Our first experience of French medicine

All last year in Paris, we never once had to seek out any sort French medical professional. The nearest we got to one was a regular yearly check-up by the school nurse. And the only result of that was an admonishment to properly submit the children's complete medical dossiers to the school. An admonishment which we cheerfully ignored, because there are hardly any medical records for Silke and Jerome, much less a dossier.

This year however, within a mere three days we found ourselves in somewhat urgent need of a doctor. On waking this morning, Jerome had painful looking sores on his face. Just around the corner from our new place in Saint-Ouen is a pharmacy, a small shop with just one woman running it. I should mention that inside the pharmacy is a framed newspaper article about this remarkable woman, who is not merely a pharmacist, but a neighbourhood institution. She knows everyone, and is very gregarious and friendly. Over the course of the day, we got to know her, and she us. She took one look at Jerome and said he would need antibiotics, and we would need them today, because this type of infection spreads quickly. Now I remembered that Cecile, our landlord (wife of Seamus) had mentioned that she had a very good doctor who we should go to if we had any issues. So we went home, and I found that Cecile had left the doctor's number on the very helpful information sheet that she had prepared. I called the doctor. He did answer, but from his mobile phone, perhaps from somewhere in Spain - on vacation. He could only pose a few questions, and then advise me to return to the pharmacy, there to ask a recommendation for a nearby doctor, not on vacation. I now recalled to mind a conversation last year, in which some acquaintance recommended that the best policy is not to get sick in August in France. If you must get sick, do it on the beach towns or in the resorts, where doctors can be found. Fortunately, the pharmacist did know a doctor not on vacation and only a short walk away, who would be in her office after 2pm that day.

If you have ever read any description of an American's experience of visiting a doctor's office in France - well, it was exactly like that. You call, and are told to come at a certain time - in two hours as it happened. The office, when you arrive, is a small number of rooms in an apartment building. There is a waiting room, but no reception. The doctor herself comes to say when it is your turn. There is no receptionist, no nurse, no staff at all besides the doctor herself. If the phone rings during your consultation, she will answer it herself, brusquely posing two or three questions and giving a time to someone wanting an appointment. Nothing about her dress suggests, to the North American, a health care professional. There is not the least thing doctorly about it. It is not baggy or institutional or utilitarian. She wears in fact a black dress, fairly elegant, that could equally well be worn by a lawyer or a banker or a bookseller. She is efficient and direct, and examines Jerome perhaps a minute before inquiring whether he has experienced anything stressful recently. I remark that we have just recently arrived on a trans-Altantic flight, are still coping with the six hour time change, and that Jerome will be starting shortly at a new school. -Ah, voila! You see, stress is frequently the trigger for this type of infection. She writes out a prescription. French doctors err on the side of over-prescribing rather than under-prescribing, so Jerome gets two different antibiotics, and a face wash. We pay the doctor directly - just write her a check, although she also takes cash. The total fee is 23 Euros, and then we are out the door - probably in less than 10 minutes, while she is already ushering in the next patient from the waiting room. And we go back to the pharmacy, where the helpful woman fills the prescription on the spot. -You see, I told you, she says.