Oh, the dramas that unfold in a public healthcare provider's office - the frustrations, the anger bubbling to the surface - like some great sociology project. Waiting, endless waiting. Our time here has no value. We may be the patients, but the doctor answers only to the government. Ironically, I discovered on Tuesday that the doctors have since taken to referring to us as "customers" - a label that denotes a relationship based on commerce and trade - yet the principles of customer service do not apply here, for we are not the ones paying the bill.

Everyone's time is precious and should be respected, whether you are retired, or a lawyer billing $500 an hour who must turn down an client, or a caregiver who must arrange for someone to look after your elderly parent. Double-bookings, triple-bookings – it doesn't matter if the "customer" is unhappy - the bill will still be paid. The wait is long, and we are all equal in the neglect and abuse we endure. The physicians are free to treat us with indifference, and we must meekly accept. You see, we have no choice.

In our country, a pregnant woman may choose, almost up to the moment of birth, to end the life of her baby. After all, it's her body, right? But what about my body, and my choice? Why can't I choose to see a doctor who will respect my needs and my time?

After a three hour wait for my 3:30 appointment, which of course I left the office early for, I was presented with a $49 bill for the sick-leave note I required for my absence last week. It was a fee I didn't mind paying, but the doctor's office - though happy to charge for such "luxury" services - does not accept credit cards or even have a debit machine. Like a bookie or the dealer at the corner of Dundas and Yonge, this was a strictly cash business. I was asked - politely - by the (harried) receptionist to go downstairs, cross the street and walk half a block to the nearest bank machine, the final insult being that the receptionist did not have the $11 change for the three twenties I handed her. The doctor herself actually had the nerve to ask - after my three hour wait - if I could go down to the shop in the lobby for change. As a testament to her obviously effective treatment of me for anxiety, I neither burst into frustrated tears nor strangled her. Instead I gave her a firm "no", that after such a long wait I would most certainly not be willing to run and fetch my own change.

How did we come to this point? Surely Tommy Douglas did not have that disrespectful scenario in mind when he introduced us to the so-called wonders of socialized medicine. Surely he didn't see Canada in the same category as Cuba, where the public service is mandatory and private competition is not only discouraged but illegal. Our system is broken. The sacred cow at the heart of "Canadian-ness" has become a monster - a mad cow. It's time to slaughter the beast and start fresh. There is nothing Canadian about this kind of treatment.

Labels: Canadiana, Health