It says everything about the current moment we’re all living through that when I suddenly found myself collapsing on the stairs a few weeks ago, one of the many thoughts I had rushing through my mind was ‘Well, at least this is something different’. A year of limbo, binge watching Netflix and home office has increased the stakes on even the smallest of life’s dramas, although thinking back to my moment on the stairs, it felt rather more significant than an argument about the washing up. What it actually felt like was an intense stabbing pain in my lower back and a complete loss of physical control, as if my whole body was declaring in unison ‘Nope!’ as my legs buckled.

Any health issue is concerning, but throughout my time living in Germany I’ve found that having a health scare in a different country is packed with a few extra anxieties. The most obvious one is language: Will I be able to explain exactly what the problem is or will I wake up six weeks from now missing some vital part of my anatomy because I didn’t use the correct noun and verb endings? Luckily, and I’m using the term as loosely as possible, the most extreme pain subsided which meant I wouldn’t be enjoying the excitement of an ambulance trip while I tried to Google translate ‘I feel like my body is staging a coup’. Instead, I would have to prepare for the imminent arrival of the Notarzt (emergency doctor). Up to that point I’d never seen a Notarzt in action, my only experience being moving out of their way when I see their blue lights flashing in my car’s rear view mirror. Now I would get to see what all the fuss was about. Soon enough, the doorbell rang and I was welcoming one into my living room. Well, welcoming perhaps isn’t the correct term as I was in the fetal position, but I assure you it was as welcoming as I could manage. 

One of the aspects of German healthcare I still find difficult to get used to, even after ten years here, is the handing over of the health insurance card. From the dentist to the hospital, the first question any potential patient will be asked is ‘Do you have your insurance card?’ which is then scanned using a device that always looks like the first iteration of a chip and pin scanner. In all my time living in the UK, I don’t think anyone ever asked to see my National Insurance card or if they did, what exactly they’d do with it. Anticipating the question before the arrival of the Notarzt, my wife placed the card within my now very much reduced reach. Instead of asking for it as we expected, the doctor began an immediate assessment. I suppose I should have been reassured that he was living up to the Not (Emergency) part of his title, but I couldn’t help wondering how terrible I must have looked for him to forgo the admin. 

I’ve never had anything other than exceptional care via the German healthcare system. It’s incredibly good, and although there are many flaws, this is not an article about them. That being said, for all the things I could praise about the healthcare professionals of Germany, bedside manner is not one of them. I’m always reassured, rarely am I comforted. I’m sure there are thousands of doctors and nurses around the country who are capable of offering both, I just haven’t met them. I was prepared for the matter of fact nature of the conversation, frankly the Notarzt could have said anything, as long as it ended with me getting some relief for the pain. My doctor guest wasn’t there to talk or pat me on the head though, he was there to do his job and figure out exactly how ruined I was.

Our conversation went like this: I told him with an unerring level of specificity exactly where the pain was and how much, my wife then told him again with better grammar and then he proceeded to double check. This check took the form of moving my legs to see how much manoeuvrability I still had, I tried to remain stoic through the not insignificant pain. Then, without any preparation or assurances, he grabbed my ankles and attempted to shake me out like a fresh piece of bed linen. My reaction was to emit a noise I’ve never heard myself make before, somewhere between a scream and every swear word I know. As I begged him to stop, he leaned in close and said the only thing anyone in my position could ever want to hear: ‘Do you want some drugs?’. It’s wasn’t exactly a compassionate bedside manner, but I didn’t feel in a position to critique him.

Before he left, he wrote out my prescription and then recommended a local doctor. This is quite normal here, although I’ve never seen it in the UK. It seems in Germany that there are various constellations of doctors who recommend each other regularly. This always makes me a little suspicious for reasons I can’t fully explain, except to say that we’ve been advised to visit homeopathic doctors more than once. Call me crazy, but that slightly dents my trust in a medical professional in the same way as them diagnosing a weak aura or being advised to sacrifice a goat to Baphomet to cure what ails me. No matter, we couldn’t get an appointment anyway, so we did what we usually do when finding an appointment with a doctor difficult, we looked for the one with the least German sounding name. If there is one thing that seems to be true of healthcare in Germany it’s that most Germans want a Dr. Müller before anyone else. I’ll allow you to draw your own conclusions from that. 

A few days later I gingerly entered the doctor’s surgery. I’ve never been one to worry about these things, but I’m certain no one enjoys the process of seeing a doctor. That being said, it was nice to get out the house and speak to someone who wasn’t my immediate family. As I sat in the waiting room, I went through the process I’m sure every non-native speaker of any language goes through in these circumstances; I spent my time translating various sentences and words to make sure I didn’t make a total arse of myself. My wife often assures my that doctors in Germany speak English, but I’ve met plenty who don’t and it’s worth preparing yourself for that eventuality. As it was, my German was enough, to a point. The doctor took one look at me and declared ‘Hexenschuss’ which directly translated simply means ‘Witch-Shot’, he said it a couple of more times during our conversation, each time in a way that suggested I should know what it meant. For the record, I didn’t. What on earth was a witch-shot? Had I fallen into the trap of seeing a homeopathic doctor? Was he going to suggest rubbing chicken entrails onto the area with the most pain? 

After receiving two rather painless injections into my spine, I was reassured that this doctor wasn’t about to start burning sage under my nose to ward off evil spirits. As we talked, I tried to lighten the mood by making a joke that in Britain ‘laughter is considered the best medicine’. He looked at me, and with the bedside manner I’ve come to expect from German doctors, he handed me my prescription and added ‘With Lumbago Mr Houghton, I would say drugs are the best form of medicine’. I really couldn’t disagree.

Image Credit

Photo by Hush Naidoo on Unsplash

Photo by Owen Beard on Unsplash

Photo by Anna Shvets from Pexels