Part 2: Insurance, je t'aime

Showcasing the latest French fashion: Le Drain

Arriving at Clinique Val d'Or, I quickly realized I would have to rely on my keen mime skills as none of the nurses spoke English -- that is until Nurse Karine, my eventual favourite, entered the picture and explained that she understood how scary it can all be, especially when I'm all alone but especially when no one speaks my language but especially when I had to be shaved as she was telling me all this -- for what, I did not know. 

The American Hospital had some trouble finding my veins or I'm a heroine addict. You decide.

My right and left armpits were shaved clean right before they took me into the OR to place a chest tube, or "drain" for you Francophones, in my chest. 

"It's okay. Soon you will find we are all crazy," Karine explained as she left to care for another patient, leaving me with two women who I proceeded to play charades with for fifteen minutes. Eventually one of them just pulled my underwear off for me because I wasn't getting her shitty charades version of taking of your undies. 

Everything went well, the drain was placed and I was ready to have my lung pumped up for me to go within two days the doctors and I expected. How wrong we all were.

After two days of charades and two more shavings, Dr. Jancovici -- one of the best thoracic doctors in France and Europe and one of the greatest people ever -- explained I had three options:

1) My lung was expanded 90%, good enough to leave the hospital as long as I came back for a check-up a week later. 

2) Have a second surgery on the lung to correct the problem fully and be in the hospital for at least another week following. 

3) Fly back home with the drain kept in, flying with a medical assistant to have the problem fixed at home with the doctors who have treated me before.

Of course my choice was to leave have the chest tube removed and leave the hospital the following morning. "Great," he said. As long as I promised to come back for my follow up appointment. We called my travel medical insurance provider to tell them the situation and the option I had chosen. 

"Alright, we'll follow up with you later on tonight," my case handler (who had been changed to the always pleasant Omar) told me. 

I called home and told Foxy and Lawrence not to worry, they really needed to stop worrying because it was all okay. Good thing they didn't fly out! Everyone was satisfied.

Little did we know Medex's medical advisor disagreed with two of the options given to me by France's highest regarded thoracic surgeon. I received a call within a few hours letting me know that Medex is glad to pay for my hospital stay but the moment I walked out of the building they would cease to cover me if anything lung-related happened again while in France. Not even the follow up appointment could be covered they said. 

Lawrence and I agreed: I was not to set foot out of Val d'Or until this was sorted out. 

My parents called Drs. Zelden and Simone in Toronto, who had previously treated me. They said I could reasonably fly back to Toronto with a medical assistant and they would treat me there. But they wanted to see my x-rays. 

Alright. I would call Medex and ask them to forward the doctors the x-rays for a third and forth opinion (in addition to that of Dr. Jancovici and Medex's mystery medical authority) because the x-ray facilities at my hospital were closed and the doctor had gone home. It was already late.

"What x-rays?" Omar and now another case handler, Gloria, wondered. They hadn't received any x-rays. Not one. 

"Alright, but your medical advisor -- can you ask them to forward the images to my doctors in Toronto?"

No, no, no. I was confused. Medex never saw x-rays. Not the case handler(s) and certainly not the medical advisor, who wanted me to have surgery in France without having spoken to me or seen my medical images before making a judgement call. But my lung was 90% expanded and it would go up the rest on its own. It had done it before, the last time I left hospital it was only 90% expanded and within a week was back to normal. I didn't want surgery. And I definitely did not want surgery where I didn't understand most of what was said to or discussed around me. 

Well we'll fly your mother out. My mother, the expert in French and thoracics, how could I forget! 

I was pushed into a corner. I could not leave the hospital. I could not fly home. I had to have surgery though I felt completely fine aside from the tube pressed inside my lung which could be removed the following morning if they let me. 

And so in Val d'Or I remained. We tried calling other doctors, whose opinions were similar to Dr. Jancovici's. We tried calling lawyers, who told me I was basically being forced to have surgery I felt uncomfortable having for a number of reasons. Nothing helped. Foxy was on the next flight out to Paris and arrived in time to see me wheeled out of recovery following my surgery. The following days were painful and frustrating -- but I would have taken that over the hair-pulling circles Medex was making my mind run in. 

At least Gloria called to check-up on me the other day. 

"Hi Ricky. I hope you're doing well. You have to e-mail us the date of your departure and the date of your follow-up visit with Dr. Jancovici. I'll e-mail you so you have our address."

"Okay, thanks. But will the x-ray I need be covered? Should I take my insurance information with or not bother?"

"I'll get back to you."

Well, Gloria e-mailed me. Lovely, friendly as usual. I e-mailed back but have yet to hear a response. I guess things got weird when we had that argument on the phone. I swear Glore -- it wasn't you. It's the system, baby. The system.

Foxy spent the four following days helping me recover in Paris and walking around with me everywhere, as per Dr. Jancovici's orders. It was a grand time. At least Medex got my mom out to see what I've been loving here. 

Thanks, Medex. I'll miss our daily pillow talk and your sweet, sympathetic and sensical nature. But, you know... we'll always have Paris.