Off hours: Our vaunted health care system

Editor’s Note: This column is the first of a two-part series.
I had a little dustup with a car a few weeks ago that put me in the hospital for the first time since I was 8 or 9 years old. Man, was that an eye-opener.
I’d ridden my bike into town for a few groceries and was on my way back when a gal set out to make a U-turn across the double yellow line halfway through a tight S-turn on Highway 9. Thing is, I was in the way. I’m sure she looked back before pulling across the road, but once she’d started, she never even glanced again. Her left front bumper pretty much T-boned me.
Although my right leg was in serious pain, with the help of a stand-up young local cat named Brandon and his pal Erik, I bluffed my way out of the ambulance ride and got my beat-up body and battered bike home. The next morning, though, I was at Dominican Hospital looking for help. An orthopedic surgeon saw me, and after a round of X-rays and a few hours’ wait, determined my hip was dislocated.
From all outward appearances, the doctor hates the job, exhibiting all the personality of a dinner plate and a raging holier-than-thou attitude that even other hospital staffers seemed to find a bit offensive. Nevertheless, once Doc went to work, I went to sleep, and when I awoke, the pain was gone and the nurse said all was well. It turns out my leg probably should have been restrained, though, because the first thing I did was move it, and — Bob’s your uncle — the hip immediately dislocated again. When I woke up the second time, my leg was in a brace.
Only then, just before being released, was I sent for a CT scan of the hip. Yeah, you know the rest: Although I had specifically asked about the possibility and had been reassured it was not the case, the scan found that there were some fractures. A couple of important pieces in the joint were broken off, and the reset hip would not be stable until surgical repairs were made. Apparently, no one at Dominican could do the operation, though. I needed to be transferred to Stanford ASAP.
Once again, I argued out of an ambulance ride, left the hospital on crutches, and arranged my own ride to Palo Alto the next morning.
Now, thus far, my experience had not been altogether unpleasant. The eight hours in Dominican seemed far longer than necessary, and communication with the doctor was nonexistent for the most part, but the nursing staff was cordial, attentive and competent. It probably should not have taken two full procedures, but the resetting of my hip appeared to have been effective.
Nevertheless, it was already very evident to me that the private for-profit health care system that the medical, drug and Republican lobbies work so hard to protect is not all it’s cracked up to be. At Stanford University Medical Center, that perspective was confirmed in spades.
The most often heard platitude in opposition to a national health care system is how it will force patients to be treated by doctors they don’t know. Well, let me assure you, unless your beef is a cold or a sprained ankle, your regular doctor will not be the one treating you under any system. For any serious injury or illness, you’ll be referred to a specialist you’ve never seen before and will never see again.
Oh, and that harangue about the dreaded “government bureaucracy” — believe me, there could be no greater, more cumbersome bureaucracy than the one already existent. Next week, I’ll share my perspective on a weeklong incarceration at Stanford.
When he isn’t injured, Steve Bailey of Boulder Creek spends plenty of time in recreational activities. Contact him at sb*****@cr****.com.