Doctors are not easy patients – or so we are told. That must be with reference to people who hadn’t experienced the French health system. I hadn’t either until an artificial hip joint inserted
in London sixteen years before needed attention and I found myself consulting a professor of orthopaedic surgery in the ancient city of Montpellier.
I had encountered many professors when I was a medical student
in foggy London nearly sixty years ago, then my professors were fierce, unapproachable demigods – with a few exceptions – one I remember well, the avuncular professor of obstetrics. On one of his teaching rounds I presented a case of post-partum
haemorrhage – the patient, a wan lady, lay pallid on her bed; I recounted the story of her labour, but neglected to give the actual amount of blood loss – the professor turned to the attending ward sister, “and how much blood did she lose?”
he asked, “eight hundred millilitres, professor,” she replied. “millilitres?” said he, “millilitres!” “Sister,” he continued, “this is Mr Larkworthy’s case, can we have it in pints?”
It was two years ago that I consulted the orthopaedic professor in Montpellier; he was an amiable sort with a twinkle in his eye. He replaced my wobbly London prosthesis with difficulty. Bone grafting was required and this
meant a long convalescence in a Centre de Re-education, seven weeks to be precise. Four sessions of physiotherapy a day and an added bonus, an immersion course in French; I soon learned that the night time bottle I required was le pistolet and when the nurse
asked me if I wanted to put on my baskets she was referring to my trainers.
I met my second Montpellier professor two years later. In the interim I had developed severe back problems due to narrowing of my spinal
canal, spinal stenosis. The orthopaedic surgeon took one look at the scans my GP (generaliste) had ordered and referred me to the back professor giving me a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he murmured a less reassuring, “bon courage.”
The back professor was a neurosurgeon, equally charming, looked at my scans, explained in detail what needed to be done, offered me a date, delayed for a month because I had a minor heart murmur and he needed a cardiologist’s
My generaliste rapidly organised the heart specialist consultation. The heart specialist wanted a coronary angiogram (Prince Philip had one for Christmas); it was carried out two days later, pronounced
OK, and I was admitted. Everything was done efficiently and remarkably quickly for a non-emergency situation. The operation and recovery went smoothly; I was discharged after nine days.
FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE SAID
in 1859, “It may seem a strange principle to enunciate the very first requirement in a hospital that it should do the sick no harm.” She was referring to such complications as cross infection; she recognised the important role of strict hygiene;
today there is the added complication of antibiotic resistance.
The international weekly, The Telegraph reported this that hospital acquired infections in the UK in 2010 reached a record of 42,712, nearly double
that of two years previously.
In that hospital in Montpellier teams of cleaners conducted an unremitting war on cross infection. They did it properly, dawn till dusk; paying attention to nooks and crannies and not
just a cursory wipe with a damp cloth. France leads Europe in combating hospital acquired infections.
The admirable qualities of the French health system are but one of the advantages of living in France. An article
in last October’s British Medical Journal showed that the premature death rate in the United States is double that of France – we are talking about deaths which would not have occurred had healthcare been timely and effective; or put another way,
if in the year 2006-7 America had performed as well as France, 84,300 American citizens might still be alive.
And if longevity is a marker, France, with 20,000 centenarians (UK has 10,000) is a world leader. My
little town has its share, our two maisons de retraite have a sluggish turnover because their occupants take so long in shuffling off their mortal coils. Monsieur le Mayor says it’s our climat tonique which does it, I agree, but think that the local
Côtes du Rhône Villages rouge plays a significant part.
IN FRANCE THERE ARE NO WAITING LISTS – how can this be? The answer, simple…waiting lists are a function of the availability of doctors
and the availability of hospital beds. European Commission figures show that France has twenty five percent more doctors than the UK and twice as many hospital beds.
In the past decade The World Health Organisation
has placed France first in the league table of quality of government health services – Great Britain came eighteenth and America thirty-seventh. You would think that such excellence would demand astronomical government expenditure, not so, French per
capita expenditure on health is half that of the USA.
So is France a veritable medical paradise? To an extent, but as is the case with all human endeavours faults are bound to occur and standards will vary, particularly
in peripheral and remote facilities. The crise financière is biting, patients can no longer shop around for doctors, they have to nominate and stick to one – their médecin traitant.
I am personally
concerned because my excellent generaliste retires this year and there is no prospect of a replacement; young doctors prefer working in the big cities and not in a backwater in the countryside, no matter how attractive.
However, while I’m at it, there is one tip I must pass on to UK expats… keep up your National Insurance contributions. You will safeguard your state pension and if you decide to retire in a European Union member country, like France, you
will be automatically entitled to its state healthcare.