A minor leg injury forced me to find a public hospital during my vacation in Milos, Greece this past week. I eventually found the community clinic of the island, located on the outskirts of Milos’ capital city, Plaka. So, with my passport in hand, I rolled my car into the driveway of a whitewashed building that my phone claimed to be a hospital (though there was no sign visible on the outside to confirm as much), and I hesitantly parked and limped down the driveway with some trepidation.
Immediately, I thought I had entered a construction zone. There were orange cones lining the outskirts of the building, plus dusty scaffolding to give me further pause, but I pressed on and spotted some sliding glass doors that appeared to be the entrance. After poking my head in, I noticed a countertop that, to my eye, looked to be a check-in desk. Thankfully, I was correct, and the greeter spoke English to me.
I explained my condition and was instructed to take a seat “over there.” Naturally, the exact location of “there” wasn’t specified, so I had to choose between two sets of bench seats. Classic Greece; but once again, I guessed correctly.
At that point, I truly had no idea what was supposed to come next. I hadn’t been asked for any identification, nor did I ever fill out any forms. No paper or Docusign hoops to jump through; no “consent to treat” or billing permissions to deal with. They didn’t even ask for my name!
Only five minutes passed before I was called back into their makeshift triage room. I figured out pretty soon after that their triage and treatment rooms were combined into one. Again, I have to stress this point – without even knowing my name, they began to operate on my foot!
All three employees of the hospital took turns wielding surgical tools, and after a bit of pain, my foot was swiftly put in a makeshift cast. My head was spinning; in under 15 minutes, I received a small operation that may have taken several hours in my home country of America.
Here, for the first time, relevant questions were asked about my medical history. Did I have any allergies to medications? Which, if any, medications was I currently taking? And so on, and so forth.
Then I was issued an apology. It went a little something like this: “Now, we have a small problem. You will need to go over to the other street there and receive one medication [my antibiotics] for your continued treatment.”
Since it was (correctly) assumed that I’m not a Greek citizen, this was the protocol. Otherwise, as I later surmised, they could have given me the medication free of charge at the hospital clinic.
Lastly, as I was being released, they asked to view my passport, and the number was jotted down on a clipboard. A prescription was then handed to me with a slight nod. This confused me, so I asked if my visit had concluded. A smile and another nod.
… so I cautiously slipped on my flip flops and asked where I ought to pay. “Healthcare is free in Greece,” said the nurse with a small laugh. “You don’t pay anything.”
Apparently, this was the entire discharge process! The only paper I walked away with was the prescription.
I’m presently back in the waiting room, a return check-up I was instructed to schedule, as I write this article. It’s busy. Patients are lined up, seated “over there.” A burn to my right; an open wound to my left. It’s clear they have the capacity to treat whatever comes through those sliding doors.
Albeit being treated for a relatively benign issue, my experience has been eye-opening to say the least. I have complete confidence in the follow up care I’m about to receive, and a newfound appreciation for the system of federally run healthcare.
And, of course, another reason to love Greece. Not that I needed one.
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