So I’ve been coughing for about a week now, thought it would pass so I just pumped myself full of Echinacea and vitamin C and went about my day. Then the phlegm transformed from an ‘ok-clear’ a thick ‘not-so-ok-green’, making it look as though fat slugs were jumping out of my throat with each cough – a good sign to go see a doctor.
I go to my not-so-local medical centre in the hope of getting a quick check up but all their doctors are book up until next year. I knock on the door of a Dr. Moirman anyway in the hope that he’ll see me for long enough to print me out a prescription of the strongest antibiotics available. You know, the ones which make you nice and drowsy and give you a good trip, and destroy the virus along with your immune system.
He begrudgingly takes me into his sterile office and takes my membership card swiping it into his computer, at this point I’m grateful, but feel I only have one lung left to cough up. He looks at his computer through overworked, underpaid eyes and asks “are you sure you’re with Maccabi” (NB: Maccabi is my medical insurance company). “No dumbass, I have a plastic card with my name, and ID number printed on it as something fun to show my friends” I think to myself. I’m not a violent person, but a throat full of mucus and a nose full of shnot is not a combination for a happy-chappy.
This is where it gets fun.
Dr. Moirman sends me to the admin offices to sort out my lack of membership appearing on his computer and tells me to come back to him when I’m done.
I wait an hour in the line only to be given two phone numbers of the Nation Insurance, neither of which works – thanks.
So I join the queue again only to be told that I need to go to the national insurance office physically to sort this out, because right now I’m not insured. I tell her “I’m really glad it’s not something more serious than a cough” – she agreed but showed no sign of sympathy.
It takes me half an hour to walk to the Insurance office coz now I’m scared out of my brains I might get hit by a car, or graze my knee without insurance. Before I wasn’t worried at all about the Middle Eastern conflict because I had insurance. Before I was like “do your worst Islamic Jihad! I’ve got Gold Class cover!” Now I felt like I was tightrope walking without a net.
I get there in the end. I wait in line only to be given a number by an angry Russian woman who has one of those flat secretary bums and looks like she escaped from Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. I think this was mainly because her skin was slightly yellow from makeup and she had plucked her eyebrows so she looked constantly angry. I’m sure she has a nice personality though.
She gave me number 267, and the three people working behind the counters were up to number 222.
I pictured myself growing old in this room. I would have to raise children and grandchildren in here, and live off vending machine snacks.
I get called up by number to an office where a typically looking Israeli woman with skin sitting on her face like dark loose leather brings up my file which has all been legitimately approved yet they decided to cancel my insurance anyway just for shits-and-gigs. Hilarious! Jokes on me! Lol! Rofl! Icbiwoop![1]
The lady makes a call to the head office on the other side of the country, socializes for a while, then hearing my sigh, she gets to the point, sorts it out, hangs up, and tells me in her jaded unfluctuating tone to wait an hour and it will be sorted. She prints off the form I filled out 3 months ago [‘Thanks I didn’t remember waiting 2 hours to fill this out last time’] and sends me on my way.
That only took 2 hours, but that’s fine, I’m not busy.
An hour passes, I give them a call – They’re closed for the day. It’s 1pm, such hard working people. Still coughing my bowels out… Welcome to Israel Motherfu**er!
I decide to walk back to the medical centre, as I walk in Dr. Moirman is locking his door and going home for the day. Great!
I wait in the admin office line again, where a new woman decides to toy with me. As she’s checking my file on her computer she says things like “you file is probably ok, but if it’s not okay you’ll need to wait another day.” She sends me on an emotional rollercoaster, I’m dizzy and nauseous enough as it is! This goes on for ages
Eventually I get to see a South African doctor, someone who speaks my language! Only his cure for my illness is to laden me with nonsensical doctor mumbojumbo which translates as ‘you have a virus, go home and drink water’, no prescription, thus ending the whole fiasco…
At least now I have insurance, I guess it’s all part of the fun!
