Further tales of woe from Canada’s medical system

Having been, to varying degrees, unwell over the past two weeks, I had decided to give myself a treat: a whirlwind tour of Ottawa’s medical facilities. Well, I say “whirlwind”, but you know what I mean. To start with, it took me two weeks to get a doctor’s appointment. I was pretty sure, when making this appointment, that the ailment I had would have gone by the time I was seen by my doctor. For that reason, I had gone to a walk-in clinic, where I was told by an overworked doctor that I had a common virus and that I would get over it in time: besides, there was nothing really he could give me for it. Fast forward two weeks, however, and I was worse – and seemingly worsening.
 
Any visit to Ottawa’s medical services is like waiting for a Commodore 2000 to heat up and then trying to connect to the nascent World Wide Web over a phone modem. If you go in prepared for this, you can cope, I find. I went in with Clive James’ Unreliable Memoirs, and couldn’t help but wonder what he would have made of it all.
 
But first, to my doctor. When I first met him four years ago, he was young and dynamic: I congratulated myself on my good fortune. When I saw him today, however, I hardly recognized him. Talk about a job aging a man. He looked old and haggard; his hair was coming out in clumps, and he had bags under his eyes the size of coal scuttles. In fact, even the bags under his eyes had bags. I felt guilty coming to see him. But he wasn’t there for small talk: he was straight down to business.
 
After a couple of seconds listening to my chest, he said, “I suspect you’ve got pneumonia.” Take this. Out came a prescription. “You need to go for an x-ray,” he said. “Today.”
 
He saw me taking the long list of ailments out of my pocket, sighed, and sat down. In the end, I didn’t have the heart. I told him about having lost my sense of smell in 2019 – but not my sense of taste – and he performed a simple test. He told me to close my eyes and breathe in deeply: I was about to tell him that I had an 11-year-old and instructions like that were usually a precursor to his farting on his hand and putting it under my nose – but then, again, I saw the bags under his eyes and acquiesced. He then got out smelling salts and had me have a good sniff. Satisfied that my lack of reaction meant I was telling the truth, he put me down for an MRI. Not quite sure who’ll get the results, but at least I am in the system. Never Vote Conservative.
 
And with that, he was gone.
 
So I went for my x-ray: Towngate Medical Centre. At least, that was what the form said. When I got there, however, on a post-it note, on the door, on the 2nd floor, inside the building, was the information that the X-Ray Centre Has Closed: go to 1181 Hunt Club. Sighing, I went back downstairs and drove to 1181 Hunt Club. There, on a note, on the door, in the lobby – but still inside the building, was a poster saying that the X-Ray Centre Has Closed: go to One Centrepointe Drive, Nepean. Sighing, I went outside, and drove to One Centrepointe Drive, Nepean.
 
There, I successfully registered for an x-ray. “How long to wait?” I asked. “Oh, there is no wait time,” said the very pleasant Chinese receptionist. I went into the crowded waiting room, reasonably happy. Three hours later, I went back up to the counter, and asked why I was still waiting for an x-ray when there was no wait time. She smiled, and said “there’s no wait times”. Confused, I went back out into the waiting room, where I saw a tiny sign saying “it is company policy to not give out wait times”. By this time, I was one of only three people in the waiting room, one of whom had possibly died. Within half an hour, I was in – and out again within 2 minutes. How it took so long to get in, I have no idea.
 
I was home before dark and have now started my course of antibiotics: they are the size of horse tranquilizers. I’m not sure whether to swallow or use as a suppository. Only my cowardice pointed me in the right direction.