I woke up the next morning to the blare of a terrible cartoon. I’d fallen asleep on the couch, clutching my thumb, trying to stem the flow of blood that was bent on experiencing the world outside. Rising(-ish), I wobbled off to the bright lights of the bathroom. What greeted me in the mirror was a beyond a sorry sight. Nevermind that I was still dressed in the same stained, crumpled clothing from the night before, or that my sticky-uppy hair had somehow gotten involved in the whole gruesome ordeal (what holds a style better than pomade? Plasma, apparently…) - the paper towel and dried blood had metastasized into one large, hard, crusted-on cast. A large, hard, crusted-on cast that was now refusing to separate from its organic, living host.
“Why didn’t I take you to the hospital?” I cooed to my papier-mâché monstrosity. “Why didn’t I just hop in a cab and…oh yeah. My health card.”
Funny how things hit you in the light of day…er, bathroom. See, my reluctance to slide on over to the Royal Vic or Montreal General or even “The Jewish” (as they call it here) was due in part to the fact that I do not possess a valid health card for the province of Quebec. Now, why don’t I possess said important piece of identification/insurance? Well, for several reasons, which I will proceed to list here:
1) I am one lazy SOB: Yes, I have been in this province for several years. And yes, I have required medical, and even emergency attention while living here. And because I am still considered an Ontarioian (I really don’t know what we’re called…), it has always cost me dearly for that attention. But has this prompted me to go and get my “Carte de l’assurance maladie”? No. No it has not. Because getting said card may take two, maybe three hours out of my day. Two (or three) hours that I could better spend looking at things like this: http://babieswithlasereyes.com/. So screw that.
2) I am also one obstinate, self-righteous SOB: Here’s the deal: I live in Canada, where there is supposed to be free, universal (re: socialized) healthcare coverage. Our southerly neighbours remind us of that constantly. And yes, for the most part, the system works. FOR THE MOST PART. However, should you be from one province, and require medical care in another, you may just have to pay for it. Sorta. But only sometimes. And if the proper forms are sent from one province to another, proving that you’ve paid for your care, you may just get all of your money back. Though there are times when you will only get some of it. And there are other times when you’ll receive none at all. Confusing? Yessir. Not fair? You betcha. Here’s a couple of illustrative examples, taken from my own uncoordinated, sickly existence:
A) “Golly gee, those Maritime folk are swell!”: I was on a shoot that took me across parts of Eastern Canada. After being forced to stand outside in the blustery, seaside cold of Halifax Harbour for over two hours (without heavy-duty, winter attire or warm boots - we were only supposed to film inside that day), I managed to come down with not one, but two earaches. After a couple of 16-hour workdays, and very little sleep, I was in so much bloody pain, I’se justs couldn’t stands its no more. So, that night, I implored a production assistant to drive me to a clinic. Any clinic. Which he did. A-N-Y clinic.
I became a bit confused by all the twists and turns we had taken (and the big, dark parking lot we eventually found ourselves in.) “Oh, we’re just on the edge of town,” assured the PA, “but don’t worry-the taxis come out here pretty often. They’ll take you back when the doctors are done fixin’ yuh.”
Upon waving the young PA a feeble adieu, I shambled inside the looming Sobey’s Superstore, passed the produce (”Oooo-apples for 79 cents a pound!”), and went straight through the clinic’s door.
“WHAT’S WRONG WIT’ YA?” barked the receptionist, who wasn’t exactly thrilled to see a new patient at 9:15PM, when a posted sign clearly read, “WE CLOSE AT 9:30PM SHARP!!!” “Uuuuumm, my…BWAAAAHHH!” I bawled, unable to maintain my stiff-upper-lipped façade any longer.
“Oh, c’mon now. Stop yer cryin’. Here-just give me yer health card…”
“Sniff…sniff…OK. But I’m from Ontario. It’s an OHIP card.”
“Oh yeah. That’s fine.”
“So…sniff…sniff…HONK! How much will this visit cost?”
“Cost? What cost? Yer Canadian, aren’t yuh? Why would it cost?”
Exactly.
B) “Just relax, dude, uh, darling…”: It’s a long story, but for the purposes of this interlude, all you really need to know is that I twisted my ankle during a little sojourn in Vancouver. While doing the frug. With a drag queen named Coco. Who was not dressed in drag at the time. But who still insisted on being called Coco. OK, all right - enough. Leave it to be said that I needed to go to the hospital, where I was told by the admin staff that, yes, I would have to pay fees for my visit. So I paid around a hundred and twenty upfront, with the understanding that I might have to dole out more, depending on the severity of the injury (and the resulting treatment.) Three hours, four x-rays, and many tissues soaked through later, it turned out that I had a bad sprain. Nothing that a few weeks on crutches and some Advil wouldn’t fix. I hobbled out the sliding glass doors of St. Paul’s with the vague promise of a re-imbursement of indefinite amount, mailed to me after an indeterminate period of time.
Do you think I ever received said re-imbursement cheque?
Nope.
Am I bitter?
C’mon - that’s like asking if Coco ever wore sequins.
3) If they call it “universal coverage”, then I should be able to go across the Great Canadian Universe, and be covered: Now, I’m not some big city lawyer. I don’t understand the ins and outs of federal versus provincial healthcare jurisprudence (hell, I’m not even quite sure what “jurisprudence” means). I don’t actually know where my token sixty, eighty or two-hundred dollar “you-don’t-come-from-’round-these-parts” clinic/hospital visitation fees go to (the receptionist’s donut fund? Those atrocious posters for hepatitis vaccines? It couldn’t possibly pay for the doctor’s time - if I have learned anything from watching Michael Moore “documentaries”, it is that my actual, unsubsidized layout for care would be in the high hundreds, if not thousands). All’s I know is that as a Canadian, I pay into a progressive national healthcare plan in some way (through my taxes? Through my wages? Through the ether?), and I want (nay, demand…no, OK-want) to be covered. I should not have to shell out a dime for basic assistance. No matter what province or territory I live in, travel to, or break something in. No matter if I flash an OHIP card, a MIP card, or a Don Cherry Fan Club card. I’m a democratic-socialist, Goddamn it! Give me my cradle to grave (and Salt Spring to Cape Breton) coverage!
4) And yeah. Taxes: Now, this isn’t my reason, but it could be. If I understood provincial tax law better. See, I have a friend from out west. Let’s call her…. “Westie.” Westie, like myself, lives in Montreal but refuses to get her Quebec health card. She does so because she claims that at the end of the year, her taxes would be much, much higher as a “citizen of Quebec” (which you have to become, if you want to be covered health insurance-wise by the province). Westie claims that even with the odd clinic fee she has to endure, she is saving a butt load of money by continuing to maintain her Albertan status. She also gets keep her Alberta driver’s license with the “cute make-up/good-hair-day/coy-smile” picture that she loves so much. And how often does a nice driver’s license photo come along in a person’s life? Not very often, let me tell you.
Now, with all these (somewhat valid, probably not so much) reasons in mind, you must begin to understand my reluctance to get treatment for my thumb (and impending death-by-lockjaw). However, not wanting to curtail my existence (in this, or any other province) just yet, I decided, “bah! The hell with money!”, I was going to get in line at the clinic.
(*Throw caution to the wind, and read on! Part Three of this exciting tale is just a click away…)
