Lawrence Krauss: Free medical care shouldn't mean no medical care
I recognize that medical care is harder to maintain in smaller and more rural communities. But the situation in P.E.I. has reached dangerous levels. I wrote a year ago about the problems with staffing emergency rooms at hospitals in this province. Because of a shortage of doctors, those who staff these facilities have schedules that resemble those of early medical residents. But on-call requirements are often unacceptable to established physicians. As a result, it is extremely difficult to recruit senior physicians to the province to alleviate the current shortage.
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We are moving away from P.E.I. this year, in part due to the medical shortage here. We are moving to a somewhat more urban environment on Vancouver Island, and are hoping that, because of the relatively large number of retired couples on the island, there may be a larger number of family doctors to accommodate them.
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But, in our case there is another reason to live there. It is just a short ferry ride to Port Townsend, Wash. Having worked in the U.S. for my entire adult career, I have Medicare coverage, which covers about 80 per cent of the cost of medical procedures. In the case of catastrophic illness, the residual expense can be large, which is why individuals in the U.S. who can afford it purchase private health care. But in my case, I plan to be able to schedule routine procedures in Washington State if I need them and find they are not available at home.
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The irony of returning to the U.S. for medical care, when that was one of the factors that led to our leaving that country, is not lost on me. I believe in government-financed health care as a right for citizens. Clearly however, the system in Canada as it is currently set up isn't working. My wife once lived in Australia, which also has a government health plan. She was able to pay into an additional plan to access some physicians directly, if necessary. Clearly such a private option removes the burden from the public system and also allows doctors supplemental income. Something like that seems like a good option for Canada, especially in rural areas, which are currently underserved.
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Finally, at a time when there is such concern about immigration, it is important to recognize that there are well-qualified physicians from around the world who would be happy to relocate to Canada if they were easily able to do so. Federal and provincial governments should consider fast-tracking permanent residence status for such sorely needed professionals.
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When I left the U.S., I heard horror stories about Canadian health care. I tend to view these as apocryphal. For urgent cases, both from my own experience and those of friends, the country appears to allow individuals to generally get access to necessary expertise in a relatively timely way, without bankrupting them. But the cost to individuals, and the country, of not universally providing more routine preventative health care is great. Something needs to be done to fix a system that appears to be broken.
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This is a First Person column by Kendra Hebert, who lives in Garnett Settlement, N.B. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ. It was the first day of a new rotation. I entered the ward wearing scrubs, my stethoscope draped around my neck and my hospital ID clipped to my shirt. Indistinguishable, I thought, from any other medical student. As I approached the nursing station in my wheelchair, a nurse I hadn't met before looked up and asked, "Are you here for an appointment?" I paused, momentarily caught off guard. "No," I replied. "I'm the new medical student starting today." Her face changed instantly; an apology, an explanation. She said she hadn't meant anything by it, she had just seen my wheelchair first and assumed I was a patient. It was a brief exchange, but one I've experienced in various forms more times than I can count. Still, it stayed with me. It's a quiet, persistent reminder of how easily people make assumptions when you don't fit the expected image of a doctor. My name is Kendra Hebert, and I'm a third-year medical student at Dalhousie Medicine New Brunswick. I have a physical disability and use a manual wheelchair, crutches and leg braces. That puts me in a unique position, and it's not a role I ever imagined for myself. Becoming a doctor has been my lifelong dream, but I questioned whether there was a place for me in medicine. I was able-bodied for most of my life. At 21, my mobility declined rapidly without an explanation. Within three months, walking was a challenge. I was an active and athletic person and the sudden loss of mobility was devastating. Without a diagnosis, the uncertainty was unbearable. I didn't apply to medical school. Instead, I began my master's in experimental psychology. I love research and am still actively involved in it today, but I felt disconnected from the people I wanted to help. Eventually, I received a diagnosis. My genetic disorder is incurable, but it's not progressive. With the right care team and adaptive devices, I regained much of my independence. That's when I decided to apply to medical school, terrifying as it was. I had never seen a physician with a disability like mine. There were doubts and there was pushback from people who questioned if I would be capable. But there was also incredible support from my family and friends, and especially from my twin sister, Courtney. Courtney and I shared the same condition, but it affected her internal organs. At the same time that I was adjusting to my changing mobility, she got sick. In just 18 months, she had more than 30 hospital admissions, multiple procedures and surgeries. We shared the same dream and applied to medical school together. The application process takes a year; you apply in July to start the following August. Courtney passed away that November due to complications from treatment for her illness, just a few months before I received my acceptance letter. Her memory is why I continue. Her loss reminds me every day why I do this. I try to focus on the positive, but it's not always easy. Hospitals are often inaccessible. My wheelchair doesn't fit everywhere. While most public areas are accessible, staff spaces rarely are. Tasks as basic as opening a door can become major obstacles when spaces aren't designed with accessibility in mind. I've had to grow more comfortable relying on others and asking for help, not because I am incapable, but because these spaces disable me. As a disabled student, I'm often mistaken for a patient. I'm talked down to, babied or told I'm "inspiring" just for existing. People often ask, "What's wrong with you?" before they ask my name. I try to plan ahead. I can't just show up somewhere like my classmates. 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