I was having a really hard time breathing since Friday night. In denial ang lola n’yo the entire weekend; I kept on thinking it was related to my lactose intolerance since it’s been a cheesefest here since I arrived. So I decided that if I cut out the cheese and took my Dairy Care, the whole situation would just clear up.
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Surprise surprise, it didn’t! On Saturday night, I hacked and coughed for 20 straight minutes, started feeling chest pains, and even threw up my dinner. (Sorry, TMI ba?) So Marlon called an ambulance. Ans no, Gutsy, the ambulance guys were not cute. They were middle-aged, very tall men dressed in head-to-toe 3M reflective tape outfits. Kung nasa ulirat ako sana nakunan ko sila ng picture.
More importantly, they came bearing medicated oxygen, which was the most blessedly sweet thing I have had in a long time. I slept through the night breathing easy. At least until the next morning. Sunday was bad. I couldn’t even bend down to tie my shoelaces without wheezing for air. Mega tungga pa rin ako ng Dairy Care, to no avail.
Things came to a head at bedtime, when I had to face the reality that my breathing was so bad I would not be able to sleep through the night. So Marlon took me to the E.R. of VU Medisch Centrum, the hospital of the Vrij University which is just ten minutes away.
Hello, healthcare system
So here are three things you should know about the Dutch healthcare system.
- Everyone is required by law to have health insurance. Everyone. Dutch citizens get them free or highly subsidized from their government. If you’re a foreigner, you need to get your own insurance coverage from a Dutch company (even if you have international coverage, which I don’t haha) within four months of arrival. Basic coverage is about €100 per person for month… which is hella expensive right?
- That’s because health insurance pays for… pretty much everything. Break your leg? Giving birth? Suffering from a severe asthma attack? Just show up at the doctor’s office or at the hospital, show your insurance card, and pay nothing. Zero. Zip. They will send the bill to your insurance company.
- Everyone is required to register with a general practitioner and dentist. Once you have a permanent address you find a GP and dentist nearest you who will be your doctor for, like, life.
And this is not about the healthcare system, but the Dutch have the highest lactose tolerance in the entire human race. Genetically, they have an enzyme that allows them to absorb and process more calcium and/or lactose than any other ethnicity. It’s why they’re so bloody tall. (I don’t know if this also has any bearing on their general lack of eyebrows, lol.)
So I was a real anomaly: lactose intolerant, no permanent address thus no doctor, and no health insurance. Every single member of the VU hospital staff literally did a double take three times, one for each of these factoids. The E.R. admitting nurse, raising an eyebrow: “No health insurance? But the E.R. fee is €300. Okay?” Okay! *Lunok* Isang original Eames chair na yon. Pero sige, go lang, kasi parang nasa bingit na ako ng hukay.
They hooked me up to my special bong (see previous post) for the first hour or so. Instant relief! After an hour, a doctor came to see if I was ready to go home by measuring my lung strength with this instrument called a spirometer. At dito nagsimula ang aking kalbaryo.
Image from vosmedisch.nl
You’re supposed to make like a blowdart hunter from the African savannah and blow into one end, the force of your breath pushing up the little tab on the scale. Aba, hindi ako makalampas-lampas sa red zone. At sa sobrang lakas ng denial ko, sinisi ko pa ang spirometer! “It’s so technique-specific!” I fumed. “Maybe it’s made for much larger people!” Maybe I should have taken lessons in, er, blowing, from Eternal Wanderer. Siguradong pasok sa banga!
After six or seven tries, the doctor declared that I was unfit to be released… and that I would have to be admitted. I was so unprepared for this turn of events, I didn’t even have a handbag with me; all I had was my passport and our last remaining stash of Euros. At which point I tried bargaining like a true daughter of Mrs. Paul. “Let’s just try this whole spirometer again!” I faux-chirped, turning on the charm, to no avail.
Marlon left at 4.30am to catch some z’s before work. And I was left alone in the hospital.
Mrs. Paul meets Lola Techie
Since I’m married and haven’t changed the name on my passport, I was registered as “Mrs. Paul”, or Mevrouw (mu-frau) Paul in Dutch. How weird is it to be called Mrs. Paul? So many nurses kept popping in to check my blood pressure, draw blood, or put me on an inhaler every hour on the hour that I was almost used to it by the time I left.
At 10am I took another spirometer test, computerized this time, which I failed equally miserably. Then I was transferred to a room in the lung ward, which I shared with a sweet old Dutch lady who spoke a little English, which was nice.
The really remarkable thing about this granny was her tech savviness. She had a tiny Dell laptop! She kept getting calls from her family on her cellphone. She spent most of her day playing Sim City, Solitaire and Blackjack. She even (sweetly) bitched to the nurse about being unable to access the hospital Wifi. For those first few hours, I felt like such a Neanderthal for not even having a laptop and a phone. ”Get a Dutch number right away so you can get Internet on your mobile phone,” she advised. You gotta love these European lolas.
Bills, bills, bills
In the late afternoon I called Marlon from the nurses’ station. Before coming over to bring me a change of clothes and some entertainment options, he needed to settle the bill. “How much is it?” I asked, fearing the worst. ”Mmmmm… masakit siya,” he averred.
“Sige lang. Hit me,” I ordered.
“It’s €3,000.”
THREE THOUSAND FREAKING EUROS!!!!!! For one freaking night!!!! Burj-al-Arab ba itoh?!?!?!?
Image from travelihub.com
I went back to my room and cried for fifteen whole minutes. As in hagulgol (buti na lang tulog si Lola Techie). I thought of all the things we could have bought with €3,000: closets and a solid wood dining table for the house, or two round-trip tickets home for Christmas, or at least three really good European getaways, and don’t get me started on the bags.
It was my darkest hour. I got to a point where I wondered if it was a huge mistake to move here. And since it was I who pushed for this whole exodus to Europe, and I with this stupid asthma, I wondered if I was responsible for this mess.
Then Marlon arrived to take me out of the dark, my Lord.
His big discovery for the day: he and I are covered by health insurance care of his new company. And even if we haven’t completed the paperwork for it, the policy came into effect on his first day of work… three weeks ago. So the hospital bill will be reimbursed in full! HALLELUJAH!!!!!!
So tuloy ang shopping, lol. But kidding aside, you can imagine how relieved we both were. And I then started to ponder the beauty of health insurance and why the Americans are so against universal healthcare. Mas gusto ba nilang mamulubi kapag nagkasakit sila? I really don’t get it. It works so well for the Netherlands—I already feel the positive impact, and I’m not even a citizen.
Road to recovery
Other than that moment where we stared destitution in the face, my hospital stay was actually… not so bad. I had a cute male nurse named Thijs? Tyce? who was so sweet and friendly. Sorry, bangengers ako the whole time so no photos. Actually, everyone was really sweet and friendly, introducing themselves with their first names, a smile and a handshake.
I was prescribed with a daily pill and taught to use an asthma inhaler which I have to do twice a day, every day. I detest the thought of being dependent on an inhaler. The presence or absence of an inhaler could spell the difference between life and death, say, if I end up hiring a psychotic yaya one day.
The hand that rocks the crade is the hand that holds the asthma inhaler.
Image from weblo.com
The doctors still don’t know what triggered my asthma; we’re still waiting for my blood test results. They have a vague suspicion that it’s pollen from the trees that are starting to bloom again, but I will only get to find out when I come back to the hospital in three weeks to see a lung specialist. Till then, I will be a good patient and take my meds every day. That’s a promise.
I was released yesterday afternoon and was well enough to take the tram and walk partway home. It’s been great to be breathing normally again.
Tonight is our last night at the serviced apartment, so I’m in a spate of last-minute blogging while I still have Internet. There’s also a lot of packing to be done; I can’t tell you how sick I am of packing, repacking and unpacking.
And tomorrow we move into our new and permanent address. It’ll be a long and busy day, but one that couldn’t come soon enough! So all’s well that ends well, my lovies. Good things are coming just around the bend!
