The
natural vine pergola stretching over the yard from the house roof to the tall
fence offered some shade in the scorching heat. The grape vines, turning yellow
by now, had been picked of grapes. Nobody was in sight. I could see the
vegetable garden in the distance. A tall pile of freshly dug potatoes and ruby
red bell peppers on the grass served as playground for a tabby kitten.
I
knocked on the front door. Stefan, my cousin’s 18 year old son, hopped to the
door on crutches. In spite of the pain and misery, a big smile lit up his face.
He had split his big toe open with an errant ax which had flown out of his
inexperienced young hands. He had tried to help his grandfather cut wood for
winter. Bleeding profusely, he was transported by bus to the nearest emergency
room in town, about 5 miles away to the county hospital.
Stefan
had been in a cast for six weeks and was anxiously awaiting the moment to have
it removed. I promised to take him to the emergency room by car instead of the
usual bus. The county hospital had not changed from the hospital I knew in the
seventies. It looked just as dingy, dirty, and poorly lit. The low wattage CFL
bulbs cast an eerily glow that gave me a headache. The paint was chipping
everywhere, there were suspect stains on the linoleum floor which had seen
better days and the walls were soiled by filth and bloody emergencies. The littered
yard was occupied by several stray and mangy dogs.
After
waiting hours in the crowded and sweltering hospital, Stefan was seen by a gruff
doctor whose demeanor was less than friendly. The emergency room doctor called in
a nurse to help him cut the cast. From the cloud of white dust, Stefan’s toe
emerged. It was swollen, twisted, and the inexperienced stitching looked like the
patchwork of Frankenstein’s monster. The doctor dismissed Stefan, telling him
to stay off the foot for two more weeks and to walk on his heel. No advice to assist
him cope with the swelling, no therapy, no boot to help him walk for two weeks,
nothing. I was shocked! I tried to ask questions, the doc looked at me
dismissively, and walked out of the room.
Proper
care and treatment according to the Hippocratic Oath is costly. Medical care is
free but it is only given properly if bribes are offered to doctors and nurses –
walking around money, they call it. Stefan’s mom is poor like most Romanians
who are still struggling to overcome forty years of communist oppression.
Medical
care was given properly to the elites when the few, self-appointed
apparatchiks, ran the communist country. If the masses wanted the same, they
had to pay in a neat white envelope. I remember my Dad’s doctor. When he opened
his office drawer to retrieve my Dad’s bribe, $5,000, cousin Mariana saw rows
of envelopes with the patient’s name neatly written. My Dad had died and Dr.
Arsene was returning the money at the request of the family. After all, he did
not help Dad survive and burials were expensive.
Twenty-three
years ago when my Dad passed away in Romania, communist medicine functioned on
bribes and favored the elites in power. Omnipotent communists received proper
care and the best medical treatment available at the time in hospitals built
just for them.
Socialized
medicine in Romania today, although dictated by the European Union standards, has
not changed much. They have perhaps better equipment and somewhat better
training. But bribery is still the way to receive proper and timely medical
care.
How
is an 18-year old supposed to walk to school on his heel for two weeks in order
to protect his grossly swollen, mis-stitched, and improperly healed big toe?
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