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May 2008 After months of nagging throat problems, this month my doctor eventually arranged for me to see the ORL or 'oto-rhino' (oto-rhino-laryngologiste, or ENT specialist in English). I'd stopped singing and started to have all sorts of doom-laden fantasies about what might be wrong, but luckily there is nothing serious or life-threatening. The sore larynx and soft palate is caused by acid reflux (carbon dioxide or liquid) from the stomach which irritates the throat, and I just have to take pills and gargle. Meantime, I had had the rather bizarre experience of using a nebuliser each day. Your prescription entitles you to borrow one from the pharmacy, a chugging box with a tube which pumps puffs of liquid from a little reservoir into a face mask through which you inhale. The said liquids come in assorted plastic and glass phials, so you have a little laboratory corner for the duration. I also had suppositories to help with my throat problems - a very traditional form of French treatment for various ailments, though it is hard to believe your respiratory system will be helped by putting things up your backside. Both these remedies were proposed to Sheila (a member of the same choir I sing in) in the following account she wrote of Marcel, our French teacher and friend. I've put it in the health diary (with her kind permission) because it's as good a place as any and has at least some relevance to health! Read on... Marcel is a
chunky, highly-entertaining, retired bone surgeon who masks a deep
intelligence with a thick veneer of buffoonery and gratuitous filth. His
amazing lexicon of English invective is rivalled only by his equally
amazing knowledge of history. He is also incredibly kind. He was
dismayed that I could not sing in the choir because I had bronchitis. He
insisted, absolutely insisted, that he took me to a pharmacy so I could
get some medicine. Marcel
can’t speak quietly and he can’t speak without stabbing the air with
his index finger. So out came the finger along with his fortissimo voice
while he harangued the counter staff. He turned it into a bit of a story,
embroidering my symptoms with the history of our friendship and his own
medical pedigree, before he got to the point. He had the attention of all
three pharmacists by then. Their point, which they made equally forcibly,
though in a more subdued fashion, was that they were fresh out of
fumigateurs. It was news to me that this was what he had in mind.
“Yes, you put cortisol in it. That’s the best,” he said.
Sounded good to me. The same
performance was repeated in pharmacy 2 with no more success.
“Disgusting,” opined Marcel, wagging his finger. “This poor woman,
my friend, will have to suffer all weekend,” he told the man behind the
counter. “Can you bear that?” The man arranged his features into
something resembling terminal shame. He did suggest some suppositories, though. “Ah,” I
stupidly ventured in English. “You put these in your…….” Marcel, who
is inordinately proud of being able to sound his “aitches”, finished
the sentence for me. Aspirating
with the force of the Mistral, he yelled. “HAY-nus.” Then he gave a
little giggle and said it again with just as much oomph. “HAY-nus”.
It is, of course, the same word in French but without the aitch.
Now we had everyone’s attention in the shop. I couldn’t wait to
leave. The third
pharmacy did have a fumigateur. After a quarter-of-an-hour of
Marcel-spiel, a large plastic case, sealed in cellophane was placed on the
counter. It looked hellishly expensive. “It’s 150E. But it’s just to
rent. I’ll get the money back,” Marcel assured me. I tried to stop him
but he was on a roll. The two girls behind the counter were also having
second thoughts about letting their swanky equipment leave the shop with a
man who gave every impression of being bonkers yet claimed to be a doctor.
Marcel produced his identity cards and wrote down his address. “I’m a
doctor who lives near Sommieres,” he said. “But you’re not a GP,
you’re a bone surgeon,” they gently pointed out. However, they
addressed him as professor after that. They told Marcel they were just employees and feared they
would lose their jobs if they let the fumigateur go. They refused to phone
their boss or let him do so. An awful lot of finger-wagging ensued but
although Marcel protested over a three-octave range, the girls stood their
ground. Exasperated,
Marcel was forced to give in but not without telling them that the
situation was a disgrace. Then we joined Geoff for a drink. I sorely needed somewhere to park my “HAY-nus” by then. February 2008 This diary does not get a lot of attention, which must mean we are fairly healthy. Well, we are, given a few aches and pains in joints which we are more or less used to though we take anti-inflammatories more or less regularly and try and walk and cycle when and where we can. Lunel is ideal for cycling, scarcely a hill in sight, and we enjoy walking in and around town too. But we have had further evidence of the thoroughness of the French medical system several times in the past few months. First Mary had a summons for a routine mammogram in a mobile unit, familiar in England. This showed a small shadow, so she was immediately sent to the local radiology unit again and had various further x-rays and scans to prove that there was after all nothing wrong (the staff there said 'don't trust the mobile, come to us'!). Then I had a blood test as I have to periodically for thyroxin. There were two differences this time - first they tested for about 50 different things at once; and secondly they handed me the results which (like x-rays) I took to the doctor. It turns out I have raised cholesterol (despite low blood pressure and a pretty good diet - I guess this should not surprise me since I probably eat too much fat now that I have virtually no starch) and so am now on pills for that. The blood test results are easy to interpret because for every reading (otherwise gobbledegook) there is a 'normal' range quoted so you can see if anything is out of the ordinary even before the doctor wags his metaphorical finger. Of course, Trudy the dog was also an advert for the thorough medical system - she had x-rays, a barium meal, frequent biochemical tests and a sheaf of notes from the vet, and they took the opportunity to remind us of the rabies vaccine which was due. It's all very reassuring, and so different from the secretive British system. We have just asked for our medical records from the Health Centre in Wirksworth to be told that, no, our doctor could not have them but they could photocopy them for him for £45! Otherwise they will be sent to a vault in a Health Authority somewhere. I did once look at my childhood tangles with a psychiatrist and wondered if I would enjoy a more detailed reading, but not for that price. And our doctor said (even if he could have been bothered to struggle with illegible English GP handwriting) that he knew all he needed to about us thanks. So that is that. I still think medical records should belong to their subject(s) not to impersonal authorities but we will not lose sleep over it. March 2007 Two months on and we are established users of the French health service. Our médecin traitant (a généraliste or GP - a new requirement in France where people used to go direct to specialists) has seen us 2 or 3 times, we have had x-rays and scans and we more or less know what's wrong with us. Not surprisingly there are no magic cures, and Mary in particular has to resign herself to some weeks of very gentle activity as she recovers from the tendonitis in her shoulders/arms. Reluctantly she has set aside the 'cello for the time being, since even limited movement of the bowing arm could exacerbate the tendon inflammation. The intense activity of the move and doubtless various ill-advised lifting and carrying in the general category 'overdoing it' probably brought on the condition. She has homoeopathic treatments as well as massage gel, and also uses the occasional pack of frozen peas to cool down the affected areas. When we went to the radiology unit in Lunel we came away with our x-rays. much to my pleasure. When my mother was terminally ill many years ago now, her medical records were kept by her in the house, and I've always felt it more sensible if a patient kept his or her own medical records, which belong to her/him as much as any kind of personal record I can think of. So we have our x-rays (and Mary's scan) and take them with us to doctors and so on when seeking treatment. I was impressed by the extraordinary table against which I first stood vertically on a ledge and which then zoomed (slowly!!) in the air and laid me out horizontally for different views of my knee. Said knee x-ray (see right) shows arthritis clearly they say but I am delighted that my muscle-strengthening exercises, done faithfully every day since last June, seem to be working so that although I still have pain the knee is much easier to use now than it was a couple of months ago. My weight loss (now over 16 kilos since last summer) also helps relieve the pressure on the joint. As in England only a proportion of all possible consultation and treatment is paid for by the state (reimbused to France by the NHS in our case) - like many French people we have a backup health insurance which will be useful for teeth, spectacles and so on but which also covers osteopathy, homoeopathy and many other kinds of treatment; we were pleased to find it worked quickly for a direct full refund of M's osteopathy fees. For the rest, the whole thing is supposed to tie together with the French carte de santé, a bright green plastic card with a microchip which you give to chemists, doctors and hospitals when you visit. The system - in theory, we shall see - scans it, ties up with your personal insurer, and the whole cost is either repaid to your bank account (if you pay on site) or to the health service concerned (if - as at the chemists - they reclaim it direct rather than from you). Quite complicated, and I haven't yet worked out what determines whether you pay or not! December 2006 Readers of the main diary will have realised by now that despite all the optimism of our move and the excitement of our new surroundings, we have both been beset by aches and pains and other symptoms which we are coping with as best we can until (perhaps even after) we have seen our new doctor in mid-January. It would be easy to write a kind of moan, but I hope this will not be like that. We both feel very positive - I'm sure this is helped by the continual bright weather which makes SAD syndrome much less likely despite the short days, as well as by the really positive experience of setting up home after months 'in transit'. But many of you who know me well realise that I've finally and decisively started to lose weight - I'm now under 90 kilos (from over 100 in April) and find it no hardship to maintain that or even lose a bit more, and still enjoy wine. So it came as a shock to me that arthritis in one knee began at almost the time I started to lose weight, and despite constant exercise (both static ones each day as suggested by doctor and regular cycling) it has not really improved. I try to keep moving; and so does Mary, who has mysterious pains and stiffness radiating from her upper back to upper arms and legs. She takes a while to get going in the morning, and has had difficulty bending down lately, although thanks to one of our neighbours who trained with him, she has found a good osteopath up the road. This, you could say, is feeling our age, but of course we shall discuss it all thoroughly with a doctor we have booked to see soon. Meanwhile Mary has borne the brunt of signing us on for the local health service - we have to do this by law now we are resident, but our tourist NHS cards cover us until the formalities are complete (Mary is writing elsewhere about the bureaucracy of sorting all this, which she has found long-winded but thorough and helpful in the end). Meanwhile my supply of English medicines is diminishing despite double rations our doctor prescribed before we left - but I've decided to live with the extra pain rather than take the Ibuprofen prescribed for my knee because of its side effects (dopiness, digestion and so on). Given that, the knee is not too bad. The oddest and most distracting thing for me has been sudden onslaughts of itching. I've always been prone to skin complaints, and this is linked to some foods I try and avoid, especially cow's dairy products - sometimes when you are invited to eat at other people's houses that's easier said than done! But after a foray into websites here I realised that the itching might well be due to the drier atmosphere - not only is Lunel inland and the weather has been exceptionally dry since we came, but this is the first house in our lives to be completely centrally heated, and so we shall need to have humidifiers in winter. The itching wakes me and distracts me wildly at night, and it remains to be seen if dryness is the answer or if the doctor (who will earn his keep with us as we are at present!) has another answer. Finally a positive note - as an 'old
depressive' I am constantly alert for signs that my mood may slip, and
there have been few in the past few years. But being far away from
friends at Christmas, and having disappointments when some of our few
planned early visitors had to cancel because of illness, I did have some
moments of feeling really isolated. So I was grateful to my
sister-in-law Jane who touched a chord at just the right moment with the
following astrological insight: "Saturn is sitting on top of your
Venus as we speak and so you may feel isolated and perhaps cut off from,
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