My dear doctor
Every time I visit my doctor at the public hospital where he works, I feel ashamed. The computer on his desk is inferior to the laptop I carry with me, the air conditioning in his office is usually struggling to produce a coolish breeze and I have yet to understand how he, his associate, the attending, the intern and the nurse fit in such a small space.
They don’t, basically. They’ve just learned to make do; one sits on the armchair, the other at the desk and the third stays standing; when one comes in another leaves, etc. When it comes time for my clinical checkup, they all, except the doctor, vacate the space. It’s not about discretion, though; it’s because the exam table needs to be moved into the middle room from behind the door, where it’s kept when not in use.
My doctor is a professor of medicine, with numerous publications in authoritative international journals, respected and established in his scientific community and always up to speed with the latest developments in his field. I imagine that if he had invested his experience and knowledge in the private sector, he would be a rich man by now and wouldn’t need to be sweating in an ill-lit room to do his poorly paid job.
The clinic he is a director of is regarded as a paradigm of good medical practice because it has applied a patient-friendly model, with less red tape, quick response times, efficient communication and a personalized multidisciplinary treatment plan that is, to the extent that this is possible, compatible with each individual patient’s lifestyle and temperament. Of course, no one asked them to follow this model; they copied it from abroad on their own initiative.
I imagine that if he had invested his experience and knowledge in the private sector, he would be a rich man by now and wouldn’t need to be sweating in an ill-lit room to do his poorly paid job
Even now, the stationmaster at Tempe is paid more than a surgeon at a public hospital.
Every time I visit my doctor at the public hospital where he works, I think how lucky I am. Because other people elsewhere, on the islands for example, cannot find a doctor specialized in the field their particular ailment requires and, if they find themselves in an emergency, may not make it in time to get the treatment they need from another hospital on Crete or wherever.
It’s easy to convincingly argue that the problems with the Greek National Health System (ESY) cannot be solved: Geographic particularities, resistance from entrenched interests, fiscal limitation, a clientelist culture and the inconsistency of the state shape the conditions for its inevitable demise, if not complete collapse.
There are, however, other causes that are being kept in the dark: We don’t know what services cost and whether they are efficient because there is no evaluation; we keep hospitals open but without staff or equipment because of pressure from local MPs and other influential figures; primary healthcare is rudimentary; and even now, the stationmaster at Tempe is making a better salary than the surgeon at a public hospital.
Every time I visit my doctor at the public hospital where he works, I wonder why he hasn’t left the country and found a job abroad, but I don’t ask because I’m afraid he’ll say he’s regretted not doing so and now it’s too late.
