I try to be assiduously correct in assigning credit to the sources I use. However, I cannot do this in this publication. Both my sources live in areas where they could be subjects to abuse if their political leanings were known. I am speaking of Oregon, USA and Paris, France. Therefore, the names cited in the article are fictitious.
Please read this letter from a French lady in their early eighties that will enlighten you about the French socialized health service. By the way, I edited very little—not the content, just a few French oddities.
Thank you, dear Sophia, for your long message. I am not doing as well as I would like. After the disastrous fall on June 17th I was taken by the fire department to Hospital Pompidou. The emergency service was officially going on strike, but working at the same time. I had to wait 8 hours on a chariot, with morphine from time to time. Then, after four days without any care, I was transported to another hospital, Cochin, where the found a surgeon and a room to put me in after the operation, which took place on June 22.
The National Health Service is completely disorganized in France with new reforms from the government. —Long time suffering—! Then I had to leave my bed to another wounded person, and they put me in another unit for persons over 80 years old. It was Hell on Earth and the air conditioning was out of order in my room. All these insane old ladies crying together with the nurses. I was afraid to get mad myself. They sent me to another hospital in the near suburb, Issy les Moulineaux, the Swiss hospital of Paris, which was okay for the medical care, doctors, nurses and kinesitherapy, but awful for the food and cleanliness. I stayed there one very long month with extremely hot temperatures and no air conditioning. Came back home on July 31 helped by my daughter, who took me to my own apartment. The problem was that I had to stay alone because she was going on holiday, and I had to do everything by myself. Everything is very complicated and even dangerous with a cane. I am so afraid to fall again. I go to therapy—make progress but slowly.
The letter does not end there, but ends with a long recounting of personal and private family things.
This letter opened my eyes a bit wider as to the wonders of socialized medicine. I hope I never get ill or slip and fall in France!