My valentine surprised me with tickets to see none other than pop sensation John Oates (of Hall & Oates/moustache fame), who played this past Tuesday at Whelan's. I was pretty excited, though after looking up his more recent career, I realized that most of the night would probably not be devoted to Hall & Oates songs. Still, it promised to be good fun.

So I rushed from my class...which reminds me! I'm taking an evening class through the Dublin City Enterprise Board called "Start me up! Start your own business." It's uber exciting and one of several DCEB classes I've taken and will be taking. And that reminds me further - my business cards came in the mail the other day! I designed them myself, after much hemming and hawing. I love them so much I want to marry them. Here is one side, with my happy face (kinda disheveled after Pilates):

So I rushed from my class at the IFSC over to Whelan's, and I managed to arrive three songs into Oates' set. I missed Maneater, unfortunately. There were quite a few people there! And a big mix of age groups for sure. His style has evolved a lot over the past couple of decades (and I'm not talking about the fact that his signature moustache is long gone), but it's funny how everything he played seemed to have his stamp on it. You can hear how much influence he had over the songwriting in Hall and Oates from listening to his newer music. He told lots of stories and interacted with the crowd a fair amount. Possibly his #1 biggest fan was in attendance. The guy was drunk as hell, but boy oh boy was he ever excited. He kept responding to/talking over John Oates as if the two of them were the only ones in the room. After a while it was really entertaining, especially when every so often, something he said wouldn't make any sense. He was harmless, really, but a bit distracting! At one point he went back to the bar, came back to his seat, and yelled, "It's ok now, I've switched to water!!"

My only suggestion for Mr. Oates, if he ever happens to read this is regarding lyrics from a new song he played that was written with someone else (whose name escapes me) called "A Day in the Life of an American Man." He refers to his father and mother, and his sister and brother with descriptive words like "strong," "brave," "loving," and "kind" or words to that effect. I'd just ask him to consider less gender normative or constricting descriptors. It's expected and frankly boring. Women are strong; men are loving. What if he switched them around, or used more unique, quirky adjectives? I think the song would come more alive, personally. That's just my two cents. I know lyric writing isn't easy but you can think outside the expected, just a little bit.

He did sing some Hall & Oates hits, but completely re-worked them so some of them were almost unrecognizable. I don't blame him though -- I always thought that if I were a musician with hit songs, I wouldn't be able to stomach playing them over and over again for years and years. All in all, I think John Oates enjoyed his time in Dublin and I hope he comes back again soon. For those interested, here's another review of the show.

We had a very pleasant time, and headed home, but when we got to where we'd take a left onto the quays at the Dublin Civic Offices, I noticed three guys in track suits who were picking up Centra (convenience store chain) bags from the middle of the intersection, which was weird. Just as I was about to make my turn, I noticed that there was a cyclist on the ground in the middle of the street on the bridge in front of us. I didn't put it together at the time, but he'd just had the crap beaten out of him by those three guys, who were laughing and strolling away. He was on his knees, face down on the road. So instead of taking our left, we went straight to help the cyclist. At first (I guess I'm slow/naive), I thought maybe he'd been hit by a car. He was bleeding from his eye, and I mean his EYE. Already the area around the eye was extremely swollen, and it had only been a minute or two. A woman in a car pulled over to help, and a pedestrian also stopped. They attended to the cyclist while I called 999 (emergency services).

It was a really aggravating conversation. The operator answered, and as soon as they did I said that a man had been assaulted and was bleeding on Wood Quay on the bridge between the Four Courts and the Civic Offices. Now, anyone who's lived in Dublin five minutes will know where that is. There was a pause and the person said, "So do you need Ambulance, Fire Brigade, or Gardai?" Since the cyclist was badly injured, I said, "Ambulance!" and was transferred. I explained to the next person what had happened. The guy asked for my location, which I repeated. He then asked, "So, Dublin 7?" Anyone who's lived in Dublin for five minutes would know exactly where we were standing. We were on a bridge over the river. On one side of the river is Dublin 8, and on the other is Dublin 7. Debating the post code infuriated me. Were they going to send the ambulance in the post? I reiterated exactly where we were. It took AGES for the ambulance to come, and when we did spot it coming from the west, it was as if it were purposely trying to dive as slowly as possible. Then it passed right by us. By then the cyclist had insisted he didn't want to wait for an ambulance, and started walking his bicycle home. However he was practically blind, and was having a hard time of it.

I waited for the ambulance to go down to the next bridge and make its way back to us while Mark went after the cyclist, who was in deep denial as to the condition of his face. Mark found him up the street crying because he'd accidentally walked into a pole. I told the EMTs where they were (in front of the Bridewell by then), and then followed the whole lot on my bike. Me and the other two good samaritans were completely blown away that no police had been sent. Thinking back, I hadn't asked for the Gardai. However if they just had synthesized the information, they'd have sent someone. When I complained to a friend about this she said that you actually have to hang up with 999 and CALL BACK AGAIN if you want more than one service. So when you're assaulted in Dublin, you (or someone else) has to dial 999, ask for an ambulance, explain the location, etc, and then hang up, re-dial, ask for the police, and do it all over again. So if someone breaks into your house, beats you up, and sets your house on fire, you'll have to make three phone calls I guess!

Adding to the craziness, Mark went to school with one of the ambulance drivers, and they hadn't seen each other in probably 20 years. They chatted while me and the other EMT driver tried to get the dude to go to the hospital. No dice. He said his girlfriend was waiting for him in front of his house and he had to get home. He was also worried about what to do with his bike. I told him he was literally going to go blind in that eye if it wasn't seen to immediately, but I don't think he believed me. Not only that, his nose looked broken. The EMTs couldn't force him into the ambulance, so we all had to let him go. But he could barely see, so I followed him. I took his bike and wheeled it for him while he held onto my shoulder as I guided him. We managed to get his girlfriend on the phone and convince her to meet us (it was no small feat; she was convinced he was blowing her off and hadn't been assaulted that badly). When she saw the state of him I think she felt some remorse. In the half hour or so that we walked with him, I think we managed to convince him to call an ambulance as soon as he got home. At least I hope that's what happened. We left them to make their own way home, feeling that there was nothing else we could do.

He seemed like a nice guy -- in drug recovery and drug-free for three years. He is living in a halfway house but is moving out into a regular home in only three months time. While waiting at the traffic light where we found him, his assailants walked by, apparently debating whether they should steal his bike. Half recognizing one of the guys from a rehab facility, he said "How ya" or some kind of greeting, thinking that if the guy recognized him, they'd leave him alone. But the other two guys were like, "What'd you say??" thinking who knows what, and basically just decided to kick the crap out of him for fun, dropping their groceries in the street in the process. The cyclist was on his way home to meet his girlfriend to eat some pizza and watch a movie. The saddest part was hearing him lament the fact that he couldn't just go home, relax, and have a nice quiet night in. He was now looking at a long wait in a hospital A&E. But funnily enough, he didn't seem to bear his attackers any ill will. He kept saying, "I'm going to pray for those guys," which touched me completely. My mind tends to veer towards revenge in such situations, so I was inspired by the sentiment. I wish I could describe him better but Mark and I both wished we could have done more for him.

Strangely, we didn't get the guy's name, although I did give him my phone number in case he needed a witness. He lives rather close to us, though I don't know exactly where, but I hope one of us runs into him on the street sometime, and that he's ok, recovering, and still managing to keep his life on track despite this staggering setback.

When we got home, I thought I could really use a beer. But since I'm on a really restrictive diet, that wasn't on the cards. All in all it was a pretty strange night!

I've been working on this very VERY long post for ages. This happened in mid-October...

Speaking of Mary Harney and Healthcare...I have been meaning to share our recent experiences with seeking medical attention for my mother-in-law last month. It's incidents like these that remind me that Ireland is not where I will be growing old. As many friends as I've made, and for all the positive things that make my life enjoyable here, I know that I will be going back to the US for my winter years. And there's pretty much one major reason for that: the Healthcare system here is absolutely terrifying, especially if you are old, disabled, or alone.

Joyce is 80 years old. She was last in the hospital while Mark and I were away. She hadn't been well since before Christmas, but has a real reluctance to go to the doctor because the waiting time is between two to six hours. If you have an appointment, the doctor will likely not even walk into the building until two hours after your scheduled time. And then he'll see the six or seven patients ahead of you, not to mention make and receive telephone calls and take queries from the secretaries during appointments. When Mark and I first moved to Dublin, we signed up for this practice, not knowing where else to go. After each having two very bad experiences, we switched. When we suggested that his parents do the same, they responded that they'd been going there for over 40 years, and sure, they wouldn't want to make anyone feel bad by switching. So their answer to this problem is to simply go to the doctor as seldom as possible, no matter what kind of agony they are in.

In July, Joyce had been admitted to the Mater Hospital for fluid around her heart. She was in a hallway, waiting for three days for a room. At the time, I didn't think much of this, although it was disturbing, but my mental picture was of a patient in an American-style hospital, on a proper bed, and while I thought jesus, that's horrible, I didn't linger on it too long in my mind.

When she was discharged, Joyce was given a prescription for a water tablet, to be taken daily, to keep her fluid down. However no one seems to have explained to her the consequences of not taking this pill. Since going to the doctor meant a two to six hour wait, she wasn't likely to go for a follow-up appointment. I mean, logistically, if you're on a pill that makes you want to urinate all the time, are you really going to go to a place where you'll have to sit in a waiting room for several hours? No. You get frustrated, and not understanding why you're on this medication in the first place, you stop taking it. Or at least, she did.

So we noticed she wasn't well -- she seemed to have a cold, and a cough, and was not herself at all. But there's a fine line when you're caring for the elderly between taking control of them and letting them have some autonomy. We respected her wish not to see the doctor. But when we found out she was coughing up blood, Mark quickly went into action. We called the doctor, and they promised to make a house call within two hours. So far, so good. We called over to Joyce, where she complained that she had been sweating through her bedclothes during the night, and was still coughing up the blood. She said she was going to call the doctor in the evening, though we couldn't figure out why she wanted to wait. About an hour before the doctor was due, we casually let her know that we'd already set the plan in motion, and the doctor was on her way. We figured that she would examine Joyce, give her an anti-biotic, some cough syrup, and we could all sleep better that night.

The doctor sailed in, asked a couple of questions, listened to Joyce's lungs, made a phone call, then informed us that since she takes Warfarin (a blood thinner), and she was coughing up blood, she'd have to go to the A&E (Emergency Room). She asked if we wanted her to order an ambulance. We said no. But this was a big mistake, we were to learn later -- a big mistake that we will never make again.

Not wanting her to be too anxious, we assured Joyce that she'd be in and out of the hospital -- no need to pack a bag! And we called a taxi, giving her only a half hour to get some things together. She was very nervous about going, but we tried to remain upbeat.

The taxi dropped us off at the hospital at about quarter past three in the afternoon. We checked in, and had a seat in the crowded waiting room, which was filled with wooden chairs, all facing a small television perched on the wall. It played Sky news. For those who don't know, Sky news is possibly the worst news channel ever invented. It picks out the same five crappy news stories and repeats them over, and over, and over. The big story that day was about Wayne Rooney, this hotshot soccer player, who was threatening to quit. Stupidly, we didn't bring books or ipods or anything that might distract us. And even if we had, we would have felt bad using them while Joyce quietly suffered beside us. Within the first two hours, we were called into a little room, where a nurse took Joyce's vitals and asked some questions about why she was referred to the Emergency Room (A&E). He examined her, and then it was back out into the main waiting room. So far so good, we thought.

Behind us, sat a blind man, accompanied by a woman. You couldn't guess what was wrong with him -- he sat quietly in his seat, occasionally making his way to the rest room. Sometimes he would remark on how long he'd been waiting, but by that time, we were all in the same boat, so we all commiserated. At one point, a middle aged man came in with his very frail father. It choked me up a little to see someone so vulnerable in such a place. But luckily he was taken in right away.

As daylight waned and darkness descended on Dublin, the crowd in the A&E changed considerably. The zombies started to come out. Sure, there was your usual: car accident victims, a woman who looked like she was going to have a heart attack, etc. Then there was the dude who looked like he'd been in a bar brawl, and the guy who had pissed his track pants, who kept wandering around the waiting room, trying to get into other parts of the hospital. He kept grabbing at his tongue with his fingers. A guy walked in wearing a nice pinstriped suit, carrying a Dunnes Stores bag. I figured that he was there to bring provisions for a patient. So I was quite surprised when he sat down in the waiting room and began a sing-along with a drunk guy in a wheelchair. I managed to use my cell phone to record their rendition of "Leaving on a Jet Plane:" The bar brawl guy was NOT happy with them, and I thought he was going to lose it, but he managed to keep it together, more or less.

Another man came in, still with the plastic bracelet from his visit the previous day. He was trying to get admitted. Of course, I don't know what his story was but he was shouting, so the whole place knew why he was there, and it was heartbreaking: he said he'd been there every day for the past three days, apparently, but he didn't remember because he has dementia. He has dementia because, he shouted, he has "full blown AIDS." He also shouted that they could call the cops, he would be quite happy to go to Mount Joy (the prison across the street from the hospital), as he'd spent the last 30 years there and at least he'd have a roof over his head. The guy needed help, and it was difficult to see someone so sick begging for treatment. I'm not sure what happened in the end, if he was admitted or not. He was so confused, but at least knew why he was confused, and was able to try to advocate for himself, but it felt so hopeless. As he shouted in the waiting room, you couldn't help but to envisage the trajectory of this man's life.

Poor Joyce took it all in stride, even though she must have been in agony sitting in those chairs, sick as she was. It was more than TEN HOURS before she was called into the interior waiting area. When you walked through the door, it was filled with people in trolleys (hospital beds are called trolleys here) and chairs. Joyce was brought into an examining area, where she waited on an examining table for the rest of the night and into the next day. On a table. That she was too small and frail to hop on and off of (she is less than five feet tall). At one point, she set up a bed for herself on the floor, but she was ordered to get off the floor and back onto the table, but seeing as she couldn't get onto it, she sat in a chair. At some point, someone gave her a pillow, but she has such severe osteoporosis that the pillow was really no use to her. After nearly 24 hours, she was moved to a proper hospital bed, within the same waiting area. But still the bed was too high, so mostly she sat in the chair. They gave her an x-ray and determined that she had a bad case of pneumonia. But there was no bed available in the hospital. Our poor blind friend was across the way, in a trolly, waiting to be treated as well.

The real kicker was this: Joyce was standing next to her trolly, with her back to the curtain, brushing her teeth at the sink, and someone made off with her handbag. She was literally four feet away, and they nabbed it. Luckily, it had almost nothing in it but socks, underwear, and her bus pass. Still, the idea that someone would steal from a sick old lady made us all feel a bit angry and depressed. But finally, after two and a half days, she was admitted to a short term ward. This was essentially a large room with about seven or eight beds in it, and two bathrooms to share among them. Since Joyce was on a heavy dose of diuretics, this was a big problem. I won't go into the details. But in this room, women and men of all ages and circumstances were being treated. One guy across from her was vomiting and having diarrhea all night long. And I don't mean in the bathroom. A couple of nights later, an old woman with dementia thought Joyce was her daughter, and kept hovering over her bed, trying to take her shoes, and shouting at her. Basically, it was the worst conditions possible to try and recover from pneumonia in. We could see Joyce getting discouraged, wondering when she could go home. However the visiting hours were only between 2 - 4 and 6 - 8, so we couldn't hang around to make her feel better. We brought her magazines and treats, but I'm not sure how well it helped to pass the time.

Mark deserves best son of the year award for hassling the doctors and managing her care. He worked tirelessly with the doctors and nurses to make sure they knew all of his mother's conditions, and that they treated all of them. He also did an amazing job explaining it all to his parents in a way they could understand (to say they have a mistrust of medicine is an understatement). All in all, Joyce was in the hospital for *twelve* days.

When she came home, we had a bit of a surprise for her. While she was in the hospital, we had gone out and purchased (well, his dad paid) a washer/dryer unit and had it installed in their kitchen. If you can believe it, they've been hand washing their laundry for 80 years....with NO HOT WATER. They boil water in the kettle. Insanity! So we knocked out a cabinet, then went to IKEA and bought a new one to put on the other side, installed that (three trips to IKEA because they kept giving me the wrong drawer), and then cleaned the place up a bit. I'm not sure they're using it, but at least it's there if they choose to.

So October entailed a lot of running around. But it reminded us both of why we're here. Honestly I'm not sure Joyce would have made such a good recovery if we had not intervened. And it was just nice to be useful and to contribute to our family's quality of life. You know, the stuff life is all about, I suppose.

However, the experience also opened my eyes to how healthcare really works in this country. It doesn't. At times it felt as though we were in a developing country. The whole system was chaotic and, to be frank, unsafe. It made me wonder why hospitals aren't being constantly sued for malpractice here. But that's a question for another day. We were just really happy to have Joyce home, safe and sound.

Well I have no complaints about my medical card this week. Since last Sunday, I'd been pretty sick (a stomach bug that morphed into a flu/strep infection/bronchitis), and finally after two sleepless nights I couldn't take the throat pain anymore and I literally counted the minutes to when the doctor's office opened. But when I called (with a VERY hoarse voice), they said they didn't have an appointment until the next morning. I knew there was no way I could wait that long. I'd taken 800mg of ibuprofen and it had barely made a dent in the pain. So I said no thank you and hung up the phone and cried. I was so feverish and tired, I didn't know what to do! That's when Mark informed me that I should just go into the doctor's office anyways. "That's how it works!" he explained. So, considering the Emergency Room as a second option, I showered, dressed, and stumbled down the road to try my luck.

Can I just say that I love my new doctor's office? The staff isn't always overly friendly, but the doctors are fantastic. After less than an hour's wait, I was seen, given two prescriptions, and after just one dose of the antibiotic, was feeling human again. Now if I could just stop coughing, that'd be cool. But for now, I'm in bed watching episodes of the Mighty Boosh.

When I told people I was moving to Ireland, some people said, "Oooh! Free healthcare!" Well, on the one hand, it's pretty cool to have a medical card and not have to pay for medical care. On the other hand, here's how that plays out. Remember my rant about the new Irish policy about pap smears (aka smear test)? Well I figured I should run out and get one before the policy was implemented, so I did.

Several weeks later, I received a letter from the Health Service Executive (HSE) to call my doctor for the results. Admittedly, I put this off. So a few weeks ago, when Mark was in our doctor's office, she told him to tell me to give her a call. I called. And called. And called. And...called. Finally, I got in touch with the doctor, who told me that my test came back abnormal and that she would refer me to have a colposcopy.

Let's compare to how this went down in the US five years ago when I had a bad pap: A couple weeks after my appointment, my doctor called me personally to tell me the results, and referred me for a colposcopy, which I was able to get within a week or two.

Ok, so back to the here and now. So when I talked to the doctor on Friday, she mentioned that I would need to pick up a referral letter from her office...on Tuesday. Okey doke. On Tuesday I show up, get the letter, and I'm not sure what to do with it, but I call the Rotunda and the dude on the phone tells me that I have to physically bring the referral letter, which contains the lab results, to the Colposcopy Clinic, at which time my results will be evaluated and scored in terms of how severe it is. The people who do the lab test triage (only two doctors) only do so on Wednesdays and Thursdays. In two weeks, I'll get a letter saying that I've been put into the list to get an appointment.

When I brought the referral letter to the clinic, I was told that if my lab results are as bad as they can be, the soonest appointment I'll get will be in FEBRUARY. So I could have cancer and I wouldn't find out for three months, basically. Luckily, I looked at the labs and I know that I only have a slight abnormality, and I'm not overly concerned for myself. But if I were actually ill, I would be majorly screwed. Still, I won't get an appointment until March or April, most likely.

Know what's crazy though? The guy at the clinic said that the clinic has only been swamped like this since Jade Goody died. So essentially her death caused loads of women to get smear tests. And those who had abnormalities probably never would have gotten them checked out and would be walking around not getting treatment. I know that a lot of people thought it was lame how public she made her death, but actually it seems like doing it that way has done some good in educating people.

I don't want friends and family reading this to be worried -- I'm sure it's nothing at all, and even if I have dysplasia, there are treatments to take care of it. So I'm not worried, and neither should you be! However I wanted to make this post because I think people should know that "free" medical care isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Holy smokes is Ireland in the dark ages when it comes to Pap Smears! Check out today's article about how there's going to be a "new system" for getting them. I was going to say for getting "annual exams" because that's what we call them in America. That's right, it's so common for women to get pap smears and full gynecological exams as soon as they become sexually active and/or reach the age of 18 every single year that's it's simply called an "annual." As in, "I have an appointment with my gyn on Wednesday for my annual," which is universally understood by both men and women.

Earlier this year there was a big media blitz over the death of Jade Goody, who became famous for being on the British TV reality show "Big Brother." She was only 27. Many people said that her death brought a greater awareness to the issue of cervical cancer screening. But why does some celebrity have to DIE before simple epidemiological measures are taken for public health? Why is this not standard practice as a yearly thing in the UK and Ireland? When I was in my late 20s I had a bad pap smear, and discovered that I had pre-cancerous cells. There is a simple procedure for it. If you get yearly pap smears, you are very very unlikely to ever get cervical cancer, especially since it takes a long time for those pre-cancerous cells to turn into cancer.

I am so incensed at this policy. It's as if they think pap smears are like shiny new handbags at the mall and women are just asking for them willy nilly. I wonder how much one pap smear measures up against the cost of cancer treatment. But we can't let women manage their own health - oh no! They'll spend all the government's money on those fancy gynecological tests that are all the rage nowadays! God forbid just *anyone* can go to her doctor and get a pap smear - let's make them request one and then get an "invitation" to make an appointment six months later. Elitist medicine by the HSE. Why am I surprised?

I had my first experience going to an Irish doctor, and I thought I would share. As you know, I came down with a bit of a cold a couple of weeks ago, and I just could not shake it for the life of me, despite various bottles of cough syrup, two different types of inhalers, vitamins, and herbal supplements. Then, to add insult to injury, I developed conjunctivitis! We hadn't received word that our Medical Cards had gone through, but I couldn't wait much longer so I called up and talked to a very nice lady who put it through and gave me the number over the phone. I then called up our doctor's office to make an appointment. Their next opening wasn't for over two days, but I figured I could hold on until then.

We had to select our doctor before we sent in the Medical Card application, and, not really knowing anything about local doctors, we chose Mark's parents' doctor, who actually is the daughter of Mark's childhood doctor. We had met her once before when she signed our form. I wasn't exactly impressed even then, but with no other ideas for alternatives, we went ahead. Let's just say, she didn't look healthy herself. I felt it was sort of like getting a hair cut from a hair stylist with a hideous hairdo.

Anyhoo - the way the doctor's office works is a little different from back home. Back home, you make your appointment, and then when it's your turn, the medical assistant calls your name and brings you back, then takes your height, weight, blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. Then he/she leads you into the exam room, where you wait for the doctor to come in. (Sometimes for ages.) Obviously I can't speak for the whole of Ireland; this is just my experience at this one office. So here goes.

When you walk into the offices, you are met in the hallway by a woman who takes your name and writes it on a list. Then you walk on up to the waiting room. Normally you go inside to this interior waiting room, but when I arrived the doctor herself wasn't it yet, so it was locked, and an elderly woman ahead of me was waiting in the exterior waiting room. I sat down in the seat next to her, even though there were half a dozen other seats, because, as you'll see, that's how it works. The receptionist unlocked the interior waiting room to fetch something, and when she left, the elderly lady decided we should go in and wait there. But then the receptionist came back and told us that we couldn't wait in there until the doctor had arrived. I have no idea why, because it's not like we were going to try to break into the locked examining rooms, but we shuffled back out to our former seats.

But then a bunch of other people started to arrive. The man who sat next to me reeked of booze, but if I got up, I would upset the whole order of things, so I put my scarf over my nose and mouth and kept reading my book. The receptionist came and unlocked the door again, but this time, the newcomers all decided jointly that we should go into the interior office. It was like mob rule! And I wasn't going to be the one to set them straight, and I didn't want to lose my place, so I followed suit (with a slight admonishment for my hesitation from one of the other patients!) Everyone sat inside the interior waiting room in exactly the order of arrival. And we kept waiting.

Let me describe this waiting room. It's a wood-paneled room about twice the size of a galley kitchen with one row of about ten chairs. You sit facing a wall of doors (the doctors' offices), which are all shut and locked. Every so often someone will go into one of them, then walk briskly out, locking the door with a key behind them. Every time someone leaves the doctor's office, the person in the far right seat gets up and goes in. Then everyone else gets up and shifts over one seat to the right, in unison.

Finally after nearly an hour since I got there, the doctor showed up. But somehow she saw two people before the woman who was ahead of me, per order of the receptionist. No one seemed to have a problem with it, and I didn't really care either, but it was just really confusing to me how there seemed to be such "rules," and then no one cared when they were broken.

When it was my turn, I walked into the office and had a seat at the other side of the doctor's desk. I explained why I was there, and she asked me a couple of questions about the nature of my cough (I'll spare you the details) and then she got up from her desk and came over to me in the chair and listened to my lungs with the stethoscope. Noticing on the computer that I am allergic to penicillin, asked which antibiotics I can take. I said that it's hard to say because I'm actually allergic to *most* antibiotics, and I just write penicillin because the list is so long. "Well, what can you take?" she asked again. I listed three that I know I can take. "So you can take [drug that I didn't list]?" she asked. "Um...I never heard of that one," I said. "Well, I'll need a list of the antibiotics you can take," she said again. I listed the three ones I can take. We went back and forth like this at least one more time until she finally concluded that since my lungs didn't sound so bad, she wasn't going to give me antibiotics anyway. Um. Ok.

So I told her that I needed refills of my inhalers and put them on her desk so she could prescribe me the closest available Irish products. And while I was at it, I also gave her another medicine I needed to refill as well. The process of figuring this out took at least 20 minutes. More than once, I told her that honestly I didn't need those *exact* drugs, but whatever she normally gave her asthmatic patients. These are standard inhalers: one is a bronchodilator and the other is a steroid inhaler. But no she insisted I have *these exact ones* even though I said I didn't think the Pro-Air Albuterol worked very well (which, ironically, is manufactured here in Ireland). At one point, she pulled out her iphone, and I swear to god she was googling it. Seriously? I could have googled it!

During all of this, we were interrupted by at least five phone calls from the receptionist. At one point, in reference to a terminally ill patient who was trying to get into hospice care because she was falling down so much at home, the doctor said, "Well, you know I'm very cross with her because she and her family have been calling me repeatedly..." and she went on essentially about how she wasn't inclined to help this dying woman because she was a pain in the ass!

Finally she was about to usher me out when I reminded her about the conjunctivitis issue, and she was all annoyed because now she had to go back into the computer. I explained that I had bought Brolene drops at the suggestion of the pharmacist, and she was like "Don't take Brolene. Never take Brolene. Rinse your eyes out with Baby Shampoo." I swear to god. I did not tell her that there was no way in hell I was washing my eye balls out with shampoo. I translated that in my head as "rinse with saline solution," and decided she was deranged. I got my prescriptions and got out of there, hoping I wouldn't be mauled by the patients in the waiting room for taking so long.

The hysterical thing is that when I filled the prescription, she had given me not only an antibiotic, but a prescription eye drop, and the pharmacist had no idea what to do with "Albuteral." Apparently the doctor had just given up trying to find it and instead of giving me another bronchodiliator that is available in Ireland, wrote down something she knew they wouldn't have. So she's going to be getting a phone call from them. haha.

But still, I was pretty stoked. I got my inhalers, an antibiotic (which as it turns out I don't think I need, so I can save it), eye drops, and migraine meds, at no cost to me. However, since I managed to get those things without a proper examination (she never looked at my ears, nose, or throat), I don't think I have much faith in this doctor and I hope and pray I don't become seriously ill while living in Ireland. At least not while I'm on the Medical Card!

Here's an update for those concerned about Mark's uncle. We were all up in a tizzy about whether he was getting good care on his medical card (he has private insurance but isn't using it). We considered trying to get him to move to a private hospital.

For my non-Irish readers, I have to explain something that may seem strange. (And I hope I get this right.) So here you've got people with "Medical Cards," in which you get more or less free health care from doctors who have contracts with the Health Service Executive, or HSE and what they call "public" hospitals. Then you have people who've got private health insurance, who can see doctors that basically only deal with out of pocket patients and patients with private health insurance. Those people also have varying degrees of coverage for "private" hospitals. In other words, people who don't have a lot of money or who have low private hospital coverage on their health insurance go to public hospitals, and rich people or those with good health insurance go to private hospitals. So you can imagine how this plays out -- the public hospitals are overloaded and the care to the poor is compromised while the rich sit nestled in their private rooms.

So we returned to the hospital armed with loads of questions for the medical team about our uncle's various conditions (some caused from being hit by the taxi door, and others not), which include six fractured ribs, a torn ligament in the leg, upwards of five stomach ulcers, diabetes, and blood clots in his lungs. The poor man is in rough shape! I had everything written down on paper so I wouldn't forget. The doctor seemed a bit defensive, and it was a little stressful, but she answered all of our questions and at the end we felt satisfied that they were on top of the situation. Still, sharing a room with five other guys is pretty grody. The air is completely stagnant in his end of the ward, and it isn't helped by some of the patients not being able to get up to use the toilet. But the good news is that he's becoming a bit more mobile, and seems to be getting decent care, which will hopefully lead to his return home very soon.

So listening to the radio, I heard a Public Service Announcement regarding "Sudden Adult Death Syndrome." Excuse me, what? In America, of course we have Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS), which is when children under a certain age die for unexplained reasons. And so, I imagine this is a similar phenomenon, applied to adults. I can't help but think it's more like Shitty Healthcare Syndrome. When you drop dead, it's not exactly a "syndrome." But I guess people die inexplicably enough here that they had to call it something, and then, as the PSA told listeners, create support groups for the people left behind.