The latest among the multitude of tasks immigration has required was to find a doctor. Reminding myself daily that this is a country where medical insurance is required—and perpetually relieved that Kari’s health package extends to me—I found this a search that took a rather different form from that which I expected.
Having been used to simply seeking out the nearest GP’s surgery I rapidly discovered that my first mistake was to use the word ‘surgery’. A word I’d always taken to mean the place where a General Practitioner practices has no such connotation for most of those I meet here! So that usage had to go.
The next thing that had to be adjusted was the focus on the General Practitioner. What I needed in order to be placed on the medical insurance programme was a ‘Primary Care Physician’ (PCP) who could just as easily be a specialist as a generalist, and whose office could be anywhere within a rather large radius of our apartment.
The mental adjustment to travelling several miles to reach the office of my first contact for health care proved too much, so with that weighing heavy, and unable to conjure any idea of what specialisation I would like of my doctor, I succeeded in finding one a mere 0.81 miles from our apartment whose focus was ‘family care’ and who also works in a number of low-income communities, suggesting he’s not in it for the big bucks.
Health care is one area of American society that I find it very hard to get my head around. Many people I’ve spoken with back home had little concept of the implications that the lack of a National Health Service carries. The thought of paying for use of an ambulance in your home country is simply anathema. That I can adjust to, if not support, but it still throws me every time I see a doctor advertising on television (or, in one example with very poor production values before Harry Potter last night, in the cinema), or a commercial recommending prescription drugs.
It’s good to know I’m covered. It’s still a little strange to have had to think about it.