My sister Lysa has lived in England since the 1970s, so there’s been a lot of travel back and forth. Our trip there was especially significant: she turned 70 and had recently married her long-time partner.
Lenny and I stayed in Guildford, the town Lysa and Hugh call home, about 20 miles SW of London. Getting from our hotel to their house entailed a 20-minute hilly, damp, windy urban walk. Plenty of chilly cardio for us thin-blooded flatlanders.
The birthday party/wedding reception took place at RHS Garden Wisley, a 240-acre botanical wonderland. After roaming through the color-infused spring blooms, we enjoyed a traditional English tea (watercress sandwiches, scones and clotted cream, etc.), as well as a wedding cake with an amazing fruitcake layer. My impromptu toast went over well.
Then, a health emergency. Due to a packing mishap, Lenny ran out of blood pressure meds. The British equivalent of 911 said to go to the nearby Royal Surrey Hospital. When Lenny checked in, the clerk asked for ID, no insurance or credit card. The ER was crowded, but patients moved through swiftly. After a vitals check and brief interview with a doctor, Lenny had a prescription. The wait at the in-house pharmacy far exceeded the wait in the ER. So caffeine at the lobby Costa Coffee shop sated us until Lenny’s number was called.
The distress, total. The service, professional. The cost, zero.
How is that possible? Lysa told us every citizen pays into the National Health Service (NHS) as part of their taxes. No one gets insurance through their employer. Everyone is entitled to health care with low or no out-of-pocket expense, even visitors. Lenny could have been charged for the script, she said, but it was probably not worth the paperwork. That said, service can be slow. There’s a waiting list for elective treatments, like hip replacements. For the impatient or those with the wherewithal, private insurance is available.
Socialized medicine may be a scary concept in this country, but in England it’s a way of life.