A Visit to Floreasca Emergency Clinic

How do you know when you’re sick?  When you’re tired every day, sleep non-stop and wake up feeling horrible. Recently, I wished for NyQuil, a disgustingly neon green medicine that solves all flu-type medical problems by putting the user into a coma for twelve hours at a time.  It is the equivalent of legalized whisky for the flu.  Instead I got Cold Rex, ibuprofen, and tea.   My symptoms went up and down, fever one day, sore throat the next, return of the fever.  I raised the white flag and accepted the fact I needed to go to a hospital for medical advice.  This is not something that I do lightly.  In all the years living in the States, I only went to the hospital once and that was to update my tetanus shot, due to cutting myself with a rusty blade.  The body is designed to defend against most colds, but this one was already being tricky by making me think I was well and then knocking me down again.

I got myself bundled up, checked my insurance papers, grabbed some money and headed for a taxi.  I went to the Bucharest Emergency Clinic.  On arrival I discovered that checking in was easy; the man claimed to speak no English, but did a fine job of asking for identification and date of birth (actually, I nicknamed him grumpy because he held a sourpuss face and seemed fairly unhappy dealing with sick people).  Then he sent me to wait to see a doctor.  My first real observation: chairs are for healthy people who bring sick people to the Emergency Clinic, but sick people wait in a line to see a doctor.  No resting while trying to get better.  Then, as time passed, a lot of time passed, I discovered that the wait took about as long as waiting in a U.S. ER room, at least from my previous experience.  So I waited, slowly undressing from my multiple layers to avoid cooking.  After a good two hours I finally saw the doctor.  He seemed to be a young man, maybe 27 to 30, who spoke good English.  The visit involved a routine checkup: listen to the heart, listen to the lungs with deep breaths, feel the stomach, check the throat, temperature check, and blood pressure.  I was told I would need an X-Ray and blood would be drawn.  A nurse came, took my blood, and then gave me back the vial.  She directed me to go to the laboratory and then to radiology.

Now here I noticed some differences between the two health systems.  First, in the U.S., you do not get to carry around your blood sample.  They take blood, it goes to the lab and then you get the results; you never touch it; too much potential for a crazy to use it as a biological weapon.  Really, who knows what’s in your blood, and what’s in one’s insane, sick state of mind, waiting for three hours to see a doctor.   Here I was given a vial of blood, wrapped in medical instruction; a potential lethal weapon, placed in my hands. Very thrilling.

The second difference, Romanians, and maybe Europeans (I don’t know), seem to use longer words.  I was sent to the laboratory, which in my none-clear-headed mind at first translated to lavatory.  Why do I need the bathroom with a vial of blood?  Does this seem clean and correct?  I quickly corrected this mental mishap when I was given the vial (oh! laboratory).  In the States it’s the lab; short, sweet and direct.  I was also sent to radiology, where in the States it would have been “get an X-Ray.”

So I bounded to the laboratory, not the lavatory, and dropped off my tiny biological weapon and up to radiology I went.  Now the X-Ray room took me by surprise.   The door was a giant sliding door that had a solid steel handle.  It reminded me of a giant walk-in freezer door.  I thought it had a very cool and retro feeling.  A little like becoming part of an experiment led maybe by Dr. Moreau; of course, it was just an X-Ray machine.  All and all, it was quick, painless and very much like any X-Ray.  Twenty minutes later, I went to pick up my blood analysis, but was told my doctor already had it.  Then I found my doctor who told me I needed my blood work.  He sent me back to the laboratory with a nurse for support; it turns out the lab doctor gave my blood work to someone, but no worries, a new one could be printed up in seconds.  I traded a potential biological weapon to have my blood work lost and no real concern over it.  I must say, it really didn’t seem to bother me and the lack of concern from him and the nurse gave me a sense of confidence of not to worry, it isn’t that important.  In the States, a lost lab report could be reason to yell, scream, call management and talk about an invasion of privacy and possibly threaten to sue.  Here, a simple, “I’ll print you a new one,” seems good.

So I went back to my doctor, who informed me that I had a minor infection and wrote a prescription.  I asked if I paid him or the grumpy fellow at the front and he said, “No.”  I was very confused, no payment, surely, even in a socialized healthcare system, where most of the people seem ok to stand for hours on end, there must be a payment.  I had my insurance card ready, I paid for insurance and wanted to put it to use, and I had money, and he tells me no payment needed.  After a few more questions, all getting at the same point, I thanked him and left the hospital, knowing my salvation to health was merely a few blocks away.

Later that night, as I was getting ready for bed, I began to take my medicine.  One giant horse-sized pill for the infection, one tiny little pill, size of a dot, for the sore throat and a tablet of 10mg of vitamin C.  Now my friend first warned me not to take the vitamin C, but then said it looked like a chewy.  I figured I can do a chewy.  I popped that chewy in my mouth and bit down.  Next thing I know Mount Eyjafjallajökull is exploding in my mouth and I’m doing everything not to spew orange foam across the table, the floor and my friend.  This went on for what seemed like five minutes, but probably no more than one.  It was, needless to say, a discovery to learn the vitamin C tablets are meant to be dropped in water and dissolved.  Another lesson learned.

It has now been three days and I am feeling much better and looking forward to a successful weekend coming up in a few days.  The lessons I learned here are: Romanian clinics won’t take my money, the doctors are professional and good at their job (even if they do seem young), I get to carry my own blood (remember biological weapon), only semi-healthy people should go to the doctor’s office because you are not allowed to sit down and everyone I spoke to was friendly, helpful and nice (patients and staff a like – minus grumpy).  I also learned not to eat water soluble vitamin C pills unless you want volcanic frost coming out of all the holes in your head!

The Beginning

Buna ziua. I have now been living in Bucharest for the last six weeks and plan to be here for another five. I am, as you so easily guessed, an American in Bucharest. The purpose of this blog is to lay down my thoughts of this travel experience, and hopefully many of you will find it interesting. I say this because I have traveled a lot in my time, and have always been fascinated by what other cultures say about the U.S., its government and its people. To be honest, it wasn’t always nice, but it was always fascinating. So now, I shall do the same, live my life in Bucharest and be honest about the things I do, people I meet, and experiences I have. For you, as well as for me, I shall provide the good, the bad and the ugly (though, there has not been any ugly yet). In honesty, the only ugly moments I have had has been dealing with my bank back in the States. It claims to be the world’s local bank, yet somehow they can’t seem to get their cards to work in Bucharest ATMs; so much for local neighbors.

Perhaps the first thing I should talk about is how pleasant and kind Romanians seem. I arrived in Bucharest, back on January 6, and had no place to live. My family back home, my friends, and my soon to be co-workers all expressed concern about a lack of living space. My plan was simple: I would rent a hostel bed for four nights (running only a few euro a night), search out the newspapers and Internet ads, set up appointments to see flats, and rent one (hopefully near where I’d spend most of my time). However, this did not occur. After talking to the owner of the hostel for an hour (Christian), he told me that he, too, was looking for a new place to live (seems his former French roommates decided they couldn’t handle the winter in Romania). Christian told me to come back in an hour and he’d have more time to show me where to look. Needless to say, I went wandering for a few hours and returned to be invited to rent one of the rooms he had to offer. After a quick look at the place, I decided, “Hey, why not. Its clean, he seems like an honest person, and the price is right for the neighborhood.” Also, he told me I could use the mobile phone the hostel owned as long as I was in Bucharest. So, after only being in Romania for approximately six hours, I had stumbled onto a flat, a flat mate and a phone. Some people seem to think this a little crazy, but it has been five weeks and the living arrangements are fantastic. Christian has pointed out different things to do in the city and has made several suggestions of where I should go outside of the city. It was a large gift of generosity, and good luck, to meet someone looking for help at the same time. It is merely one example of the niceness and kindness that Romanians have shown me.

But if deciding to live with a Romania, after knowing them only a few hours, seems crazy, I have met many other people who have shown to be excellent people. I met Anca; she works with HIV/AIDS victims in Romania; helping to ensure they receive medicine and fair treatment from the law. There is Marushka, who invited several people over for a party and a celebration, though barely knowing most of them. She went to Australia, deciding to be brave and venture out into the world and wished to celebrate. There is the little shopkeeper near to my flat. I’ll say she did not seem to like me at all when I first showed up; I spoke no Romanian and required the price to be written down to figure out how much money to give her. Now though, having taken a few language classes (which I should mention is definitely Latin based, but you already knew that and I speak it worse than a two-year-old), she smiles at me with my little attempt at conversation. “Buna Seara; multsumesc; la revedere” and being able to slightly understand the prices when she says them to me. Are there bad people, you ask? So far…no. There are annoying situations (taxis that don’t meter when you sit down or the occasional prostitute who won’t go away) and odd sights (seeing grumpy old people becoming children for a second sliding on ice), but overall people have been helpful and willing to lend a little hand. Using broken Romanian, I have been able to get directions and not be hated. In Moscow, using correct written Russian at a train station led to a yelling match between the ticket lady and the gentleman behind me. He won and I got a ticket, but there were no nice words for him to say about her as a Russian and a person. I have not seen that here and hopefully I won’t.

So there you have it, blog one done. Keep in touch and let me know if you have any questions, see if I can answer them.