Adventures in British Healthcare, or Why I Will Never, Ever, in a Billion Years Support Socialized Medicine

I was recently in England for business and came down with a pretty nasty head cold/earache. I had a hint of danger when my ears started ringing a couple of days before I left, so I knew the flight might be... uncomfortable. As a sidebar, why is it called "ringing"? In my experience, it's much more like a constant "EEEEEEEEEEEE" than a nice healthy bell ringing. I've tried singing the note, but can't ever seem to find it. Anywho...

I was taking Dayquil, which, since the discovery that desperate meth fiends can cook their drug of choice using Sudafed, has converted over to the most utterly worthless decongestant known to man, phenlanline... fennel-analeen... finale-lien... that thing. I suspect I would have had similar results by swallowing medicinal Skittles or poking my nose with a pencil. I was also taking an antibiotic that my doctor had said to take if things didn't clear up after a few days. Alas, it was apparently not strong enough. After the trans-atlantic flight, my ears filled with sand and simply refused to equalize.

By Monday, the first day of work involving the people we were actually supporting, my hearing had decreased to, by my estimate, about 50% of what it should have been. I could barely hear the primary speakers and the odd snide comment from the peanut gallery resulting in general laughter caused me to look like someone with a non-existent sense of humor. I considered fashioning an ear trumpet out of an unclassified document, but decided that might cause me to be permanently assigned to the "Do not allow out of the basement" list. After much prodding from my wife, I resolved to taste the fruits of the UK health care system.

My first attempt was to have one of the receptionist types contact the occupational health nurse on base. Had this proved successful, I probably would have saved a lot of time, but, since said nurse proved mythical, I was forced to seek another route. Once back to the hotel, I asked the front desk if they had a contact number for a doctor, or GP, as the Brits would say. (They also ask if you'd like your fast food to "take away" and have signs informing you that this is the "way out". Craziness!) Having secured a connection to the GP clinic, I was informed that the soonest I could see anyone would be Thursday at 15:15. Not great, but I made an appointment. They also said if I needed to be seen earlier, I could go to the Walk In Centre (Center) at St. Mary's.

In that I was in pain and functionally deaf, I coerced a co-worker to come along with me to hospital. (Note the intentional lack of the word "the" before hospital. The Brits seem to drop unnecessary articles and letters. One goes to hospital. The WWII prime minister was named Winston Cheuchill. I don't even know how to render the lack of the letter "r" in Churchill. I digress.) After 5-10 minute taxi ride, we arrived at St. Mary's. The wrong entrance to St. Mary's. We wandered through the mist to the other side of the place and found a pretty full waiting room of non-life-threatingly ill Brits. I checked in, filled out my paperwork and waited. My co-worker still hadn't recovered from his hangover the night before, so he snoozed. Couldn't blame him. After an hour, they called my name.

The charge nurse (a man), heard my tale of woe, and then told me that I was screwed. This was a nurse clinic (no doctors allowed!), and since I was already on an antibiotic, there wasn't anything they could do for me. He didn't look at my ears, since this was merely the get your vitals and make sure you're not going to expire in the room whilst waiting for someone to see you for real part of the exam. In fact, if I chose to stay, it would likely be another 2-3 hours. Awesome. He also gave me the number of an out-of-hours GP clinic in some other town 5 miles away. I could call them, tell them my woes, and they would call back with advice ("Take two aspirin and call me in six months when I have an appointment to speak with you.")

I convinced the receptionist to let me use her phone, gave my info to the lady at the clinic, and waited. After about 5 minutes, which I think likely violated several British laws, they called back and I spoke with a doctor. I'm not sure where he originated. He could have been Indian, he could have been Bulgarian. English was definitely not his native tongue. He told me to find a stronger decongestant and if things got worse, to come in. I had just spent several hours of my life to find out I needed Sudafed. Sigh. We got another taxi back to the hotel.

I should back up a bit. As far as I can tell, stores in England are rarely open when people actually need them to be open. Typical hours are 1000 to 1800. 8 hours. The 8 hours that people are most likely to be, I dunno, AT WORK! I have no idea how British commerce actually transpires, in that no one is available to frequent stores during the hours they are open. The pharmacist around the corner from our hotel, Boots (founded by the monkey from Dora the Explorer), followed this pattern. I'd considered going in and asking the pharmacist what they recommended, but the place was never open when I was available. I probably would have had better luck finding someone to sell me meth, assuming they didn't have day jobs preventing them from buying Sudaphed.

I resolved to stay at the hotel on Tuesday until Boots (the monkey) opened, so I could acquire some bigger drugs, and then take a taxi up to work. After a cough-laden night, I got a phone call from our project's event lead telling me that the government lead said I should take the day off. Ok. I waited until 10, bought Sudafed, Vick's equivalent of Afrin, some more ibuprofen, and a couple of 750 ml bottles of water. Back to the hotel, for some pill-popping and spray-snorting, and I started feeling pretty good. This general combination of drugs managed to get most of my hearing back for the rest of the week and not rupture my ear drums on the flight home.

What have I learned from all this? Socialized medicine is the worst idea ever! Ok, the Holocaust might be a bit worse of an idea. And slavery. And eating the apple. Fine, socialized medicine is the fourth worst idea ever! If it was this hard to get someone to look inside my ears, a task of roughly 30 seconds and never actually occurred, I can't imagine what travails someone has to go through to get an X-ray or MRI. The politicians who are beating the single-payer drum really need to experience this first hand, with no VIP status. They might realize that paying more than 50% of your income in taxes and getting virtually nothing in return is the acme of foolishness.

The other thing I've learned is that the reason England no longer rules 1/4 of the globe is that it's frightfully difficult to manage an empire between the hours of 10 and 6.

As a final note, within 24 hours of returning home, I was seen by a real doctor, who looked at my ears, pronounced them awful looking, and prescribed another round of stronger antibiotics. Acquiring said appointment involved calling Urgent Care, making an appointment for a few hours later, and waiting less than 2 minutes after arriving at reception. I know, the last bit was pretty lucky, but it's what happened. This all happened on a Sunday, no less, when most of England is blissfully closed.

Opening Ceremony in Warp Speed

We have now discovered the only way to watch the Olympic Opening Ceremony - fast forward. We Tivo-ed the shindig (all 4.5 hours of it) and watched it a couple of days later. Wow, that was actually fun, as opposed to the usual pain and misery.

First off, we skipped the hour and a half of preliminary babbling that Bob Costas and Co. would have otherwise forced upon us. Calling that part of the Opening Ceremony would be like calling the 47 hours of "Pre-Game Coverage" part of the Super Bowl. At least the networks have the decency to label that a separate program. But not so with NBC and the Olympics.

Second, we skipped the endlessly repeated commercials. 'Nuff said.

Third, we could leap through the inevitable "high-art" concept pieces involving dancing men with mohawks and inordinantly tight body suits, women with bizarre, French Royal Court inspired wigs and huge skirts, occasionally containing other women, and whatever other rubbish some fashion designer created during an opium fever dream. I don't know why every single Olympic Game thinks this sort of drivel is required, but the last 5 or so I can think of have featured some variation.

Fourth, we could watch the countries marching in to at least double-time. Nothing against all that, but it's usually a wee bit boring.

This may lead you to ask the question, "Why, exactly, did you bother watching the Opening Ceremony if you didn't like any of it?" Well, Signor Cynic, we actually did like a decent chunk. The ski jumper made of humans was incredibly cool, as were the spider people, and, of course, Luciano Pavarotti, who, unlike everyone else involved with singing, was clearly not lip-syncing.

I miss the good old days, when we watched the Olympics on German TV, which would show every single competitor, regardless of their likelihood of winning or being part of the home team. Americans are vain and plagued with short-attention spans, but I still think NBC does a pretty pathetic job with the Olympics.

A Dog in Cat's Clothing

No, this isn't some sort of allegorical children's tale of trans-gender tolerance. The fact that I just included that in my blog makes me a bit queasy. Fortunately, no one reads this, so it's doubtful I'll suddenly be slashdotted by pre/post-op activists or their opposing numbers. With that all out of the way...

I've come to the conclusion that one of my cats is actually a dog masquerading as a cat. Stormy seems to exhibit a great number of the traits I've observed in dogs, over the years. Stormy will usually hop onto your lap about 10 seconds after you sit down. This is not, in and of itself, odd. If Stormy hasn't taken over your lap, Cloudy will certainly make an attempt. The big difference is that Stormy will then demand that you pet him. He knows how many hands you have and expects at least 50% of them to be active at any given time.

I know, I know, you're thinking that many cats like to be petted. Ok, smart guy, how many cats like their bellies rubbed? On top of that, how many cats will demand that their bellies be rubbed? Not so many, I think. Cloudy considers his belly to be verboten, off-limit, parts-de-privatude. I have the teeth marks to prove it. (Not really, he's backed off the force when he nips you - but he still nips when your hands migrate south of the armpits) Anyways, Stormy LOVES having his belly rubbed. He'll flop out on the floor and meow at you if he's feeling in the mood for some good tummy petting. This is not cat behavior!

Most dogs that I know love having their bellies rubbed. Then again, most dogs have no shame in displaying their private parts for all the world to see, while cats have specifically evolved a way of hiding theirs. I'm not sure where, exactly, a male cat's important bits are stored. Maybe they're kept in a Swiss safe deposit box. While Stormy's anatomy seems to conform to the feline standard, he still likes petting on the tummy.

Come to think of it, that may be Stormy's only canine trait. I still think he's a dog wearing a cat suit, though, and forgets himself when the overwhelming urge to get the gut scratched hits him. I intend to continue my surveillance and will share the elusive audio of Stormy going "meoof" when I finally capture it.

American Idolatry, Part the First

A post that I made on the forum at the Bible Quiz forum board (now, unfortunately lost due to some technical difficulties) started me thinking on idolatry and some of the ways that American Christians practice it. To start off, we'll define terms, specifically idolatry. Merriam Webster gives us this:

1 : the worship of a physical object as a god
2 : immoderate attachment or devotion to something

I think most Christians get to the first definition and then stop. They think "I'm not worshiping idols or a tree. I don't believe this rock is my deity, so I'm out of the idolatry woods." This may very well be true, but it ignores the second definition, and there's where the real problem lies. In a Christian context, we should probably ammend the second definition to be:

2+: immoderate attachment or devotion to something other than God

Idolatry occurs when someone places anything above their worship of God. Sure, you might be a pious Christian on Sundays (oops, forgot about football, Sunday mornings, when the morning game isn't interesting), but where does your allegiance lie during the rest of the week? Do the Republicans really tick you off? How about the Democrats? Do you drop everything to watch your favorite sports team? If you find yourself more concerned about yards per carry than the state of your neighbor's relationship with God, you might just be an idolater.

More later.

Slogans of Me

I came across The Advertising Slogan Generator at Every Thought Captive . Phil has some lovely thoughts on slogans and why they stop the critical thinking process. I'd have to agree, since I've decided to stop working, ie, performing critical thinking, and make fun of my new slogans. I've been a bit selective with these, since a number of otherwise benign slogans turned unpleasantly filthy when I was substituted for the subject.

Don't Just Book It, Eric It.
This one has a number of potential meanings, all revolving around "book". Am I better than reading? Does "Ericing it" mean doing something really fast? Am I more reliable than a reservation?

There's First Love, and There's Eric Love.
I guess you'll have to ask my wife about this one.

What Can Eric Do For You?
I fear this one may get me sued by UPS.

More Than Just an Eric.
Of course I'm more than "just" an Eric! I'm Eric "the" Lind.

Pardon Me, Do You Have Any Grey Eric?
Yes, let's remind me of the imminent onslaught of the beginning of my fourth decade.

At 29p an Eric, It's Not a Stress on Your Pocket.
I'm assuming "29p" is 29 pence or something similarly British. It is, after all, an English website. The direct implication, though, is I'm really cheap. How rude!

Every Eric Helps.
Of course we do - we're very useful.

Finally, I leave you with this last thought:

It's Eric Time.
Oh yes, yes it is. Although, MC "Hammer Time" was pretty lame, and "Miller Time" refers to something insipid and icky.

Perhaps I should remain un-sloganed. Then again, there's always:
Eric Unscripted.

A Tornado Made of Arms and Fingernails and Teeth

Hmm... of all the things I thought I would blog about first, I didn't think my cats would win out. Oh well.

Stormy, our black and white kitten, had a close encounter of the wet kind, this morning. I was getting dressed and heard a soft splooshing sound, which prompted me to rush out of the bedroom and see what had happened. Sure enough, I found Stormy in the hallway looking half-drenched and miserable. The lid of the toilet was up and water was all over the floor. Heather grabbed a towel and we started drying Stormy off. Cloudy, of course, wondering what all the fuss was about, wandered into the bathroom and promptly started shaking his feet off from all the puddles on the floor. I then had the bright idea of using the hair dryer.

Some back story. Our kittens hate loud bits of technology. I suspect they view things like the vacuum cleaner and the garbage disposal as noisy demons. Their usual reaction is fleeing to some safer part of the room, like under the couch, or possibly Utah. Did I remember all this? Of course not!

I held onto Stormy while Heather turned on the hair dryer. Roughly 5 seconds later, I wound up with a still wet cat and the general appearance of a man who punches plate glass windows for fun. The first thing that came to mind was the SNL sketch starring Will Ferrell where he plays Harry Caray and describes his reaction to something as a "tornado made of arms and fingernails and teeth". Pretty accurate, if you ask me. I think Stormy may have made all of his fur turn pointy, but I'm not sure.

While I attempted to stop my three-inch long scratches from leaking, Heather finished drying Stormy off, and life returned to normal. I'm hoping this will serve as a warning to Stormy and Cloudy about the dangers of toilets - only time will tell.

Lessons Learned:
1) Cats and hair dryers don't mix.
2) If you're still hell-bent on blow-drying a cat, grab it by the scruff of the neck.
3) It might be easier to just leave the cat in the toilet and engage the flush mechanism. This wouldn't have worked for us, given that Stormy had extricated himself from the toilet without too much effort, but it's still a reasonable observation.