Going the Private Medicine Route
Recently I had a colonoscopy--at a private clinic instead of at a hospital--for the price of $500.
Normally, I would have gone for the regular hospital colonoscopy. In fact, when I found out the cost of a private one would be $500, I hung up in shock. Besides, I support Canada's socialized medicine and have always been satisfied in my encounters with it. But my doctor had recommended a private clinic. I don't know whether this was for purposes of hurrying things up because he was worried, or simply that he wanted me to have a more pleasant setting for this rather icky experience. In any case, my husband forever removed from himself the possible epithet of 'cheap' when he generously insisted that I phone the private clinic and make an appointment.
So, how was the experience, and was it better than one at a hospital?
Well, for starters, I got an appointment for the very next week. What a shock! When my husband had a colonoscopy several years ago, he had to wait 4 months for it. The one time when I was in no hurry to get an appointment, and there I was, scheduled for the next week--the last two days of which would consist of purging my poor colon so that it would be ready for viewing and photography. What fun, eh?
The clinic was in Westmount Square, but didn't have much in the way of luxury. It was a rather narrow space, with a tiny, pleasant-enough waiting room out front with no magazines. (But by the time I got there I was in no mood for magazines anyway, having been purged within an inch of my life and bearing the cleanest colon ever on record. I just sat, steeling myself for what was to come, beyond nervous, beyond afraid, but not frozen, either. In the zone, much like I was when I gave birth so many years ago and felt no pain.)
I undressed in a tiny cubicle containing a gurney and a closet, then lay waiting, in one of those blue hospital gowns that never fit properly, while two people ahead of me were 'served'. A very nice, very short, dark-skinned woman named Ellen, who had the body of a sumo wrestler was my nurse /nurse's aid/helper; she exuded calm and asked me 'How are you?" when we first met; what does she want me to say, I thought; that I'm nervous? That I'm okay?
"Compared to what?" I responded, but I made sure I smiled. I was determined to be the nicest patient she had ever worked with, since when I am in the hands of medical people I want them, above all, to like me, in the hope that they will go that extra mile for me (as in "Oh, give her another jolt of electricity, Joe; maybe we can bring her back after all. She was such a nice woman!")
When it was my turn at last, I was wheeled into another tiny, narrow room, barely big enough for the gurney and the doctor plus two nurses. The doctor introduced himself as 'the surgeon who will be doing this procedure', which struck me as odd. Don't surgeons operate? And wasn't this merely an exploratory procedure, one that a technician could carry out, or a nurse? He, too, greeted me by asking how I was. In that case, I said that I had been better. He insisted on talking to me before hand, asking me questions I had already answered on two form sheets concerning what meds I take and what symptoms had led my doctor to recommend this procedure, and so on. Then he told me I to lie on my side facing away from him, and bring my knees up to my chest.
One nurse gave me a shot of something intended to relax me; it didn't. The other nurse (not very professionally, I thought), was chewing Dentyne with enthusiams, despite the fact that I hadn't eaten since the morning before. Earlier, I had also heard her roaming about, talking to Ellen and other nurses about how hungry she was; I was so hungry myself that I could have risen up from my gurney and strangled her at that point. And now here she was, chewing gum while I lay, starving, inches from her face,
To divert myself, I looked at the tv screen mounted above me and saw the beautiful pink folds of unrecognizable flesh pass by, as it was filmed by the little camera moving up inside my colon. It was very beautiful but amorphous, much like something viewed while on an acid trip, minus any emotion on my part of this being a part of me that I was viewing.
When it was over at last, I was wheeled back to my cubicle and told to wait. I was worried about my poor husband, who had told me earlier that the whole thing would only take about 20 minutes; I had already been in there for over an hour and thought he might be worried. At my request, the very nice Ellen went to tell him what was going on. She did more than that; she brought him to the hall outside my cubicle, and told me to dress: she had apple juice and muffins for us to eat.
I dressed in a hurry and rushed out to see John merrily eating his muffin, reassured that things were okay. I sat down and gobbled down the muffin, the first thing I had eaten in two days. It was a cake-like cranberry muffin, and tasted wonderful. As my brother in law said later, it had to taste good, for it cost $500. The doctor appeared then and told me that no polyps had been found, so there was no fear of cancer. That alone, to me, was worth the money.
So, would I go the private route again? Yes. The fear factor--for me and for John-- is much lower when you are in a suite of rooms that look more suited for a mammogram than for major surgery. Plus, things were faster. And quieter. The only sounds I heard as I lay on my gurney, waiting, were the nurses' voices and a radio, faintly playing from the waiting room. Not the usual hospital sounds of voices summoning doctors, of beeps and machinery humming. Of many humans waiting, as patiently as they can, like herds of cattle, often while standing, in triage or waiting in post-triage sites.
I'll take private any day over that. But oh, the cost!
Normally, I would have gone for the regular hospital colonoscopy. In fact, when I found out the cost of a private one would be $500, I hung up in shock. Besides, I support Canada's socialized medicine and have always been satisfied in my encounters with it. But my doctor had recommended a private clinic. I don't know whether this was for purposes of hurrying things up because he was worried, or simply that he wanted me to have a more pleasant setting for this rather icky experience. In any case, my husband forever removed from himself the possible epithet of 'cheap' when he generously insisted that I phone the private clinic and make an appointment.
So, how was the experience, and was it better than one at a hospital?
Well, for starters, I got an appointment for the very next week. What a shock! When my husband had a colonoscopy several years ago, he had to wait 4 months for it. The one time when I was in no hurry to get an appointment, and there I was, scheduled for the next week--the last two days of which would consist of purging my poor colon so that it would be ready for viewing and photography. What fun, eh?
The clinic was in Westmount Square, but didn't have much in the way of luxury. It was a rather narrow space, with a tiny, pleasant-enough waiting room out front with no magazines. (But by the time I got there I was in no mood for magazines anyway, having been purged within an inch of my life and bearing the cleanest colon ever on record. I just sat, steeling myself for what was to come, beyond nervous, beyond afraid, but not frozen, either. In the zone, much like I was when I gave birth so many years ago and felt no pain.)
I undressed in a tiny cubicle containing a gurney and a closet, then lay waiting, in one of those blue hospital gowns that never fit properly, while two people ahead of me were 'served'. A very nice, very short, dark-skinned woman named Ellen, who had the body of a sumo wrestler was my nurse /nurse's aid/helper; she exuded calm and asked me 'How are you?" when we first met; what does she want me to say, I thought; that I'm nervous? That I'm okay?
"Compared to what?" I responded, but I made sure I smiled. I was determined to be the nicest patient she had ever worked with, since when I am in the hands of medical people I want them, above all, to like me, in the hope that they will go that extra mile for me (as in "Oh, give her another jolt of electricity, Joe; maybe we can bring her back after all. She was such a nice woman!")
When it was my turn at last, I was wheeled into another tiny, narrow room, barely big enough for the gurney and the doctor plus two nurses. The doctor introduced himself as 'the surgeon who will be doing this procedure', which struck me as odd. Don't surgeons operate? And wasn't this merely an exploratory procedure, one that a technician could carry out, or a nurse? He, too, greeted me by asking how I was. In that case, I said that I had been better. He insisted on talking to me before hand, asking me questions I had already answered on two form sheets concerning what meds I take and what symptoms had led my doctor to recommend this procedure, and so on. Then he told me I to lie on my side facing away from him, and bring my knees up to my chest.
One nurse gave me a shot of something intended to relax me; it didn't. The other nurse (not very professionally, I thought), was chewing Dentyne with enthusiams, despite the fact that I hadn't eaten since the morning before. Earlier, I had also heard her roaming about, talking to Ellen and other nurses about how hungry she was; I was so hungry myself that I could have risen up from my gurney and strangled her at that point. And now here she was, chewing gum while I lay, starving, inches from her face,
To divert myself, I looked at the tv screen mounted above me and saw the beautiful pink folds of unrecognizable flesh pass by, as it was filmed by the little camera moving up inside my colon. It was very beautiful but amorphous, much like something viewed while on an acid trip, minus any emotion on my part of this being a part of me that I was viewing.
When it was over at last, I was wheeled back to my cubicle and told to wait. I was worried about my poor husband, who had told me earlier that the whole thing would only take about 20 minutes; I had already been in there for over an hour and thought he might be worried. At my request, the very nice Ellen went to tell him what was going on. She did more than that; she brought him to the hall outside my cubicle, and told me to dress: she had apple juice and muffins for us to eat.
I dressed in a hurry and rushed out to see John merrily eating his muffin, reassured that things were okay. I sat down and gobbled down the muffin, the first thing I had eaten in two days. It was a cake-like cranberry muffin, and tasted wonderful. As my brother in law said later, it had to taste good, for it cost $500. The doctor appeared then and told me that no polyps had been found, so there was no fear of cancer. That alone, to me, was worth the money.
So, would I go the private route again? Yes. The fear factor--for me and for John-- is much lower when you are in a suite of rooms that look more suited for a mammogram than for major surgery. Plus, things were faster. And quieter. The only sounds I heard as I lay on my gurney, waiting, were the nurses' voices and a radio, faintly playing from the waiting room. Not the usual hospital sounds of voices summoning doctors, of beeps and machinery humming. Of many humans waiting, as patiently as they can, like herds of cattle, often while standing, in triage or waiting in post-triage sites.
I'll take private any day over that. But oh, the cost!