A Visit to the Doctor

The next time you’re in a doctor’s waiting room a little too long, think of this story and be comforted.

I have had this dumb cold for about 5 weeks now. Maybe longer; it started before the end of school in November. I think it’s hung on so long because I’ve been mostly just sitting around this month and also because the weather has been notably horrible. Very wet. My roof leaks. Anyway, people had been telling me for weeks that it was time to go to the doctor; that colds shouldn’t last this long. I had been avoiding it, but as school is fast approaching, I thought I should probably get some medication and get better before classes resume.

So, a few days ago, I made an appointment with the Private Clinic in the morning, and then I walked down the hill to the Kijabe Hospital in the afternoon. First I had to stand at a window for fully 20 minutes waiting to get a little card that has my reference number on it corresponding to my file, which identifies me as Heather Lepp with birthdate 01/01/1976. Not too big on details down there, apparently.

After I had my required little card, I made my way around the building, following the “Private Clinic” signs. When I got to the end of the trail, there was no door that said “Private Clinic”. There was a door that said “Private Doctor”, but I wasn’t sure if that was the same thing. I asked at the cashier window and was told to go into the “Private Doctor” room, so I tried the door and found it locked. I went back to the cashier window and told the man the problem. He told me to go through some swinging doors that had a big sign on them saying “Staff Only” and then around a corner and into this back door. I thought that was sort of weird, but I did find myself in an empty waiting room, which looked like it was probably the right place. A little while after my appointment time had passed, the private clinic assistant came in and led me to the little doctor room, where she took my vital signs and I explained that my name was actually Heather Epp and my birthday was 30 July 1976.

After waiting for another several minutes, the doctor came in and asked me a bunch of questions and then had to leave to look for a stethoscope, since he’d left his at home. It took him quite a while to find one; in the end, his wife came by with his and the appointment continued. After his examination, he told me that I probably had a low-grade infection and should be on antibiotics. This came as quite a surprise to me, since I had suspected for the past 3 weeks that I had a low-grade infection and needed antibiotics. He searched for awhile for a prescription pad and then finally sent me on my way, prescription in hand.

After this I had to pay. (This is the part where the people in Canada should be thanking the Lord for public health care.) My bill, for the 15 minutes I spent with the doctor came to over $60!! Oh no! I thought, I didn’t bring enough money with me! “Can I use my VISA?” I asked. The cashier wrote down some numbers on a little slip of paper and then sent me through a labyrinth of corridors into the bowels of the hospital where the business office was. I went to three different windows before finding the correct one. I gave the slip of paper with the numbers on it and my VISA card to the man in the window and he disappeared with my credit card around the corner. He remained gone for no less than 5 minutes and I was wondering when I needed to storm into the room and demand my credit card back. At every stage of this process, I should say, there were many Kenyan people waiting who seemed to be waiting for much longer than me. I was humbled by their serenity, as my North American impatience and frustration was quite undoing me. Finally the man with my credit card came back and informed me that the machine wasn’t working. There was some sort of communication failure. Now what? I thought, I guess I could just leave; it’s not like they’d notice. Then I can come pay this bill another time. I decided this would be the best course of action. I really wanted to get out of there.

However, I didn’t want to leave without the drugs, so I went to the dispensary window and handed them my prescription. They directed me back to the cashier, who, of course, remembered me and wanted to know why I was only going to pay for the prescription and not the consultation. This is when it occurred to me that the $60+ was not only for the consultation, but covered the medicine as well. That was some relief. Since I only had enough cash to cover one or the other, I had to pay for the consultation and return home empty-handed and no better off than I was before; in fact, I was notably poorer.

The next day, I went down in the rain again to buy the prescription. I managed to get the antibiotics without much more hassle. But I certainly do miss good old Canadian efficiency at times like this. Let’s pray that these drugs work and the hospital ordeal will all be worthwhile. On Tuesday, I’m going to the dentist. I wonder how that will be.