This is how healthcare should be

This afternoon I experienced first hand the miracle of Cuban healthcare. I had to see a doctor, and although we have this special tourist health insurance that Harvard made us purchase, and can go to a special tourist clinic in Miramar, I decided that I wanted to go check out the neighborhood Cuban clinic, mostly because I didn’t want to have to take a maquina out to Miramar.

 

This is what happened: I got to the clinic, asked around (looking a little silly and foreign) as to where I should go to get an appointment. Various people told me to sit on some chairs and wait for the doctor to come. The doctor did not come for about an hour, which was okay, because I had brought reading to do, anticipating that I would probably have to wait some time, since this was Cuba. The doctor finally came. I went into his office, we talked, he was extremely kind, clear, and patient. He explained to me various times how to use the medication, gave me a box of pills, wrote down my name, and told me to come back if there were any problems (he would be there every Wednesday afternoon).

 

I left the clinic with all my medical inquiries answered, my Lukacs reading half done, and a box of pills in my purse, all without paying a cent, filling out any forms, talking to any receptionists, checking in or out, showing any identification or health insurance cards. I literally walked in, waited, told the doctor what I needed, got it, and left. No bureaucracy, no paperwork, no policy numbers, no doors leading to doors, leading to waiting rooms for more waiting rooms, no talking to a receptionist, then a nurse practitioner, then a resident, then finally a doctor, who would send me to a specialist, who I would have to call with a referral to make an appointment in two weeks and leave my insurance number and pay a large copay for the appointment and then the medication. In America, I usually get really stressed out going to the doctor because it’s such a long torturous complicated process, with many confusing papers and number, and thus avoid hospitals as much as possible.

 

I had prepared myself today for the stress too, but it was almost too simple. I left the Cuban clinic amazed and satisfied. I had never had such a hassle-free hospital visit in my life. Furthermore, no one had thought to question, even once, my right to access these hassle-free and payment-free services, although I was clearly a foreigner. Health care was given to me because I was a human who needed it.

Suerte

“Suerte que mis pechos sean pequeños, y no los confundas con montañas” – Shakira

My first day of work was exhilarating–much smoother than I expected it to be. The coordinator of the Hospital de Niños (where I was working), Marta, was so extremely sweet and very helpful that I felt perfectly comfortable. After a general tour of the hospital, I was assigned to work in Medicina D, more specifically with a girl named Lady (like much of the rest of the world, Peruvians have taken a liking to semi-English names) who I think has some type of sclerosis–she is 15 but itsy bitsy, so thin I’m scared to accidently snap her bones when I touch her, and wheelchair bound. Her head was wrapped in bandages, and according to Marta she is just recently losing control of her hands. Also, according to Marta, she doesn’t really have a family. But despite all this she is extremely bright, remarkably intelligent for her age, upbringing, and physical condition. She’s also sassy, really something else–since she can’t really move at all she’s gotten accustomed to asking people to do things for her, and orders around the nurses and Aprendo Contigo workers like she’s their boss. People endearingly refer to her as “la jefe del hospital.” I really probably should not have been so happy after my first day of work, because I saw so many beautiful little children with pipes and tubes sticking out of their bodies, which is quite a sad thing, but I think Lady made it easy. I returned home light, starving but bouncing on the soles of my feet.

After my second day, however, I feel much heavier. Today I went to a different location, to the Hogar Clinica de San Juan de Dios, a live-in hospital that treats many children who were born with some kind of physical disability or deformity. I work two days at San Juan, three days at Hospital de Niños, and half a day at Posadita. San Juan de Dios is very different from the Hospital de Niños because there is a special space for Aprendo Contigo–the organization has a very large portion of the clinic all for itself, with three classrooms, where the children come to have class from their hospital beds. The Hospital de Niños is much larger, and cannot have a classroom setting for that reason and also because the children have a multitude of different problems, not just physical disability, some of which are infectious. Maybe San Juan de Dios seemed sadder because it was darker, or maybe the classroom setting made the state of unhealth feel more permanent. After all, the hospital is literally a home–some of the kids have grown up in this hospital, some of them learned everything they know with Aprendo Contigo in the makeshift hospital school. The oldest boy, in particular, makes me feel very heavy. He is 16, a little shy but strong, he doesn’t use a wheelchair like many of the others but prefers crutches–he has lived for 4 years in San Juan de Dios, one of his legs is about a foot shorter than the other and basically useless (I think he has a Cuban sort of splint in it right now to make it grow)–and to top it off, he is currently only at a 5th grade level, or worse, because he cannot multiply. It really seems like nothing he has been given in life has gone right, or will go right. Even if he miraculously got two working legs, what chances does he have in a country like Peru with barely an elementary level education? Will he be like that ex-student who visited the other day who is now living on the streets, most likely stealing to get by? Seeing all this in such a tangible way really makes me feel kind of bratty for being born with a working body, for having parents that care for me, for my education, for having the luxury to aspire and daring to dream.

Heavy. Yesterday I was naive enough to forget that every adorable smiling little face has a very sad story behind it, and most likely is facing an even sadder story in its future.