Health Care For Everyone! Strange as it may be...

First, a few random observations about Israeli culture, etc., then on to the health care thing:

The "Holiday Season" here begins in late September/early October and ends in mid-June. How did this country, in only 60 years, become far more technologically, medically, and socially advanced than most countries that have existed for centuries? They are forever having a day off, 8 months out of the year. No wonder so many women here are pregnant.

I saw a really good-looking man at yoga yesterday. He had many of the features I find attractive, and seemed nice. But he was next to me, practicing yoga in black Calvin Klein boxer briefs. He looked great in them, but there was something just un-sexy to me about a hot man in hot undies in a room full of people doing yoga.

I have learned to find chest hair attractive in only 7 weeks! Mind you, I'm not talking about those guys who look like they're wearing sweaters, and have back hair and all, but I'm liking a nice, hairy chest on a man now. As Keren said:" Lucky for me".

Israeli women tend to have shapely hips and phenomenal shelf-like booty, but the men here have no asses at all. It is a society of assless men. As a woman who has generally found baseball pitchers, and their substantial rock-hard 4-wheel-drive rear ends wildly attractive, I am adjusting to checking out other body parts instead. Hairlines, eyes, teeth...Eventually, I suppose, I'll think of looking at things like 'brains' and 'personality'.

MACCABI HEALTH FUND--My Health Plan of Choice

I finally got around to going to the clinic to get my official Maccabi card and be assigned a GP, who I was free to change should he prove to be an asshole or something. It was fortunate that I went when I did, as I was coming down with what felt like the Ebola virus, but turned out to be sinusitis and the flu. I walked to Balfour 10, where Maccabi Tel Aviv has one of its clinics, and was pretty sure I was going to die the whole way. I love walking, and it was a lovely day for a 20-minute stroll down tree-lined streets, but I had a fever already and felt like death warmed up. Having received my card, I went to the information desk to make an appointment. I was to see Dr. Libster the next afternoon. I walked home, hit the couch, and began to feel worse.

The next afternoon, after rigorously studying Hebrew with a fever (I probably did the same question 10 times), I walked again to Balfour 10. I was told that Dr. Libster is in room 5, and was shown where to go. It was a set of chairs at the end of a hallway, where there were two doors. Outside each door was a list of patient names and appointment times. While I waited, a man came racing down the hall, apologizing in Hebrew, whipping out a set of keys, and going into the office of my doctor. I was thinking that he couldn't be the doctor. He was wearing jeans. He was wearing sneakers. He wasn't in an office safely guarded by a secretarial and nursing staff. He not only didn't have a white coat, but he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt.

The man whose appointment was before mine got up, knocked on the door, and went in to see the doctor. No nurse came out and called his name. While the man was in the office, another man came barrel-assing down the hall, knocked on the door and opened the door to ask a question without waiting for a "come in" or "kadima". I was glad for 2 things: I was not the patient in that room, and the doctor was not a gynecologist.

When it was time for my appointment, which was about 20 minutes after the scheduled time, but doctors are doctors, even in Israel, I knocked gently on the door and poked my head in. I asked if it was okay, and he waved me in. I sat down at his desk while he did something on his computer. Looking around, I saw the examining table, which was still all disheveled from the previous patient, a sink with sterile soap (sigh of relief) and several bottles of stuff that makes a room smell pretty, all in a row, fighting their own uphill battle. The room had one tiny window, up high and probably painted shut. And it didn't feel, well, sanitary.

I have observed before that Americans are way too concerned with germs. We have antibacterial everything. Children are kept away from so many germs that they don't have an opportunity to build up immunities to them. Gone are the days of getting away with washing hands without soap, brushing teeth without more toothpaste, washing dishes with any regular old dish soap, and certainly the 5-second rule no longer applies. 'Dirty' has become a dirty word.

But I digress.

So I tried to put my American germ phobia aside and waited for the doctor to pay attention to me. He looked up, asked for my Maccabi card (insurance card), and for 6 shekels (right now, worth a little over $2). That is the amount I have to pay for an office visit. And I don't pay for the health insurance, incidentally. He asked what was wrong, and I explained my symptoms. He changed the paper on the examining table and had me get up. He did the usual doctor things, looking into this, palpating that, listening to this, asking if something hurts, blah, blah, blah. Then he asked me to sit down at the desk again.

He told me I have sinusitis and a virus. He was going to prescribe antibiotics and a nasal spray. I asked him why I felt so awful and he said "Because you're sick". I half-smiled and said "Oh, so I got the funny doctor?". He is clearly Russian, but has probably been here most of his life. He is the way he is at Maccabi because all of the doctors are informal like that. And at least he has a sense of humor. That is mandatory.

Then he hit me with a way-off-speed pitch: He told me that my blood pressure was very high, and he was concerned that I have hypertension. He gave me a sheet to bring with me to the vampires upstairs. Their hours of operation were unforgiving, so it was either ass-crack of dawn, or miss some school. I went the next day, but couldn't get an appointment again with Dr. Libster until a week from tomorrow. I'll keep you posted about the hypertension. I assume it's just stress.

I have found that it is stressful to be away from the people that I love, and who love me. I carry around the quote: "What do you pack to pursue a dream, and what do you leave behind?"

What I have found that I left behind is people, and the love that they give without words or sometimes even gestures, but by merely being there. And that is a hard, hard thing to leave behind. I cry a lot.

But what I brought with me is a big dream, an opportunity to do something most people don't dare to do, a brand-new fresh start, 3 loving cats, and a kickass wardrobe (thanks, Mom).

I also got a referral for a psychiatrist, because I was seeing a fantastic one in Mt. Pleasant, and I clearly am in need of talk therapy, and to keep up the meds I take. Yes, it is the awful, secret truth that yoga does not necessary calm all anxiety and cure all ills. I am a basket case. I have a panic disorder (and yes, I see the irony of someone with a panic disorder moving to the Middle East, but I don't sweat that political stuff. I sweat the small stuff). Evidently, the shrink is good, because I don't see him until the 3rd. I couldn't get anything sooner. The problem with shrink-shopping is that is more difficult to get a good, comfortable fit than it is bathing suit-shopping. One size does NOT fit all when it comes to psychiatry. I hit the psychological lottery when I found Dr. Hunt in Mt. P. I found someone with whom I felt I could be completely candid, not hold back, say anything (and be redundant, if I felt like it). Poor guy probably had NO idea what he was getting into with me. But he helped. He didn't just listen and nod. He made me do homework and try to learn about myself and how I fit in--or didn't fit in--to the Charleston social structure. So he's a tough act to follow. I wish Dr. I-Already-Forgot-His-Name-Because-I-Made-The-Appointment-A-Month-Ago the best of luck in getting through my finely tuned, well-built, totally reinforced outer shell.

Another upside, however, to this Health Care for Everyone thing, is that not only are my prescriptions covered almost completely, but some non-prescribed, over-the-counter medications are partially covered as well. I can overlook certain things in favor of having health care. Mental health care is covered, too, and they do not acknowledge preexisting conditions. They don't care that I've been a basket case for years--they'll still take care of me. Thanks, Israel!

I still wish I would see white coats and nursing staff, but I guess with socialized medicine, you give up certain "socialized" luxuries.