An encounter with the Greek health system. On August 2nd or 3rd, I left our first floor flat to do some shopping. Halfway downstairs I realised I’d forgotten my mask and charged back to the flat. By the time I got to the door I was completely out of breath and finding it hard to recover. I did the shopping and still had not recovered. The following day I felt a constriction in my chest and phoned a nearby GP. I described my symptoms whereupon he told me to go directly to a local cardiologist. My wife grew up in the Ano Toumba area of Thessaloniki and likes to do everything from shopping to blood tests there. I always argue that we have perfectly good facilities where we are. In this case I point blank refused to do the 50km round trip, so my wife reluctantly phoned a nearby cardiologist who agreed to see me immediately.
It’s a strange private/public hybrid health system here. “Arrangement” might be a better word. The National System of Health (ESY/ΕΣΥ) in Greece is as good or bad as its UK counterpart. The main difference is that there are thousands of private doctors plying their trade in Greece, so a consultation that might cost £££, $$$ or €€€ elsewhere is comparatively cheap in Greece, about €50. My consultation, ECG, ultrasound etc cost €60. It is at this point that the marriage between state and private health care comes into play. The cardiologist ordered several blood tests to be carried out. Because I have AMKA (Social Security Number), these cost me just over €13, ie 15% of the actual cost. Even the full price of such tests is quite cheap because, just as there are doctors all over the place, diagnostic centres are also ubiquitous. In the small town next to me there are at least three within walking distance of each other. The same is true of pharmacies. Egnatia St in central Thessaloniki is a sight to behold at night when, with all the green neon crosses lit up, it looks as if a new crusade is being assembled. There must be a pharmacy every 20 metres. Fitting for a nation of hypochondriacs.
A few hours later my blood tests arrived by email. Bad. Within in an hour I was on my way to the Papanikolaou Hospital in Asvestohori. Foolishly, my wife jumped in the back of the ambulance with me. Never a good passenger, she duly got sick as the ambulance, with zero suspension, threshed its way uphill and round bends with a determination to find every pothole on the way. Soon she was violently sick and receiving more attention from the paramedic than I was. On arrival at the Papanikolaou, I was taken to cardiology on a wheelchair that looked as if it had been made from a supermarket trolley and the remnants of a discarded door frame. The missus was taken elsewhere.
In Papanikolaou chaos reigned but I was attended to immediately, receiving my second ECG and ultrasound of the day. That was about 7:30pm. From then till about 2am I remained on the Carrefour/Blue Peter wheelchair with two breaks for an x-ray and an MRI. My wife had recovered from her ordeal by about 10pm. I was not happy to discover she had been provided with a bed while I was planted on the wheelchair. Eventually, after a Covid test, I was admitted to the coronary unit and I’m still here. Well, I was at the time of writing.
The chaos at the admission point is largely due to the presence of relatives. Visitors, because of Covid, are not allowed into wards, but there is less control at admissions, where relatives vie for the attention of over-stretched medical staff. I’m sure the medical staff in wards must be praying for a prolonged Covid crisis as their lives must be a lot easier without overstaying, rude and demanding visitors.
Here in the Coronary Unit (Στεφανιαία Μονάδα) I have been pleasantly surprised at the level of round-the-clock attention I’ve received. The equipment seems to be top notch too. The only disconcerting thing is the cultural difference when it comes to privacy and, ultimately, dignity. The patient dress code is informal ie bollock naked. Thankfully, I’ve been allowed to keep my undies on. There are privacy curtains, but they are not used as much as they would be back in the UK – even for death.
One day I witnessed medical staff trying their best to revive a patient. The must have worked on him for over 40 minutes. In fact, their efforts were heroic but sadly to no avail. Then – and this I don’t understand – the corpse was left there on the bed in full view of everyone. Maybe because most of the patients in this unit are too zonked to care or notice. I am the most alert in the ward because I seem to be the only one without a heart condition. After about 30 minutes one of the nurses taped the dead man’s hands together, then his feet. His bedsheet was pulled over his face, then wrapped around his body, and the nurse finished the job by taping everything together at three points: neck, hands/waist and, finally, his feet.
After ten days in the coronary unit during which I was not allowed to stand, I was given a pair of special stockings. A physiotherapist got me to stand up and take a few baby steps forwards, backwards and sideways. The following day I was sent to a normal ward. Three beds, a TV and unlimited access to my phone and iPad. In the coronary ward I was only allowed to use my phone between 2pm and 2:30pm. Four days later I was released. One thought still dominates my mind. The private/public intermarriage of the Greek health system, the prompt arrival of the ambulance, the high standard of treatment in the coronary ward and the 15-day duration of my hospital stay all happened in a bankrupt country. What would have happened to me in the UK, supposedly the 5th or 5th biggest economy in the world?
I found a jig composed by Sean Ryan of Tipperary called The Nightingale. Here it is the first in a set of three jigs played by Caroline Keane, a real talent on the concertina.