knobbly knees, the
walking sticks and the suspicious splats on the floor, and I was in.
At this stage all I wanted to do was get my minor
problem sorted and out of the way, but it’s never really that easy with Dr.
Sattern. Aside from the fact that he is quite a chatter, he also loves to test out
his linguistic skills. He was still extremely relaxed, apparently oblivious to
the worsening health conditions he was causing his patients in the next room.
He spoke in pidgin English and started regaling me with amusing anecdotes which
had occurred during an over-the-garden-fence conversation he’d with his English
neighbour. During this I made the fatal mistake of correcting one of his
mis-used words.
Me: “I think you mean duG,
rather than duGGED Dr. Sattern.”
Dr. S: “As yes, it is
the dug, I see thank you.”
Me: “That’s a pleasure,
your English is excellent.”
Dr. S: “Ah you flattering
me too much.”
Me: “Certainly not, it’s
the truth. And that’s a very good word to use.”
Dr. S: “Yes, an old
French word.”
Me: “Ah, I think you’ll
find that it is an English word.”
Mistake! Dr. Sattern sprang into action. He swept
aside heaps of patient records and medical tomes and started ferreting around
with the mountain of books on the floor. No luck there. He then went to his
computer, pressed the delete button and hit Google.fr.
After a moment or two of frantic keying he clicked on a website and let out a
whoop of triumph.
Dr. S: “Here it is –
the definition. It is for sure the word very French.”
With that he swung the screen towards me with such
ferocity that it knocked the plastic spine and rib cage clean off the shelf,
sending them clattering across the floor. There were vertebrae everywhere.
Me: “Ah yes, I do
apologise, it’s seems that I might be wrong.”
Dr. S: “You are! All
the best words, they are the ones French.”
Now that he’d sorted out yet another linguistic challenge
to his personal satisfaction he abandoned the rest of his story, his bones, and
stared fixedly at me.
Dr. S: “So, what is
wrong?”
By this stage it was nearly 1pm and quite honestly I
could barely remember why I’d gone in the first place. I blundered through an
explanation of my minor medical problem which, to his credit, he took very
seriously. After a thorough examination and prescription to sort it out, we
said our goodbyes and he steered me back to the lions’ den.
I knew I had been in there for almost half an hour,
but there hadn’t been much I could do about it. However, no excuse would have
been acceptable to the remaining occupants of the waiting room who stared
belligerently and sniffed intermittently as I scurried by. As I made for the
door I passed the receptionist’s desk. She had escaped to lunch leaving her
phone flashing like a manic 1970’s disco ball. Who could blame her?
My journey back was very short, leaving me just
enough time to fret about my appointment and those poor patients still waiting
to be seen. Today had been a new record, one that had beaten the socks of our
usual two hours. I had started off at 8am and didn’t reach home until 1.30pm.
As I walked into the house my ever-loving Jack
greeted me with, “Poor darling! You must be fed up.” I reached forward to give
him a kiss, but he raised his hand in warning. “BUT,” he continued, “please
don’t touch me or give us any food until you’ve washed your hands. You’ve been
in that virus incubation chamber for a complete morning. In fact, better still,
you go shower and I’ll make lunch. Safer all round really.”
So, there we have it – a morning that was nothing
short of ridiculous. But, here in our little corner of France, where life often
moves very slowly, it’s something that is generally accepted. In my case, not
always with good grace, in Jack’s case – never. But the truth is I’d never want
to trade it, any of it.
And at least I got out of the cooking!
