Out of the desert

Until last week, going to see the Doctor was a gruelling adventure, designed to test the limits of one’s sanity.

There are three doctors in the surgery in our commune, which is about 10 minutes away, but they are not taking patients. They are full, because other local Doctors retired and/or moved away in the last couple of years.

So we had to drive 35 minutes to Villefranche-de-Rouergue, and then wait to be seen. The emphasis there being on ‘wait’.

There's no chance of not waiting, that's the name of the room.

Jokes aside, waiting for a minimum of 90 minutes to two hours is not fun; especially if you just want someone to prescribe a simple medication. That’s not to belittle the doctor in ‘Vilf’; he essentially provides a doctor-of-last-resort service, taking new patients without question and seeing anyone that is prepared to wait.

This is not an uncommon problem in rural France, where there are numerous ‘medical deserts’: places where there are just not enough GPs in the community.

There are a number of factors involved but one of the most problematic stems from the general shortage of GPs, which in turn is caused, at least in part, by restrictions on the number of medical students that Universities can recruit.

Another factor is the liberty of GPs to set up wherever they so desire, which for obvious reasons means many places are better served than others. It leads to a (slightly) bizarre situation where local Mairies have to try and entice Doctors to set up shop in their community, with this being a real source of local intrigue. Many younger GPs do not want to live in the middle of nowhere serving a small rural community with no colleagues with which to share the burden - understandably so, in my view. Would you?

This is a live political issue, with the French Prime Minister Francois Bayrou promising immediate and concrete action. Here’s a news story from this week (fr):

https://www.francetvinfo.fr/replay-radio/le-brief-politique/lutte-contre-les-deserts-medicaux-un-plan-devoile-d-ici-une-dizaine-de-jours_7165242.html.

So it was with great fanfare that we heard the news - a new doctor had been recruited in our local town.

Perhaps convinced by the promise that a new Medical Centre was being constructed, his arrival was trumpeted as a triumph in the local press, and the news spread like wildfire on social media. We were in there like a shot, getting our appointments booked before the stampede and subseqently successfully registering. What a result.

It was on the appointed day of registration, whilst sitting in the waiting room awaiting my turn, that I was joined by two gentlemen. The first of these was dressed head-to-toe in the flourescent orange work clothes that, along with the prominent patch on his shoulder, marked him out as an employee of the Department de Tarn-et-Garonne. No doubt on his way to undertake some much needed fauchage (strimming) or other such maintainence task. He was slightly incredulous when, in response to his question, I told him that the receptionist had yet to arrive. I didn’t quite have the gumption to tell him that technically he wasn’t yet at work either.

At first I thought he was escorting the elderly gentleman with whom he entered, as they were carrying on a detailed conversation, but it became clear this was not the case when Orange Man took a phone call and left never to be seen again. This had the unfortunate entailment of me being the only person in the waiting room with the elderly gent, who it turns out could not, and would not, stop talking.

I’m usually pretty good at understanding accents but, wow, trying to decipher the machine-gun like delivery to which I was subjected was a challenge. For the most part this didn’t matter, I was merely an object to be talked at, but occasionally I was required to signal approval, or join in condemnation of the subject at issue.

Aside from the speed with which he spoke, I realised the main issue was not one of accent but of colloquialisms that I couldn’t parse let alone understand, and an almost comedy amount of swearing. Not much escaped his ire, not least a lengthy diatribe with which I heartedly agreed, on how difficult it was to see a Doctor since the last one moved to Gaillac, putain!

It was at the point that we were discussing allergies (connerie totale) and he was showing me the rash on his chest, that the unflappable receptionist arrived and I was no longer in the direct firing line. After sorting out his ordonnance with the newly-arrived receptionist, he professed his thanks in his own inimitable style: vous êtes adorable, madame, ADORABLE!

And that was that. With a cheeky grin on his face and a bonjournée jeune (!) homme to me, off he went.

The lane outside our house and the side of the hangar in the spring morning sunshine