A Cat in the Throat: Adventures with the French Medical System

In my previous post, I talked about how I had a doctor's appointment at the Nantes Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration.

Little I know that a few weeks later, I would have the occasion to experience second doctor's visit.

It all started to go south for me last Friday afternoon. I had just finished working and decided to take a nap around 3 p.m. so I could be fully replenished to grade my disturbingly-increasing pile of tests and quizzes. When I woke up later in the evening, I realized that my body suffered from a fever, aches and pains and that I had the unmistakable scratchy feeling that is a sore throat around my vocal chord area.

Seeing as how my uninsured American self had become accustomed to not visiting a doctor in over six years over the slightest sniffle, I shrugged the sick feeling and took some fizzy Alka Seltzer Plus tablets in the hope that whatever was afflicting me would magically vanish by the following day.

(Side note: This is exactly the same strategy I had when one Sunday evening, during my Freshman year at university, I woke up in the middle of the night and proceeded to vomit six times in the span of two hours. I was at the point where I had nothing else to expunge from my stomach except blood. Most normal, insured people wouldn't have hesitated to call 911 to have an ambulance whisk them away to the nearest hospital. My solution was to shrug it off, go back to sleep and hope that I would feel well enough to attend class the next morning, which I actually did.)

I spent Saturday and Sunday feeling miserable, fighting the urge to rip out my throat from all the coughing and nearly rubbing my nose raw from all the Kleenex tissues I used to rid my nose of snot. I still had hope that my health would improve by Monday morning.

Monday came, and with it a text message from a colleague that shook me from my stupor. I got out of bed, stumbled in zombie fashion out of my room, then, dazed and disoriented, shuffled back into my room in time to hear the last ring on my cell phone before the call went straight to voice mail.

Within a few minutes, my colleague called me again. I answered.

It was at that point that I realized that my stricken vocal chords had not had any use over night except to cough sporadically. My poor colleague must have thought that she had just contacted the chain-smoking tenor of an ogre barbershop quartet who unfortunately had a frog stuck in his throat.

(By the way, the French equivalent of "having a frog in one's throat" is "avoir un chat dans la gorge," in which the amphibian is replaced by a creature of the feline variety.)

Alarmed by my sudden dip in octaves, my colleague firmly stated "You must go to see a doctor."

I mentioned that I had been starting to feel better, but still she insisted.

"It doesn't matter. You should still see a doctor. Make an appointment and go see the doctor*."

I called the nearest centre medical and the receptionist said that doctor so-and-so didn't have an opening until Wednesday morning. Now, in my workaholic mind, that wasn't going to cut it because I had to teach three classes that day. Besides, what would my employer, the high school principal, say? I expected something around the lines of "Sorry, you can't go because it coincides with your work schedule."

Just the opposite happened: when I told him that the next available appointment was for Wednesday morning, he was completely understanding about it. No trouble at all. In fact, he even encouraged me to see a doctor as soon as possible and to ask the gentleman at the Vie Scolaire to give me a lift.

I'll admit that I was a bit stunned by how easily it all went down.

On Tuesday, I functioned on the illusion that I was feeling better in the morning. That illusion shattered because I continued to cough and strained my vocal chords teaching seven lessons (Tuesdays provide me with the heaviest workload).

I had hot flashes followed by periods of chills that coursed through my body. At times, I felt woozy and lost in my thoughts. I should have taken a hint that my playing this funky psychedelic tune over and over again in my head was a symptom of being on a natural high.




I also think that I genuinely frightened a couple of my co-workers when they heard me mumbling the lyrics in the teacher's lounge.

The following day, the cat in the throat disappeared completely and took with it my voice. Whenever I tried to emit any noise from my now-defunct vocal chords, something between the discordant notes of an out-of-tune violin and dog whimpers came out. I had lost my ability to speak.

Still, I could communicate by writing things down. I jotted down my symptoms so I could avoid having to resort to vividly gesticulating like an Italian air traffic controller. Armed with my totally anal-retentive meticulous A2 notebook, I headed out to the centre medical.

When I walked into the office, the nurses greeted me, asked me when and with whom my appointment was and directed me to the doctor's waiting room.

That was it. No paperwork to sign, no one asking me to provide proof of medical insurance, nothin'.

Things got interesting once I saw the doctor in question. He asked me for my carte vitale, the green insurance card that every French citizen (or in my case, broke-ass American workers legally residing in France) has. I was fortunate enough to still have my old card from the days when I still lived in Dijon.

For legal reasons/crippling paranoia, I decided to not post an actual photo of my carte vitale and thus opted to make a cartoon of what it roughly looks like.

He placed the card in a machine to scan it and up popped all of my medical history on his computer's screen. Then he did the examination.

Diagnosis: une bronchite. Bronchitis.

That's right: I apparently have a bronco that suffers from inflammation in my chest. It seems that no matter where I go, I can never escape horses these days. (I kid. I know what bronchitis is.)

Boy, was I ever glad that I listened to my colleague and took her advice.

I paid 23 Euros for the consultation, which will eventually be partly reimbursed by la Sécurité Sociale (la Sécu). It is to my knowledge that apart from the money that la Sécu pays for, the French also have the option of paying for une mutuelle, extra medical insurance that the Sécu doesn't cover. They are the ones responsible for providing you with the money in case you become gravely ill and need to be hospitalized.

Unlike the typical HMOs back home, la mutuelle actually does their job of providing you with proper healthcare instead of milking you with deductibles, increasing premiums and denying coverage because you have a pre-existing condition.

And get this: depending on your status (if you are single, married or have a family), extra medical insurance generally costs 150 Euros every six months per person. That's give or take 25 Euros a month.

This is worth repeating: TWENTY-FIVE EUROS a month. I know some singleton American friends who pay eighty dollars and up a month for medical coverage. A month.

I'll take French health care any day, thank you very much.

Anyway, the doctor's prescription featured taking several medications...

And I do mean SEVERAL medications. Medications galore! With the carte vitale, it all came to 23,83 Euros.

Oh, and check out these enormous antibiotic pills. I won't lie: I genuinely feared the possibility of choking to death on something that is, in theory, supposed to heal me.

Not actually recommended by the doctor, but eating a few squares certainly perked me up. (I'll worry about staving the "diabeetus" later.)

...and an arrêt maladie. With the doctor's orders, I got a form that I provided to my employer in which I got the rest of the week off work. This is one of the very few times I have ever had to call in sick and I am grateful for people who understand that I needed enough time to recuperate (whether legally obligated or not).

Yet something didn't feel right. A little nagging voice kept repeating that I needed to work, that it wasn't right for me to be taking days off work to be sick, especially when I have the responsibility of teaching several groups of middle school and high school students. That voice insisted that all I needed to do was buck up and keep on trekkin' despite my maladie.

Then, in one sudden moment of clarity, I had the insight about the French medical way of thinking: I'M SICK. I NEED TO SEE A DOCTOR SO I CAN FEEL BETTER AND EVENTUALLY GET BACK TO WORK.

Duh.

Why is it that something so obvious is difficult to comprehend?

Lesson learned: when sick, go see a doctor and rest.

And grade the increasing pile of tests and quizzes.

*Not to be confused with The Doctor. Pity. I wish he could have cured me.

Barb the French Bean

Making Due with Halloween in France: the Doctor Who Edition

Warning: this post will either make you laugh or, if you are a Whovian, cringe and hate me.

(Also, this post is long because I probably won't be writing anything new until mid-November. Deal with it.)

It all started the moment I made plans for the Toussaint break. Here in France, French schools are blessed with a ten-day break that is meant for French families everywhere to pay tribute to their ancestors by visiting their graves on November first. Of course, the day that precedes All Saint's Day is All Hallows' Eve, more commonly known as Halloween.

The French notion of Halloween isn't quite the same as back in the U.S. On my original side of the Atlantic, it's perfectly acceptable to see a bunch of bratty hyperactive midgets small children dressed in just about anything: pumpkins, bumblebees, Power Rangers, even as Winnie the Pooh. The cuter the kid looks, the better the costume is. To expand further on the subject, seeing a grown woman dressed as a hooker Strawberry Shortcake won't cause anyone to bat an eye.

Here in France...Halloween's popularity has been on a decline in the past ten years. It's not like the French don't like to disguise themselves. Au contraire. I could walk into the nearest Foir'Fouille store and purchase a powder blue wig if I wanted to. It's just that the French prefer to dress for a different, more traditional occasion: carnaval, which is Mardi Gras/Shrove Tuesday. 

However, when it comes to Halloween, it's mostly considered an American export that is meant for children to dress up as scary characters, with a specific emphasis on scary. Good luck finding a cutesy Winnie the Pooh within a sea of Frankenstein's monsters, ghosts, witches and vampires over here.

That's why when I made my train reservations to head on over to the Burgundy city of Sens to visit a friend and her husband, she asked if I would be in town on October 31st. 

Oh, by the way, I have not had the time to post photos of a trip to Sens I took back in August.

Um. 

*twiddles thumbs and whistles nonchalantly*

Here's a very belated French eye candy tour of Sens:

Happy France gives an approximation of where things are located

I felt very happy when I saw la Bourgogne's flag that day.

Maybe it's just me, but every time I see the French flag, "La Marseillaise" plays automatically in my head.

C'est moi!

The Hôtel de Ville 

With a statue of the Gaul known as Brennus. He's got a rooster perched on top of his staff.

The entrance to Sens's cathedral has several statues that have had their heads (literally) defaced. A reminder of the Revolution's brutality.

The covered market

A random head lodged between some columns in the Cathedral

I held my breath when I looked on the stain glass.

Such detail!

A monument to France's fallen soldiers from the Great War

A sign explaining that the stained glass in Saint Savinien's chapel dates from the 13th century.

Not much is left of the original stained glass, though.

Some more stained glass

Jeanne d'Arc, France's patron saint

The French love to decorate their buildings in scaffolding.

A view of the Cathedral

Yup. "La Marseillaise" is playing in my head right now.

A model of a couple of arches in the Cathedral's museum

And here are the original statues that were perched on the arches.

'Tis Brennus

I found this cross to be interesting. Instead of seeing a crucified Christ, you see Marianne and a rooster chilling right on top of it. 

Brennus has a rooster as well.

Hipster Christopher Columbus danced to disco songs 500 years before they even existed.

Go forth and explore for the Spanish royalty.

Awww, look at that face!

In case you all didn't know it, the French love their poultry (the rooster is the national symbol).

'Tis an awesome chicken.

Do not pick the flowers, beeyotches.

Let's get back to the story. 

My friend in Sens asked if I would be in town on October 31st, to which I replied "yes, I will."

She then said, "okay, I'm asking because my husband and I have been invited by his friends to attend a Halloween party. We wanted to know so we could notify his friends that you will be going as well."

A Halloween costume party, in France? 

At first, I was like:

But then, I was like:

Allow me to explain why my enthusiasm took an immediate nosedive. 

To attend a costume party, it is kinda obvious that you will need to dress up in a costume. However, when you are a short, fat American who unfortunately gained 30 pounds in one year (of which 12 have been lost, whoot) and you have to find a costume in France, a land known for having stereotypically thin ladies, you're utterly screwed. 

Weight issues aside, I began to think about what could make for a good costume (SO MANY OPTIONS). Last year, I contemplated dressing up as Belle from Beauty and the Beast. I instead chose to disguise myself as Sophisti-Cat. 

I still haven't gotten over my decision to not dress up as Belle from Beauty and the Beast, but if you are going to a Halloween party in France, you need a scary costume. And, quite frankly, I'm still not up for dressing as a Slutty Candy Corn Witch.

Then, in a sheer moment of a lightbulb sparking alight, I remembered the totally awesome image that I had seen a week ago about Disney Princesses dressed as the eleven Doctors. A lifelong epiphany had dawned upon my fleeting existence.

I'M GONNA DRESS UP AS BELLE DOCTOR WHO

The best part of my costume? Should anybody tell me that my costume isn't particularly scary, boy, do I have the perfect comeback for them: "Hello. I'm the Doctor. And I can break out into a song and dance number with inanimate objects at will. Basically, RUN."

(If it worked on the Atraxi, it sure as Hell should work against a legion of cynical sparkly vampires.) 

I momentarily fretted upon choosing which Doctor would be represented with the costume. Would it be David Tennant's Doctor with the big, brown coat, the business suit, tie and the Converse sneakers, or the Matt Smith Doctor with the tweed coat, suspenders (braces for you Brits), bowtie and fez?

I eventually chose David Tennant's Doctor out of convenience: I already own a brown coat and it would be a bit of a hassle to find a fez, no matter how geographically close I am to Morocco.

Not exactly like the Doctor's coat, but it'll do. I'm too broke/cheap find a new one right now.

I still had to assemble the rest of the costume, which I figured wasn't going to be an easy task. In my mind, I was aiming to find a blue pinstripe business suit like the one David wore, but again, considering my size, France's availability, and my lack of impressive sewing skills, I was going to make do with whatever I could encounter. If I couldn't find the business suit, then I would simply purchase a dress.

Luckily, I found this TARDIS-blue dress for 19,99 Euros!

I wasn't going to settle for anything less than TARDIS-blue.

I also got this pair of girly-girl earrings for the Belle part of the costume (3,99 Euros).

I hearts me some girly-girl jewelry.

I was missing a pair of red Converse sneakers. That was fun walking into shoe stores in Sablé-sur-Sarthe's downtown area and asking the salesclerks "Avez-vous des baskets du genre Converse, et en rouge?" I have never bought a pair of Converse sneakers, and in French, no less. 

I still haven't bought the shoes, by the way. None of the stores I asked around carried RED Converse sneakers, and I certainly didn't fancy wearing pink or yellow.

I settled for these Converse-esque babies from Spain. Only 29 Euros, too. 

Bright red makes me happy. 

To accessorize the costume even more, I needed a tie as well. Keep in mind that, as a lady, I do not have the habit of purchasing Men's clothes, let alone for myself. I won't deny that it felt a tad awkward buying a product that is intended for men to wear for myself. But unless you are Matt Smith, how often do you get to dress as the Doctor?

I walked into the first Men's clothing store closest to me and asked without shame if they sold red ties. 

Say what you will about women and how we have a million terms for describing the same color, but we know our colors, damn it. The part of my brain that focused on color-coordination and aesthetic balance lurched violently. 

It was at this point when my "Why the Hell Not?" mentality kicked in. I find that it generally takes a greater precedence whenever I live and travel abroad.

I almost responded with "no, actually, the tie is for me." I checked myself, remembering that it probably wasn't the wisest answer to give, lest I wanted the salesclerk to think I was a cross-dresser.

He could tell that I had hesitated with my answer and asked again if the tie was to offer as a gift. I responded  with a little more firmness and some vigorous nodding. He wrapped up said tie in a gift bag, explained that the exchange receipt was in the bag, squirted some perfume and bade me a good day.

I immediately felt bad at making him the victim of my charade.

Now that I think about it, it wasn't technically a lie...I was giving the tie to myself as a gift as dressing up like the Doctor. And that's a pretty awesome gift. So. Yeah. There you have it.

This is the manliest, nicest-smelling gift bag I have ever received from myself. 

This activity of buying a tie for no guy in particular has made me realize that this is a perfect example of being "Forever Alone" because I am currently sitting in my room with an attractive, manly aroma that's driving me crazy with lust and fills me with the expectation that a guy will randomly show up someday. 

Either way, I feel pretty damn awesome about being "Forever Alone" with my red, white polka-dotted tie.

And this tie, which I am only going to wear once, cost me 24,99 Euros. That's right: the accessory cost more than the TARDIS-blue dress.

But it (sort of) matches my shoes, and I don't get to dress up as the Doctor everyday. So totally worth it. 

I know that I am "Forever Alone" and enjoying it, but in case I do end up getting a guy in my life, he'd better like this tie.

The total cost to date of my half-assed Belle Doctor Who costume is 77,97 Euros (not counting the coat that I purchased back in 2011 for 35 Euros). Now all I need is an Enchanted Sonic Screwdriver Rose and some cheapo 3-D glasses. Perhaps Ebay and Amazon.fr will help me out.

UPDATE:
I just made the Sonic Enchanted Rose, all with the use of one plastic red rose (1,60 Euros) and one small bottle of blue glitter (1,99).

It's completely drenched in glitter, though. On the bright side, its glitter fabulousness might be enough to blind a Dalek a mile away. 

"WTF did I do to that poor rose? Oh, well."

When I'm not grading papers, I'm goofing off with the camera. Make a note to never let me near your cameras, folks.

As for the 3D glasses: after combing various French stores for a pair of anaglyph 3D glasses, featuring one memorable moment in which I strolled down an aisle filled with various plastic/rubber breasts and penises, I came to the conclusion that I would have to turn to the Internet for help.

Oh, online shopping, I heart you so.

I could even accessorize and borrow one of the 50-something horses that live right next to me, paint it blue, and say that it was TARDIS Philippe, Belle Doctor Who's horse. 

Barb the French Bean

UPDATE

For those of you wondering how the costume turned out, here ya go!

I opted to paint a mini TARDIS on my left hand.

I blinged out the 3-D glasses

Believe it or not, the French like Doctor Who as well (and the costume I had)!