So here’s the update on the Knee situation:

1. Went to NHS (Ya’ll know).
2. Got X-rayed at Hospital that very day (again, nothing new).
3. Waited 14 days before hearing my results, during which time I graciously did not call between days 8 and 12 after hearing that Ms. London’s chest X-rays were perfectly normal. The result was that the report didn’t say much and my bones appear to not have any deformities. I immediately booked his next appointment as thanks, I actually was aware that my shin bone was not sticking out of my knee. Wait Time: One week.
4. Thursday Rolls Around: I plead a blonde moment and did not in fact write down the appointment time and just sort of showed up when I thought the woman had said. I was a couple of hours early but as I only live twelve minutes walking distance, I used it as an excuse to take a morning stroll, get the paper and stretch my legs. Returned at actual appointment time to find out that they were suddenly backed up. I was actually rebuked by the same nurse who had shunned me earlier for not answering my phone when they called to tell me to return immediately (Actually, had it turned off for class). After venting her frustrations as a second-class citizen (ouch, that was harsh but she was a real bitch and totally defers to the good doctor even when he is an ass) I said I had no problem waiting and settled down with my schoolwork. That’s the beauty of being a student. Endless amounts of enforced inactivity with no one to talk to provide useful study periods.
5. An hour after that and right at the clinic’s “lunch hour” (which is 4 hours long) I finally saw Dr. Ali. Now this man saw me once, spoke with me three times on the phone and-again this might sound a bit harsh-I’m one of two women not wearing headscarves and holding babies and am damn sure I’m about the only American. My point is that in some way I should stand out in his memory. Oh no, I was his ‘new patient’ who had been running late. Okayyyy, I’ll let that slide. When he asks me the problem I explain it’s a follow-up on my knee. He immediately begins write an Rx for an X-ray. I explain the “been there, done that’ phenomenon and he pulls up my chart for my left knee (it’s the right, but I guess he could be confused). After confirming the report, again, he just sort of sits there. I sit there. We stare. I bounce the ball back into his court by explains all of the symptoms, what MIGHT be causing it, where it hurts, show him. He nods, then takes a mobile phone call about the Mercedes he test drove yesterday and how interested he might be in buying the car for his wife. OKAY, WTF? I can feel a Southern-fried temper starting to build as his nurse breezes in, stands listening and throws some paperwork. After five more minutes, he looks back and says, ‘Ok, so your left knee? It still hurts? What happened?”
6. It is here that I discover a magic that females can employ at will, although this was a spontaneous reaction. Tears. Maybe it was the constant throbbing, lack of sleep, reaction to inflammatory meds (longer story), and the fact that I was slowly resembling a pudgy creature from The Night of the Living Dead but here was a DOCTOR who is wearing a $700 suit and tie and will barely poke and prod a non-female specific, non-sexual body part. Tears are magical. Suddenly he thought I should see a specialist who might be able to order an MRI (I actually told him that I thought it might be an interior MCL tear requiring an MRI to diagnose or arthroscopy to treat; he agreed). He then asked me if it was still hurting. Temper reared its ugly head. Maybe when I get pissed it comes out in liquid form with the ability to burn through sheet metal. Supremely frustrated but unwilling to use such an obvious ploy of crying I settled for the “Bravely Battle Back the Waterworks with a Quivery Smile and Sniffle.” Again, involuntary but it works every time. He wrote up orders for the nurse to send a letter to the hospital so it could go to the doctor and I could get an appointment. He then asked if he should mark it “Urgent” or if I was feeling better. I kid you not. I couldn’t make this up. I’m actually getting pretty steamed writing about it two weeks later! I managed a strangled ‘Yes’ and refused controlled substances for pain and hobbled along my merry way.
7. While waiting, and because “Dr.” Ali (I’m starting to doubt his qualifications a bit) was so concerned that I hadn’t done blood work for the NHS (I just had it done in July for the tonsillectomy and I’m pretty damn healthy) I toddled off to the hospital for their blood clinic. At least it’s a nice place and within walking distance. Nothing like the county hospitals of ER that I feared; more like Seattle Grace. For blood stuff you have to fast 12 hours beforehand. I was, of course, running behind schedule and didn’t even get there until 12 (water bottle exploded in my school bag prompting a race back to the flat for a hairdryer). The sign read 55-65 minute wait. I had pretty much figured and brought my school books again (I was getting a lot done this week) but after 45 minutes I found out that the wait time was more like 3 hours. Not great but what else did I have to do? I did start getting a bit hungry every time the snack trolley was rolled through the clinic doors. *This should make my odd Brit List but it’s just a Europe thing. Little men push around hand carts filled with various goodies and drinks including coffee and tea (usually liquor but none here) for purchase. By Hour 3 I was considering tackling Mr. Trolley and making a break for freedom. But I got a lot done. As I COULD drink water I downed a few liters and was just starting to squirm a bit when my number, 17, was called (told you they love their queues). It helped that seriously pissed people had stormed out and lost their place in line ahead of me. Blood letting is never fun but usually just closing one’s eyes and thinking of England helps. My phlebotomist was nice, if a bit too interested-I’ve never been hit on while being deprived of blood; it’s weird and makes you wonder why someone hits on patients while causing them pain…(ewwwww). Seven tubes later (what in the hell did Dr. Ali order? I’m gimpy, not dying!) I booked it for the nearest PowerBar.
8. I received a letter inviting me to call for an appointment with a specialist. Having just read an article on the Labour party’s freeze on non-emergency surgical procedures for three years, I panicked and have started making phone calls back to the US on the difficulty of being treated overseas or in DC (I have to go for a wedding). But my letter arrived and gave me a nifty password I must always use in booking appointments. You ready? It’s “Fang Panel”. I laugh every time I see it. How random!
9. Called the Hospital for an appointment. The next available one is July 6, 2007. Glad to know “Urgent” has such meaning to socialized medicine. I’ve been promised an earlier time due to Urgent status and am to date waiting on a call back. JULY??? Definitely heading to the US in this case.

So that’s the saga of living in a country with socialized medicine. I’ve always sort of thought it was in theory a nice idea and hey, I’ve seen a doc twice, had an X-ray and gotten four prescriptions (okay, one I was oddly reactive towards but we didn’t know that!) without paying a dime except for the scripts. I’ve come to believe that if you have LOADS of spare time, a wealth of patience, and a whopping dose of ability to self-diagnose and self-heal then you’re fine. I guess it’s good I won’t be using their pregnancy services ever over here. “Oh Mrs. So and So! We can get your in for that first pre-natal visit in 7 months or so! Until then just rest and enjoy!” I don’t think people with an expiration date should use public healthcare. Go private.

For now I’m totally milking this as an excuse to power walk instead of run and go to the gym three times a week instead of four or five. Blah blah blah, I still walk every freaking where in the city and hike up and down the stair wells, dodging away through throngs of confused people….