The other night David woke up at 2 am with back pain.
When morning came he toughed it out and went to work, but left early.
When I came home from work I found him on the couch, feeling fully miserable.
"I think I might need to see a doctor" he said unhappily.
When David concedes to see a doctor, you know it has to be bad.
What was even more surprising came an hour later.
"I might need to go to the hospital."
Just short of panic, I remembered that when my friend Julien had an immobilizing back pain, he had called the night doctor. If you've ever seen the Michael Moore film "Sicko", there is an entire section about French medical care, featuring the doctors who make house calls at night.
So I got on the computer and looked up the town website to find the number for the emergency doctors. I called a receptionist, who briskly took down our address, door codes, and David's symptoms and age before informing me that the doctor would come by within an hour and a half.
Forty-five minutes later - about 9:30 or so - I opened the apartment door to a ruffled, middle-aged man not much taller than me. His hair was standing in every direction, and one of his gray eyes wandered off to the side. Forgive me for judging a book by its cover, but if I'd seen him walking down the street I would have taken him for one of the town drunks.
He addressed me warmly, though, and made his way to the couch where the patient had risen to his feet to shake his hand. He immediately dragged David to better light and lifted up his shirt. Not sure what to do with myself, I sat in an armchair and watched.
Only a moment later, the doctor poked his head around David's side.
"Hey, what's this?" David had four red marks on his back.
David smiled sheepishly. "I went go-karting last weekend."
The doctor rolled his one good eye and said, "Well there's your problem."
He poked and prodded him a few more times for good measure before declaring that David had a separated rib.
"Nothing serious, but hurts a lot!"
He wrote a prescription for painkillers, handed David a few morphine to get him through the night, and recommended a local osteopath if the problem persisted.
Then he sat at our kitchen table to settle the payment. After a swipe of David's French medical card, we were charged 68€ for the service. Considering we'd been talking about a night in the emergency room, we were more than happy with the price.
The doctor even carried a credit card machine. He processed my card, packed up his bag, then sat back and asked us where we were from.
It must have been a slow night, because we spent the next half hour chatting amicably. American politics, movies, computers, even Ikea. I was starting to think I should offer him a drink.
Finally he took his leave, and with a friendly wave let himself out.
"And that," David declared, "is the best thing about France."
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