Two B's: B-A-B-A-R

Before I came to Sweden, I had heard various opinions (both good and bad) about the socialized medical system here. Today I had my first chance to find out for myself.

I had to go get a health exam for my employer's insurance carrier. It turns out that the company they normally use will not offer health insurance to anyone unless they have lived in Sweden for two years, so we had to make arrangements with another provider. Part of those arrangements required me to take a physical, so this morning I hopped on the T-bana and headed for the address given to me on a slip of paper, on some side street just off Hötorget.

I find the building easily enough, though I am a bit surprised to discover that the clinic is on the very top floor, behind a door that could easily be mistaken for someone's apartment if it weren't for a tiny sign on the wall. I walk in, fill out a bit of paperwork, do the eye chart thing (though I do not have enough time alone in the exam room to memorize the fine-print copyright notice at the bottom, foiling yet again my longstanding desire to reprise the old Bugs Bunny eye chart gag), and sit down in the reception area to wait for the physician. After a few minutes, I am called into his office.

The details of the exam are inconsequential (I'm perfectly healthy), but there is one interesting detail to report about the examiner. Which is that the doctor appears to be—how can I put this politely—COMPLETELY FUCKING NUTS. The moment I enter his office, he begins to mumble, stream-of-consciousness style, in my general direction. For all I know, he could be reciting Finnegan's Wake in Swedish. He does not once say my name or ask me any questions that require an intelligent response. He just mumbles away and pores over the papers I've brought for him to sign.

I take a moment to size up the good doctor. He is wearing ratty scrubs that look like they haven't seen the inside of a washing machine in days; paint-splotched carpenter's pants; thick, horn-rimmed pince-nez; and—wait for it—a scarf. (For those of you keeping score at home: yes, his office is indoors.) There are random bottles filled with colored liquids on the shelves, some with peeling, hand-lettered labels, others with no labels at all. The stand next to the exam table is covered with gleaming metal instruments, some of which may actually be sterilized. There is a world map on the wall for some reason, though I note that it still shows the Soviet Union as a single nation (evidently, this is a place where time truly does stand still).

On the windowsill, there are several ferns and some sort of a creeping vine, which has grown several laps all the way around the window and is now heading across the wall toward the opposite side of the room. For all I know, this might be a distant relative of Audrey II. As if that weren't weird enough, this particular vine nicely mirrors the good doctor's beard, which he has grown out to such an extent that he looks to be in contention to compete with these guys. His cheek hairs are "combed" (and I use that term very loosely) damn near sideways, parallel to the floor, the net effect being that his head has a roughly 3:1 aspect ratio—not unlike a high-definition television, or a roadside billboard. Aerodynamic he ain't.

As I'm sitting there on the exam table, taking all of this in, there is only one thought racing through my mind: If this guy puts on a rubber glove and reaches for the salve, he's going to experience defenestration firsthand.

Fortunately, it does not come to this. He does the usual reflex tests, blood pressure, ENT exam, listens to my heart and my breathing (all the while mumbling på svenska... mumblenmumblenmumblen). Then, abruptly, he says—in English—"I'm sorry, but you must go. I do not have any more time for you. I have many, many patients waiting for me now. You are the weakest link. Bye-bye."

I do not complain. (For the record, however, I observe on my way through the lobby that "many, many" apparently means "two.")

Apparently, he has seen enough to sign off on my forms in the affirmative, and my application should now go through without further delay. I just hope no one from the insurance company ever decides to follow up by paying this clinic a visit. If that happens, I'll have a better chance of getting insurance from Mongolia.

For all its faults, I have to say that I miss US healthcare.

Edit, one week later: Today I received a small handwritten note from Dr. Svenskamumble's office. It seems that they managed to destroy my blood sample before they had a chance to complete whatever tests they were planning on running. So I have to go see him again. Grrrrrr.