Doctors

Last week, we needed a GP appointment for Ollie. He hadn’t figured out the system as yet, although does pay health insurance, so all we needed to do was to find a doctor. Although this on the surface seemed a simple task, the niggling feeling of the challenge ahead turned out to be justified.

We began by digging out his relocation ‘Welcome to Germany, expats!’ type booklet, which contained a section on healthcare, including listing at the back English speaking German doctors. They were divided into specialities, suggesting that if you had a specific problem, you should approach the appropriate doctor directly, ie if you had a skin complaint, you’d head on down to the local dermatologist. It was definitely a GP we needed though, and indeed at the top of the list were a few General Practitioners. So far so good, although only one in the short list was within Mitte (our area of town), and on looking up the address it was quite a distance away. 

So, we turned to Google next, searching again for English speaking GPs in Berlin. One website listed a chap just round the corner from us, so I was cajoled into giving them a ring. “Guten Morgen, sprechen Sie Englisch?’ I ventured. ‘Nein’ came the blunt reply. Ahhh. The website I was using provided the phrase for “I would like an appointment”, so I gave that a go, and the woman at the other end said something back, which I deciphered as meaning ‘not today’. I asked if tomorrow was possible, and she gabbled something else, so I threw the phone at Ollie. He talked to her with his more advanced language skills and established there was no appointment for another 3 weeks. Interesting. 

Ollie got some advice from work, and was told that although this was often the case, it was standard practice to turn up at a doctors’ and wait to be seen. Thus, the next day, we set off for the same place we’d rang. Far from finding an NHS style health centre, however, we instead were met by a heavy door, framed on one side by a row of buzzers, one of which carried the name of the doctor Google had told us. Unsure how to proceed, we were debating the issue when we noticed a sign on the wall which anyway indicated that they were in fact closed that day. Back to the drawing board again.

At home, we decided to forget about the English speaking part, thinking we could get by with a few words, Google translate and pointing, and looked up any GPs within a small radius. Armed with a list, we headed out again. The first was just 5 minutes from our place, in a different direction than before, and we found the same sort of set up when we got there: another big front door with a series of buzzers, the name of the doctor on one. I was finding the system most bizarre. It seemed that doctors did not practise in small groups, like in the UK, but as individuals, in rooms in apartment blocks. It struck me that if this were indeed the case, it must be a rather lonely profession here. This particular chap’s surgery was not due to start for another 20 minutes or so, so again we went home to wait in the warm. I had packed my bag assuming a long wait wherever we ended up: books, bottles of water etc. 

On returning, just after it reopened, we decided to brave pressing the buzzer to see what happened. In fact, it automatically opened the front door, beyond which was a hallway and stairs leading upwards. I noticed on the way in that beneath the doctor’s name on the sign was a word that looked very much like the English word ‘Urologist’ and wondered if we were even going to find a GP within. On the landing above, we pushed open another door and found, comfortingly, something far more familiar looking – a reception desk, a small waiting room and a couple of sealed doors. However, the few other patients in there were all men over a certain age, which fuelled my concern that we were perhaps in a rather specialised environment and could accidently end up getting a prostate check… 

After a wait, Ollie asked the receptionist in German if it was possible to see the doctor and she looked at us as if we were slightly mad. We couldn’t quite translate what she replied, but it was a negative response anyway, and Ollie thought he caught the word ‘Juli’ (July)… This wasn’t going well.

Outside again, feeling somewhat defeated and wondering how on earth it could be this difficult, we pointed our feet towards the next on our list. It was quite a walk away and I worried the journey in the cold would do nothing to improve Ollie’s condition. There was little choice though, so on we headed. 

On turning the corner onto Friedrichstrasse, we passed a chemist and happened to notice more plaques featuring names of doctors on the outside wall suggesting once again, consulting rooms inside. Feeling at this stage we had nothing to lose, we walked this time with more confidence into the building and up the stairs. There were a number of doors off the main stairwell, each labelled with an individual doctor’s name. We picked one at random and went in, to find a small reception area. We asked at the desk again, and the stereotypically grumpy woman behind fired some questions at us, then, apparently satisfied, told us to sit down. When she’d finished dealing with someone else, she brusquely took the details from Ollie’s insurance card and asked us to sit again. Within approximately 2 minutes, another lady in scrub-type clothing appeared and called Ollie through. Within another few minutes he was back out, mission accomplished. Apparently she’d poked his throat and eyes, asked him how long he needed to be signed off work for and signed a form. And that was it. Bizarre. On later inspection of the form, we realised that, if our translation was correct, she may in fact have been a gynaecologist. Still not quite sure we have all this figured out…