Fun with the Hungarian Healthcare System

Often, while traveling away from home, I seem to get healthier, probably because I am away from the many Port Neches chemical plants and whatever crazy toxins they released directly into my lungs on a daily basis. Still, it was no surprise when I developed my trademark cough in my first week of school here in Hungary.


The fun began last Wednesday, September 6, with my first trip to a Hungarian doctor's office next to my school. I was accompanied by Moni, my contact teacher and translator, and received the standard allergy, antibiotic, and cough medicine prescriptions. Simple enough.


Well. On Friday morning, my ears were red and itching, and my eyes were a bit swollen. But it didnt seem serious, so I ignored it and went to work at 8:00. By about 10:30, while my eyes and ears were better, the malady had moved to my right knee. In a matter of minutes, it was at least ten degrees hotter than the other knee, bright red, and swelling rapidly. Equally charming was the fact that my wrists and legs were breaking out in hives, a horrifying first for me. By this time, another teacher told me I had better leave school and return to the doctor.


This was obviously a good idea, so I went, this time accompanied by my Hungarian friend Gabi to translate. The doctor decided quickly that this was probably an allergic reaction to the penicillin I had been taking since Wednesday. She sent me to a dermatologist, where I got an injection and more pills, limped home, and by that evening I was fine.


Saturday afternoon, I met up with Ray, a fellow American teacher from my program, to eat lunch and visit a couple of museums. When I left my apartment, my right foot was hurting a tiny bit, but I decided I would--again--just ignore it, despite the lesson I should have learned only 24 hours prior.


After seeing the House of Terror museum (the actual former headquarters and torture chambers of the Hungarian Nazi Party) and the top of St. Stephen's Basilica (the largest church in Budapest, the dome of which is 96 meters high and provides a fantastic view of the city), my cough was returning, so we decided to stop in a coffee shop for some water. We sat there for maybe twenty minutes before I realized that my foot was really starting to hurt. I went to the restroom to take off my shoe, and could see it was starting to swell slightly. Undeterred, I decided it would go away, and was perhaps just stiffening since I had stopped walking.


We continued down toward the Danube River, looking for something else to do, but it wasn't long before the pain became too much to ignore. I finally became concerned that this might actually warrant medical attention, so we began looking for an emergency room (there were a few nearby--or so said our map). When we couldn't find one, and it was quickly worsening, we called Hajni, the teaching program's Hungarian director and our self-proclaimed "Hungarian mother." She instructed us to take a cab to the Four Seasons hotel, where plenty of people would speak English and she could send an ambulance.


If you knew me about six years ago, you might remember my one and only other experience with an ambulance, which ensued after I had the flu and subsequently passed out in an Eckerd's drugstore only one block from the hospital, causing me to need stitches in my face. I was not amused then, and was not much happier about this prospect, either, but seeing that I was in a foreign country with only a mediocre phrasebook in my purse, I decided it might be best to listen to Hajni.


The Gresham Four Seasons is by far the nicest hotel in Budapest, and I was disappointed not only that I was too poor to stay the night or have dinner there, but also could not poke around and get a look at the place, as I was physically unable to leave the bench where Ray had left me while going to tell the doorman about the ambulance.


On my explicit instructions that no matter how bad it hurt, I would not ride out of the hotel on a stretcher as to avoid a humiliating repeat of my Eckerd's drugstore debacle, Ray returned shortly thereafter with three EMS workers in tow. The driver was a huge man who took an instant dislike to me, perhaps because I was trying to explain the situation on my cell phone to my Dad when he walked up. With him were another man and an English-speaking woman (meaning that she nodded and said "ok" a lot) who rode in back with us once I hobbled out to the ambulance.


Hajni would later tell me that she had to embellish the details of what was wrong with me to get them to agree to come after me, since the EMS trio (yes, just a trio--not nearly good enough to be called a Tripod) decided I had just probably twisted my ankle.


We got into the ambulance and sat there while the other man talked on a cell phone for a while, apparently trying to find a hospital where they could bring me. I thought how happy I was that it was my foot--not, say, my throat--swelling. Strangely, at this point, I was still actually laughing at the absurdity of the situation.


Upon arriving at the hospital, they continued to show how concerned they were about me by not offering a wheelchair and leaving my poor new friend Ray to help me inside, as I could not walk alone at that point. So thanks to him, I made it to the elevator instead of spending the night in the hospital doorway, where the driver might have liked me to be. Once upstairs, I dropped into a chair, called my Dad, and finally started to cry. I could barely stand to let my foot touch the floor.


We were pointed into the first room on the right--again, no wheelchair, thank you--where I met a nice Hungarian woman who spoke perfect English and would be my roommate. Hajni arrived soon, just in time to explain to me that they wanted to perform an EKG and blood tests, and that this was the best hospital in Budapest. She then had to make a quick drive to my apartment, since I couldnt remember the names of all my many medications.

The EKG began with the nurses placing metal clamps around my wrists and ankles and holding confused debates about which wires went where. My favorite nurse placed the metal clamp directly over my swollen, throbbing ankle bone, prompting yelling from me until it was removed. Ray commented afterward that it looked like something we saw at the Torture Museum that day.


This was followed by them taking a blood sample, inserting an IV into my arm through which I received regular steroid injections, and a visit from a few different doctors. This would set the precedent for my entire hospital stay, in which I would meet more doctors than I could name, each with a unique, often penicillin-unrelated theory about why the American girl in room 122 was becoming randomly crippled in different joints.

Fortunately, after this initial horrifying night, things smoothed over at the hospital. There were still unexpected surprises--for one thing, Hajni had to bring me a plate, silverware, towels, and toilet paper from my apartment, as none of these things are provided in this fine facility--but overall, I became at least reasonably confident in the care I was receiving and developed a bit more faith in the people assigned to look after me. Hajni, Ray, Moni, Gabi, and fellow CETP teachers Harpswell, Kara, Sarah, and Matt came to visit, bringing candy bars, cookies, edible dinners (not the canned "liver cream" and bread I was served one night), books, my computer and DVDs, and plenty else to keep me busy.


Amusingly (if not slightly disturbing), no one even noticed when Ray came back to visit and I disappeared for nearly two hours to catch a decent meal at a restaurant several blocks away on Sunday night, wearing a jacket to hide the IV jutting out of my arm. In America, a patient might get away with such a stunt on Grey's Anatomy, but I think that at St. Mary's in Port Arthur, one would likely be caught, whipped, and sent to bed hungry.

Also, and I don't know quite what to make of this, but in Hungary, they subscribe to the "completely undressed patient" method of examination. We were warned of this in our teacher orientation, but only upon arriving in this hospital did I realize they weren't kidding. They will basically make you strip until you tell them, nope, sorry--that's not coming off, a law I decided to lay down my first night here. At present, there is an elderly woman with no top on (and who knows what else is missing?!) in the adjacent bed. Guess she wasnt feeling very assertive, poor thing.
So...today (Monday), I was introduced to Professor Emeritus Dr. Szemere Pal, a kind, elderly, apparent hot-shot immunologist who they thought might be able to shed some light on whatever in the world is wrong with me. He showed me pictures of his entire family and told me all about the time he visited Victoria, Texas. He doesn't think it is penicillin alone, either, but says they will find out soon when the blood tests come back.


After all of this, I am still not sorry I came to Hungary. In fact, I am still completely certain that it was the right decision, and I know that this could have happened in the United States. I hope that soon I can tell you what is wrong with me, but I wrote this only to make light of our cultural differences--not to make anyone worry, so don't. I've been fine since Saturday night, and I am sure it will stay that way. If not, well...I am getting lots of time to lie around, doting attention, and gifts, and we all know how much I like that.

*UPDATE-- It is now Tuesday afternoon and I have been discharged from the hospital, though I must return Monday to discuss the results of my bloodwork. A noteworthy finishing touch: the bill for my three-night hospital stay came to 80,700 Hungarian forints--roughly $400 US, and they even said I can come back Thursday to pay it. As my mother put it, maybe there is something to be said for having to bring your own toilet paper and silverware to the hospital.