In the early days of working in Hungary I made frequent visits to teach a group of students in Orosháza, who at that time, worked for the glass industry; they counted two doctors among their number. The lesson dealing with the topic of Health, and all things connected with it, almost inevitably ended with discussion and complaint about the Hungarian health service. Several students related tales enumerating the all-too-familiar shortcomings of hospitals, and the resultant consequences. The two doctors had, no doubt, to endure such conversations on a daily basis, and thus sat impassively throughout. When the last such tale had been told, one of the doctors sighed philosophically, summarising the dilemma: ‘The problem is, we all have to die.’ Quick as a flash, another student countered, ‘And the Hungarian Health Service can help you!'
I have had a number of sojourns in a variety of state-run hospitals, along with being in attendance when my family or close friends have found themselves there. The situation is not as black and white as it would seem at first sight – or as terrifying as it appears to the expat who happily taxis out to Telki Hospital (hotel?) at the first sign of trouble, Gold Card Health Insurance in his back pocket! I have infinitely more trust in the doctors employed within the crumbling walls of the state sector, than in some of the privately-run clinics with which I have also had some experience.
There were a number of things which surprised me on my first encounters with hospitals, and which I imagine still surprise the uninitiated foreigner, brave enough – or poor enough! – to opt for a state hospital. A few examples: there are no curtains around the beds in a ward, making you an unwilling participant in your fellow patients’ medical interventions - I still remember lying approximately two feet from a woman having a liver biopsy. You need to take your own cutlery and drinking vessels, along with a tea-towel so you can do your own washing up when you’ve finished. And most importantly, you need to be provided with edible food! Few countries could boast of their hospital fare, but a bread roll and a cheese triangle are all you are likely to be given between noon of one day, and breakfast on the next.
My first stay (in the old MÁV korház) was in 1987 for the birth of my son, John. A few weeks before his expected arrival, I went to the British Embassy in order to clear up questions relating to his nationality, with the Consul. Summarising the information I had been given, I concluded, ‘So there’s no real reason for me to return to England to have this baby?’ I still vividly remember how he peered at me over the rim of his spectacles and said, ‘Tell me – have you ever been in a Hungarian hospital?’
I have had a number of sojourns in a variety of state-run hospitals, along with being in attendance when my family or close friends have found themselves there. The situation is not as black and white as it would seem at first sight – or as terrifying as it appears to the expat who happily taxis out to Telki Hospital (hotel?) at the first sign of trouble, Gold Card Health Insurance in his back pocket! I have infinitely more trust in the doctors employed within the crumbling walls of the state sector, than in some of the privately-run clinics with which I have also had some experience.
There were a number of things which surprised me on my first encounters with hospitals, and which I imagine still surprise the uninitiated foreigner, brave enough – or poor enough! – to opt for a state hospital. A few examples: there are no curtains around the beds in a ward, making you an unwilling participant in your fellow patients’ medical interventions - I still remember lying approximately two feet from a woman having a liver biopsy. You need to take your own cutlery and drinking vessels, along with a tea-towel so you can do your own washing up when you’ve finished. And most importantly, you need to be provided with edible food! Few countries could boast of their hospital fare, but a bread roll and a cheese triangle are all you are likely to be given between noon of one day, and breakfast on the next.
My first stay (in the old MÁV korház) was in 1987 for the birth of my son, John. A few weeks before his expected arrival, I went to the British Embassy in order to clear up questions relating to his nationality, with the Consul. Summarising the information I had been given, I concluded, ‘So there’s no real reason for me to return to England to have this baby?’ I still vividly remember how he peered at me over the rim of his spectacles and said, ‘Tell me – have you ever been in a Hungarian hospital?’
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