The burlesque cabaret of French medical examinations

A response to Blogging Molly's, The Kafka-esque nightmare of the Bushwick hospital.

I have lived abroad since (more or less) the Fall of 2008. If I had it my way, I would save up all my doctor's visits and dentist appointments and pap smears for my yearly trip home to see the 'rents. Unfortunately, my propensity for contracting yeast infections and other lady problems does not allow for this.

(Molly, I can't tell you how many times I have been told that I keep getting infections because I use condoms, and then also because I don't use condoms... even though I do. So, basically, all women are pregnant, vaginitis-riddled tarts, and it's all our fault for using condoms.)

But I digress.

Is our American health system perfect? Fuck no. Is it affordable? Not at all (although I've been lucky enough to stay on my Dad's awesome, state-provided health insurance for far longer than most are able to).

But there's one thing that keeps me coming back to the States for my regular checkups: I get it. I understand how it works. Yes, our country is in need of some serious health care reform, but at least when I go to the doctor, I pretty much know what's going to happen.

I know, for instance, that I won't have to take off my clothes for an eye exam. In France, there is no such certainty.

My first doctor's visit after moving to Flers to teach English was mandatory. In typical French fashion, I was not informed of this appointment until the day before its occurrence (apparently my appointment slip had been 'lost in the mail'), and I had to take a three-hour bus ride the next morning to get there. That's right, it wasn't just any doctor's visit; it had to be done in a specific city, in a specific hospital with specific government ties.

First of all, this medical exam is only obligatory for people coming from outside of Europe. I had to get a full physical in the States before taking the job (a rather benign experience), but apparently that was just a dry run, a preparation for what lay ahead.

So I got to Caen on the bus and made my way to the hospital where the first thing they did was to put me in a small room and tell me to undress from the waist up.

Upon leaving the room, the nurse said, "When you are finished, go through that door, there."

I followed orders. There didn't seem to be any kind of robe or anything, so I just opened the door and walked topless into this huge room with lots of machines and medical equipment. The same woman met me there and instructed me to step onto a platform and press my chest against a freezing cold wall, apparently to take an x-ray of my chest. That done, she said I could dress and go upstairs to the waiting room.

As it turned out, this was the least weird part of the visit.

After getting somewhat lost in the corridors of the hospital, I found my way (led by the sound of loud, American voices emanating down the hallway from the waiting room). I waited. And waited. Turns out they had given all of us 10:30 appointments, but there was only one doctor to do the exams. While I was waiting, someone came by and handed me the x-ray that had just been taken, as though I would know what to do with it.

Finally, my name was called, and I went into the rather large exam room. The doctor was an older, bespectacled gentleman, and as I handed him my chest x-ray, he said, "Undress to your underwear."

This is wear things got weird. There was no curtain. There was no attempt to turn away. The man just started firing off a series of medical history questions while I uncomfortably took off my clothes. There I was in my underwear (and bra), and he still wasn't finished with the questions. I stood awkwardly, saying there was no family history of diabetes. He told me to take a seat. The chair looked really cold. It was.

He wrapped up the questions and led me to the scale. He weighed me (Was this why he wanted the clothes off? Those few extra ounces of weight could have really skewed his measurements!), took my height, and patted me on the naked hip, saying, "Good job!" as I stepped off the scale.

Let me just paint the portrait of discomfort. Here I am, having stripped to my underwear in front of this man for, what appears to be, no reason at all, and now he's touching my naked skin. He continued to give me little pats of encouragement as I moved from one station to the next.

He handed me a bit of plastic and instructed me to cover one eye for the vision test. In my underwear.

I told him I have glasses and asked if I should put them on. He said no, then proceeded to mock me for having glasses when my vision was perfectly fine. Pat on the hip!

Finally, he told me to lie down on the exam table. Was this going to be the justification for the undue exposure? He listened to my heart and breathing, then set the stethoscope down on my crotch while he proceeded to kneed my stomach and ask if it hurt. Meahwhile, I am so focused on the cold bit of metal perched on my hooha that I'm really not sure what I'm saying (in French, of course).

Then, the whole thing was over. He told me to get dressed, handed me my x-ray (after glancing at it and deeming it fine [what the eff am I supposed to do with it?]), and sent me on my way.

I was feeling really violated until I spoke with some other people (including men) who related the same experience (minus encouraging pats). I guess the guy was just really efficient. He didn't want to have to lift a shirt to listen to someone's heart or feel their belly. And maybe he was looking for rashes or something.

The whole exam took maybe five minutes, then I had to get back on the bus to go home.

The doctor I ended up seeing in Flers was a woman and not creepy, but she had this same habit of telling me to undress (with good reason, this time) from the waist down, and not leaving the room while I did it. They just don't have modesty in France.

In Ireland, I can't even get a doctor's appointment. The health care system here is so overloaded (one pitfall of public health), that there are enormous waiting lists for nearly everything. Doctors simply aren't taking on new patients. And I'm not Irish, which doesn't work in my favor.

What's the moral of this story? I'm not sure. Perhaps, better to be misled and interrogated in your native language than in your underwear in France? But maybe it's a toss up. I've never had a shot in the ass.