When it comes to accidents, I’m like a magnet. Luckily, I haven’t died so far, but these mishaps usually seem bad enough to land me in emergency rooms. At a Halloween party, during the long weekend, I jumped so high, I hit my head against a mezzanine. And then, due to a continuous headache and a weird concave bump, I decided that going to the hospital for a check-up would be a wise thing to do.
Since I’m not yet that familiar with the healthcare system, I started asking friends for advice. All of them, with no exceptions, suggested that I should make an appointment because this is how it works in France. Of course, it would mean that first, I need to make an appointment with a GP, who would let me schedule another appointment for an eventual check-up. Given that head injuries aren’t a joke, I could picture myself dying suddenly in the shower, waiting for all these appointments, so I had the irresistible urge to know if I would make it or should write my last will instead.
My friends, still wanting to discourage me, started warning me to prepare myself for a fight, telling me penis injuries would be more important than a (probably) broken skull. Sounds like this could happen only in France, but no fractured penis could stop me from going there. Therefore I was ready for queues of men grabbing their crotches desperately and screaming in pain. I thought it’d be amusing to see such a hilarious scene. Unfortunately, apparently the night I was there, all genitals were safe and sound.
Anyway, it was very likely my head injury wouldn’t be deemed a priority for other reasons. In case my poor skull wouldn’t be enough, I decided to look as miserable as possible. I went fully couch potato (or clochardcore to make it more French). The lazy style I developed during the pandemic when dressing up only for grocery shopping was pointless. However, I was aware that I’d probably have to wait long hours. Hence, I packed my bag as if I were taking a flight to New York. Just in case.
I went to Hôtel Dieu Hospital since it was the closest one. It’s the oldest hospital in Paris, built back in 651. I had absolutely no clue it was a hospital, even though I often passed in front of it. Seems that one can learn something from an accident aside from being more careful with the head. Obviously, I’m amazed that such a simple thing as going to a hospital can feel like tourism here. Yes, after four years, I still get stunned by this fact.
I arrived in the late evening, ready for everything and nothing, prepared to beg the staff to save my life. To my surprise, everything was calm. There was nobody in the waiting room, except for a British girl who felt sick. It didn’t take long to receive forms to fill out. The receptionists had them prepared in various foreign languages and spoke English well. Everything went fast. In no time, I had a hospital tag wrapped around my wrist. I didn’t even have a chance to unpack my survival supplies as I was called for a general check-up almost right away. Then I was taken to a room where I had to wait for a doctor. That actually took a while. Some drama unfolded in a neighboring room. A drunk man, brought to the hospital by the police, kept insulting a staff member who yelled back at him, requesting respect. That fiery telenovela kept me entertained for a moment when I was waiting for my exam.
The doctor was very kind and patient. As my second name is panic, I asked her more questions than Congress during a hearing. She explained everything I needed to know. It turned out that it was mild head trauma. However, even though not harmful, such injuries can remain problematic for weeks. She prescribed me something for vertigo and headaches. Of course, Doliprane for the latter. Whenever you feel bad, the first offer will always be Doliprane. French people believe that it can cure almost everything, and you can find it in every home. Believe me or not, despite never buying it myself, Doliprane still somehow made its way to my drug drawer. This whole situation made me realize that I don’t know the French word for painkillers because nobody uses anything but Doliprane. I also got another prescription for an additional exam if the symptoms didn’t go away. With head injuries, even mild ones, there is no such thing as 100% sure.
The whole visit lasted not more than an hour and (maybe) a half, but it was worth the relief I had afterward. I didn’t have regrets for not listening to my friends who advised me to get an appointment. It’s always better to get a professional medical opinion than ask Dr. Google. What’s the moral of the story? Although the French health care system is, in general, a wacky maze, don’t be scared of emergency rooms. If you feel that your health might be in danger, don’t hesitate to go. And most of all, don’t listen to stories about broken penises.
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