Getting sick is always bad, and when you get sick with the "village disease", you go to hell. Ignorance of Moscow doctors. About the hospital
In the previous article “Muscovites move to the village for permanent residence»The topic slid to the medical support in the outback. I didn’t get involved in the comments, but decided that I would raise the topic in a separate article. People compare Moscow and rural medicine. In short, I will answer this way - if something is super complicated, where intervention in the body of several specialists is required, then, of course, it should be moved to the center. I visited both a local hospital and two Moscow ones, all in one year. And both times I was taken to my bed by ambulance. Therefore, what I am describing in the article is not a look into the keyhole and from the words of a neighbor who was once a young woman, this is what I went through myself.
And it was like this.
I was very sick just before the New Year, exactly a month before the holiday. It was in 2016. A week, the temperature under 40 did not go astray for more than a week. When they realized that they could not cope with their own forces and folk means, on the third attempt they convinced me, and I agreed to be hospitalized.
And I went to hell with the stable name GKB 50.
Thanks to the ambulance doctors (I "gave" them thanks), they did not let me bend right in the waiting room of GKB 50, where they did not want to take me by ambulance with a temperature above 40. The ambulance doctors strained the waiting room, made some noise, but began to draw up.
They took tests and sent them to the intensive care unit. They put me in the corridor between the women's ward, from where there was an unceasing shout "IT'S SICK" and the toilet. And since I felt the smell, it means I was still alive. The doctor came, quickly examined, put on an IV, immediately hung up a urine bag so that he would not jump down the corridor, and they forgot about me. Well, not really, as the dropper bottles were emptied, they changed them to new ones and disappeared again.
Once they took me for an MRI and X-ray. It would have been better if they hadn't touched me. Two Uzbeks in dirty blue coats lowered the gurney with my body to the 2nd floor, rolled it on the tiles, where each tile joint resonated in my head. They drove me along a glass passage from the case to the case, in which the temperature was not higher than +12, and they “carefully” covered me with a sheet. I was returned to the intensive care unit by the same route.
Why did they drive in vain? Because the next day it turned out that both diagnostic devices did not work, and it was not possible to get pictures for the medical history. Even hunger did not succeed in finishing me off. They did not feed me for 3 days even once.
The compassionate cleaning lady once brought me cold cocoa and a couple of pieces of white bread. Yes, I did not resist, and did not require special attention to myself, every day I saw on the first day of my stay in the department, as on the table brought a 30-liter pot of food, and medical workers threw themselves on it, trying to provide themselves as quickly as possible lunch. They ate their ration, and immediately, without leaving the pan, put something from the set for the second course into the same plates.
Wherever there is to the sick - what the loved ones will bring, those who survive are fed. Maybe in intensive care it is supposed to be so - to keep patients hungry, but if the patient wants to eat elementary, and he has not yet been produced autopsy, then why not at least ask him about it or say that you will receive everything through a dropper with your organs.
Of course, in intensive care not to go to the cinema, but to keep the sick with sprat in the bank. Everyone who goes to the toilet will definitely push against your couch. When a person is lying nearby, he constantly communicates on the phone day and night in slang, which even thieves cannot always understand. On the second day in the morning I saw that screaming "hurts" in front of me on a gurney at the door in a sheet with her head, waiting for her to be lowered to the morgue - apparently she did not wait for her medical attention. And all the patients had to be shown what would happen to everyone who performed. The corpse lay for several hours, as if it was impossible to save the sick from this contemplation.
Once there was a consultation near my bed. A tall, thin old man in a white coat approached, surrounded by young people dressed as doctors, with the words, turning in my direction: "Such" bruises "are usually not delivered to me" - and left, forever, I never again saw. Of course, he needs me for a fig - the diagnosis has not been made, it takes a bed, and the relatives are pulling and demanding attention to me and treatment. Why would he be a burden when a local deputy of the 5th quarter of the second district of one of the districts of Moscow came to clean the blood after the next anniversary of the adoption of the budget for this clinic. He had a separate ward, and special attention of doctors, and the smells of his dinners apparently irritated not only me. And when the smells from the toilet and the smells of the deputy's grub are mixed over your pillow…. the mood doesn't get any better.
I survived in this hell of Moscow hospital number 50, and, thanks to my relatives, who haunted the doctors, demanding attention to my body, thanks to the efforts of the young head of the department, who nevertheless was able to deliver diagnosis. My relatives won when the exhausted body with the established diagnosis was transported to the infectious diseases hospital on Falcon Mountain, where there was a separate box for two the size of a good two-room apartment, where doctors treated patients not by status, but by sores, where everyone was equal from a drug addict with tuberculosis to an old man with 1 group disability. We all stood (sat and lay) in the same queue for an x-ray.
This is about my Moscow epic. PRO village, in the next article.
I used the photo from the archives so as not to offend those doctors who are not included in Skvorotsova's list. preserved kindness and conscience.
The reform of medicine, and as those who invented it call it - "optimization", apparently began their labor activity in commercial tents near the Bauman market. And when they began to demolish these same tents, in the same way, they set up such "commercial tents" (medical centers) in all villages of Russia, they just forgot to recruit sellers. Of course, whoever is allowed to he will change the sidewalks and put the curbs where necessary and not necessary, and the medical tents - I still do not understand, the tent is there, and the people are dying in the central city hospitals. Thank you, of course, in such a shed you can bandage your hand, measure the pressure, talk... in... with a therapist, and then? In the central one to the uncles-surgeons, to the aunt of the midwives. And if you're unlucky, and you will end up with a professor like mine, who will lick the local deputy, and everyone else will lie in the corridors, and every day the dead will be brought down from the department.
Therefore, when you talk about the quality of medicine, you do not need to measure it by place - the village or Moscow, the quality of medicine depends on the PEOPLE who workt.
I will tell you a little later about the central hospital in the nearest city near Moscow, where I ended up with kidney stones. It's also fun there, but I managed to check out on day 4, I was just lucky.