The next morning, I woke bright and early. I reached for the phone to make my calls, eager to nab a spot at the closest x-ray clinic in their first few hours of operation. But as BC would have it, no clinics were open until the 8 AM mark. A one-hour wait ensued.
Once correspondence was made with the receptionist, I was informed that obtaining an examination slot would not be an issue, even for out-of-province visitors. Whether patients had a BC-issued health card or Canadian "MSP" (Medical Services Plan) was irrelevant for the provision of their services; the sole requirement was an x-ray requisition from a local doctor.
"You can go into any walk-in." assured the receptionist. But this process was much easier said than done.
Finding a walk-in open at 8 AM was impossible. Some had transitioned to only caring for existing patients, while others were fully booked on their online system until two weeks later.
Once correspondence was made with the receptionist, I was informed that obtaining an examination slot would not be an issue, even for out-of-province visitors. Whether patients had a BC-issued health card or Canadian "MSP" (Medical Services Plan) was irrelevant for the provision of their services; the sole requirement was an x-ray requisition from a local doctor.
"You can go into any walk-in." assured the receptionist. But this process was much easier said than done.
Finding a walk-in open at 8 AM was impossible. Some had transitioned to only caring for existing patients, while others were fully booked on their online system until two weeks later.
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At 9 AM, I phoned WELL, since apparently Google Maps hours had differed greatly from their hours in reality; the receptionist squeezed me in for a phone consultation and mandated a fee of $160 for the medical consultation (Insurance claim details to follow). I had originally hesitated, but further research proved fruitless: other clinics in the vicinity charged an even steeper price, and their next available slot wouldn't be until the following week!
I had been informed that, following the phone consultation, the x-ray requisition could be faxed over to brooke radiology directly, such that I would not need to hobble down two blocks with an injury.
Patiently, I resided at home, waiting until the 2 PM mark to call the clinic again, as I was "on call" until 3 PM. The pain had not lessened during this period. The receptionist's voice seemed to grow quiter each time, the volume barely audible over the cordless landline phone. The office confirmed that I was still on the list, and that the doctor was making his way down the list, with two more patients ahead of me in the virtual queue.
Eventually I received the call at 3:31 PM. A male doctor with heavy Chinese accent commenced the phone consultation. As I explained my situation, he constantly cut me off, expressing extreme arrogance, and demanded that I go into the clinic for a visual inspection. In spite of relaying my difficulties to him, in that not only was I was an injured, out-of-province visitor without a car, he was insistent on the in-personal examination, pointing out that I had "paid anyway" and "it would be better to come in."
I had been informed that, following the phone consultation, the x-ray requisition could be faxed over to brooke radiology directly, such that I would not need to hobble down two blocks with an injury.
Patiently, I resided at home, waiting until the 2 PM mark to call the clinic again, as I was "on call" until 3 PM. The pain had not lessened during this period. The receptionist's voice seemed to grow quiter each time, the volume barely audible over the cordless landline phone. The office confirmed that I was still on the list, and that the doctor was making his way down the list, with two more patients ahead of me in the virtual queue.
Eventually I received the call at 3:31 PM. A male doctor with heavy Chinese accent commenced the phone consultation. As I explained my situation, he constantly cut me off, expressing extreme arrogance, and demanded that I go into the clinic for a visual inspection. In spite of relaying my difficulties to him, in that not only was I was an injured, out-of-province visitor without a car, he was insistent on the in-personal examination, pointing out that I had "paid anyway" and "it would be better to come in."
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Without any other options, I called an Uber; time was ticking, as the radiology clinic was slated to close at 5 PM. And I was most definitely unwilling to wait till the next day to confirm my suspicions.
Another wait ensued as I arrived at the clinic. The droopy-eyed receptionist gestured towards one of few chairs that were not taped off and marked with an "X".
The doctor, a bald man in his thirties, said nothing about the abrasions. I had kept them bandaged and refused to remove them on the basis that I would have no backup Polysporin or bandaids to cover them back up. Instead, I offered to show him images, though he refused to extend comments without viewing the wounds.
"I saw you move your hand." He remarked skeptically at my swift re-positioning of my fanny pack to my backpack. "It doesn't seem broken at all."
He declared the bruise on my left leg worse than the wrist, and observed no fractures in the wrist upon physical examination. Then, he proceeded to interrogate in a manner that spited rather than solicited specifics.
"Does this area hurt?" He asked.
"It hurts here." I pointed to a neighbouring area.
"Does it hurt where I'm pressing?" he snapped, exasperated, as if I should have known he was strictly inquiring about the point in question.
He announced that "(I) was fine" and that I had sounded significantly worse over the phone, as if I had been exaggerating the situation when, in reality, I was merely informing of how I felt in that moment following the trauma-inducing occurrence. As a patient seeking medical advice and confirmation, my sole duty was to provide coherent and comprehensive details for analysis and recommendations. Degrading it was to be taken as someone who was not visiting the clinic for story-telling and drama.
Another wait ensued as I arrived at the clinic. The droopy-eyed receptionist gestured towards one of few chairs that were not taped off and marked with an "X".
The doctor, a bald man in his thirties, said nothing about the abrasions. I had kept them bandaged and refused to remove them on the basis that I would have no backup Polysporin or bandaids to cover them back up. Instead, I offered to show him images, though he refused to extend comments without viewing the wounds.
"I saw you move your hand." He remarked skeptically at my swift re-positioning of my fanny pack to my backpack. "It doesn't seem broken at all."
He declared the bruise on my left leg worse than the wrist, and observed no fractures in the wrist upon physical examination. Then, he proceeded to interrogate in a manner that spited rather than solicited specifics.
"Does this area hurt?" He asked.
"It hurts here." I pointed to a neighbouring area.
"Does it hurt where I'm pressing?" he snapped, exasperated, as if I should have known he was strictly inquiring about the point in question.
He announced that "(I) was fine" and that I had sounded significantly worse over the phone, as if I had been exaggerating the situation when, in reality, I was merely informing of how I felt in that moment following the trauma-inducing occurrence. As a patient seeking medical advice and confirmation, my sole duty was to provide coherent and comprehensive details for analysis and recommendations. Degrading it was to be taken as someone who was not visiting the clinic for story-telling and drama.
But that wasn't all.
He pointed out that injured area was not the ankle at all, since it's not the bone, but the area above it.
Again, would I know without several years of anatomy study? Biology was dropped before I finished high school for a reason.
He gave me attitude, spoke as if I was dumb but used medical jargon all the same: "not your ankle, your tib-fib"
Like, would I know?? What is a tib-fib?
He reiterated that he would give me the x-ray requisitions since "he had promised", though his medical opinion had deemed it unwarranted: "You came to me for my medical opinion, and I am telling you it is not necessary. But since I promised, I will give it to you."
He gave very vague directions and constantly cut me off.
I wanted specific answers, but he answered vaguely with tremendous repetition. I had to restructure my questions to seek further details and obtain the clarity I was asking for, wasting considerable time in the process.
The doctor proposed waiting a few more days before processing with the x-ray, as to monitor whether the pain would subside in the meantime. I acknowledged his suggestion, but wasn't about to make a second visit when I had already relinquished Uber fees for the 2 km trip.
Again, would I know without several years of anatomy study? Biology was dropped before I finished high school for a reason.
He gave me attitude, spoke as if I was dumb but used medical jargon all the same: "not your ankle, your tib-fib"
Like, would I know?? What is a tib-fib?
He reiterated that he would give me the x-ray requisitions since "he had promised", though his medical opinion had deemed it unwarranted: "You came to me for my medical opinion, and I am telling you it is not necessary. But since I promised, I will give it to you."
He gave very vague directions and constantly cut me off.
I wanted specific answers, but he answered vaguely with tremendous repetition. I had to restructure my questions to seek further details and obtain the clarity I was asking for, wasting considerable time in the process.
The doctor proposed waiting a few more days before processing with the x-ray, as to monitor whether the pain would subside in the meantime. I acknowledged his suggestion, but wasn't about to make a second visit when I had already relinquished Uber fees for the 2 km trip.
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Limping slightly, I made my way north towards Brooke radiology. The receptionist and service staff were exceptionally friendly and had me checked in without issues. In under ten minutes, I was called into the examination area.
Unlike the desk staff, the female technician gave me attitude:
"Do I take off my watch?" Images of my left wrist were to be taken, after all.
She scowled, then responded with "Wait for my instructions."
Shorts were shoved at me for changing into. As we navigated to the examination room, she told me to take my backpack with me as well, leaving nothing behind.
Her attitude grew more amicable over course of x-ray-ing, though directions were still unclear. "Rotate out, face the wall, etc." were muffled and sounded audibly annoyed when repeated. It was with much frustration that I reiterated: The patient is not responsible for the medical professional's lack of clarity in communication.
"The doctor will call you with the results." she informed at the end of the examination.
Unlike the desk staff, the female technician gave me attitude:
"Do I take off my watch?" Images of my left wrist were to be taken, after all.
She scowled, then responded with "Wait for my instructions."
Shorts were shoved at me for changing into. As we navigated to the examination room, she told me to take my backpack with me as well, leaving nothing behind.
Her attitude grew more amicable over course of x-ray-ing, though directions were still unclear. "Rotate out, face the wall, etc." were muffled and sounded audibly annoyed when repeated. It was with much frustration that I reiterated: The patient is not responsible for the medical professional's lack of clarity in communication.
"The doctor will call you with the results." she informed at the end of the examination.
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Somehow, the pain lessened after the visit - psychological effects, really. I strode over to Richmond Centre, seeing as I was already in the area. Frank and Oak's summer attire was browsed, teal and muted violet biker shorts were acquired from UNIQLO, and a Lava Cheese Tart was purchased from Castella.
The tart was quite delicious, with a golden sheen on its surface. uniformly crunchy tart shell, and exceptionally flowy interior. Friendly service elevated the overall experience.
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Leisurely, I munched away at the tart, resting upon the padded emerald chairs for my ride back home.
Cake-making plans were postponed. In addition to the delayed arrival of my hand mixer, I was also concerned over a potential wrist fracture - even a hairline fracture which could have been neglected in the physical examination.
That evening, dinner comprised of takeout dishes and steamed whole lobster.
My x-ray results had been promised by Friday - a total of four business days versus the 2-3 day turnover in the GTA.
Upon hearing nothing back, I called WELL on Friday morning. Once more, I endured the battle of barely audible conversation with the receptionist. "We haven't received anything yet." she declared. "If we receive anything this afternoon, I will let you know."
Great. I confirmed my contact details and proceeded with the day.
Upon hearing nothing back, I called WELL on Friday morning. Once more, I endured the battle of barely audible conversation with the receptionist. "We haven't received anything yet." she declared. "If we receive anything this afternoon, I will let you know."
Great. I confirmed my contact details and proceeded with the day.
When Saturday morning arrived, I still had not heard back. WELL picked up my call, but informed me of the most ridiculous of responses: "You did not receive a call since we 'have a note to not call on your file.'"
Utterly taken back by the absurdity of this message, I began to press for answers: "So do I get to know the results?? Is anything broken?!"
The receptionist responded that she could not answer on behalf of the doctor, but hinted that "If there was anything wrong, we would have called you."
She announced that, should I wish to discuss the results of the diagnostic imaging, I would need to make another appointment with the doctor, and that a phone consultation would likely suffice.
I heaved an exasperated sigh, but began to review my availability for the following week. As I was about to slot in an appointment for next Wednesday (Yes, 1.5 weeks after the actual test!), the receptionist informed me of another medical consultation fee. The same $160 fee would apply to follow-up appointments.
Utterly taken back by the absurdity of this message, I began to press for answers: "So do I get to know the results?? Is anything broken?!"
The receptionist responded that she could not answer on behalf of the doctor, but hinted that "If there was anything wrong, we would have called you."
She announced that, should I wish to discuss the results of the diagnostic imaging, I would need to make another appointment with the doctor, and that a phone consultation would likely suffice.
I heaved an exasperated sigh, but began to review my availability for the following week. As I was about to slot in an appointment for next Wednesday (Yes, 1.5 weeks after the actual test!), the receptionist informed me of another medical consultation fee. The same $160 fee would apply to follow-up appointments.
That was the last straw. I thanked her and ended the call. There was no way I was willing to surrender another round of fees for an unattained objective.
All factors considered, I ultimately never received the information nor confirmation I had been seeking. BC healthcare was just so incredibly flawed.
All factors considered, I ultimately never received the information nor confirmation I had been seeking. BC healthcare was just so incredibly flawed.
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Having declared Vancouver as my "second home" for many years now, I've grown to learn of the incredulous inefficiences and atrocities that exist within British Columbia's healthcare system. While there are those that defend and argue that "there aren't enough trained professionals" or "there isn't enough investment", neither are valid reasons for neglecting or diminishing the needs of residents demanding care.
Professional negligence leading to death, failure to provide timely treatment, surgical mishaps, uncaring attitude, unhelpful behaviour - the list goes on. My personal experience with BC's healthcare system is only one example of its poor execution.
Had I been a working individual with schedules, would I ever be able to secure an appointment? Would I be expected to return to work while risking physical injury? Would I need to be on-call and off work for the entirety of the time, waiting for appointment availabilities and test results?
Professional negligence leading to death, failure to provide timely treatment, surgical mishaps, uncaring attitude, unhelpful behaviour - the list goes on. My personal experience with BC's healthcare system is only one example of its poor execution.
Had I been a working individual with schedules, would I ever be able to secure an appointment? Would I be expected to return to work while risking physical injury? Would I need to be on-call and off work for the entirety of the time, waiting for appointment availabilities and test results?
The journey to recover reimbursement for my Out-of-Province Medical Consultation was another war in itself. Processing of the OHIP Claim took exactly eight weeks. Recovering the outstanding balance through private insurance required documentation added on another two weeks. From the point of incurring payment to the point of complete reimbursement was a whopping 84 days. But any other province would have billed the province of Ontario directly, without transferring the responsibility onto the already ill patient.
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