Without getting into personal details, a great deal of our time was spent in a hospital (visiting) which afforded me an "opportunity" to see firsthand a bit of something about which a lot of Americans have both strong opinions and no firsthand knowledge: namely, the Canadian health care system. I don't claim that my limited perspective makes me an expert, but it is worth pointing out that the system does not appear to be as abjectly horrible as some make it out to be.
Neither does it inspire (in me) anything resembling a desire to see it emulated here. The staff I observed were, as a group, very diligent and caring. They were also understaffed and probably a bit overworked. Communication among various units was abysmal. Without family or friends following up on things and advocating for you, you run the risk of things sliding a bit longer than they should, on pretty basic stuff (like changes to medication, changes to diet, etc.)
Bottom line: given the choice, I'd rather get sick in the States. Higher out of pocket costs don't bother me much; one, because the tax rates up north are higher, so you're paying anyway, and two, because frankly I can afford it. If I were closer to the poverty line than I am (and make no mistake--I am not rolling in money here), maybe it would appeal to me more, but I since most of the agitators for SocMed I've encountered are also the type that buy $3 coffee and shop at Whole Foods, I think they should be careful what they wish for...
Which reminds me...I did read a handful of good books. One of which was Hell's Half Acre, by Will Christopher Baer. I've been meaning to write about Baer for a while now: A sample:
The guy is sputtering and I catch him by the lapels, as if to help him up. The mocha is dripping down the front of his pants in little chocolate rivulets and the guy moans in despair. No one pays us any attention and I glance up the street to see that John Ransom Miller is disappearing around the corner. I apologize loudly and use my right hand to smear the whipped cream around on my guy's chest and slip my left hand into his breast pocket, palming his wallet.
My favorite shirt, the guy says. My favorite shirt is ruined.
It's not ruined, I say. Take it to your dry cleaner and it's good as new.
I can't, he says. I'm a communist.
What?
I don't believe in dry cleaners. They are servants of the ruling class.
How about that. I just mugged a communist and I will eat my hat if his wallet is not empty. The last time I looked at a newspaper, the Russian government was running vodka into Canada and selling used office furniture for pennies. The guy has probably got moths in his pockets. I give his collar a brutal tug and he flails weakly at me. He is so mournful that I'm tempted to slap him around but I don't have time for such indulgences.
You motherfucker. What kind of communist drinks a mocha with whipped cream?
The guy moans. I can't help it, he says. I'm a victim of advertising. I walk past a Starbucks and I become a robot. Their mochas are divine.
The gods are laughing at me. I can hear them up there.
You're a class traitor, I say.
The communist goes limp in my arms and I drop him like a sack of compost. He immediately curls up on the sidewalk and I imagine he will lie there until the stormtroopers come for him.
Good stuff. Savage prose. Modern noir at its finest. He gets compared to Chuck Palahniuk, but in truth, I think Baer has a better voice. Check him out (if you like your stories drenched in blood and postmodern pop culture references, that is).
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