(An apology about this post: many words, no photos.  Somehow not a single photo was taken during this interesting day, which probably says something.  So it goes.)

To catch us up a bit:

• My Illness began last Wednesday during that ridiculous aborted ride into a fierce headwind when we turned back after two miles.
• After biking back to Le Tréport we booked ourselves for a room with a stellar view in Hotel Calais for another three nights, and I basically slept the entire time.
• On Saturday we endured the day of the nightmare train ride relocating to here where we’re again booked for three nights.  I arrived in town completely flattened again and crashed for the rest of the day.
• Things look brighter on Sunday.  Rachael’s feeling better and thinking of a hike for the first time in a week (though she ends up not taking one after all because it’s not really that pleasant out).  I feel better also, and progressively more so as the day goes on.  It feels like we’ve turned the corner.  At the end of the day we’re happily looking forward to going out for lunch the next day.  On the road to recovery!

The next morning though it’s apparent that this is a temporary high, to be followed by a steep drop.  I sleep badly, coughing often and apparently feverish at points from the feel of the damp sheets.  Fortunately at least it hasn’t disturbed Rachael, who slept comfortably in the second bedroom of our large apartment.

This feels like my cue that I need help, and I start studying the map, looking for nearby health clinics or hospitals where I might just show up or make an appointment here somehow.  And just as an aside, one thing that’s held us back from seeking out a doctor sooner is that we don’t really know how to find one.  In all our time in Europe over thirty years of traveling here, we’ve only seen a doctor twice, and both times we just showed up at a hospital during a real health crisis.

Since we don’t really know how to go about this, I pick what looks to me like the most likely facility and ask our local domain expert (Susan) if it’s a place that I can just show up at or if I need an appointment, because I can’t tell from their website.  Also, I ask her if pharmacies will dispense antibiotics without a prescription.

On the theory that it can’t hurt, I walk to the nearby pharmacy to see if it’s possible to get amoxicillin without a prescription.  It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t help either.  I wouldn’t bother if you’re in the same situation.

Susan checks out the facility, and tells me it won’t work - it’s a place you need to have been referred to.  So that’s out.  And then she tells us how to go about seeing a doctor in France.  You need to either make an appointment with one, or just show up at the nearest emergency room.  She said most folks without a physician already find one using an app, Doctolib, that shows doctors around the country and their available appointment slots.  It looks easy - just register yourself on the app and make an appointment with it.

Our ever-helpful friend has already scoped out the scene for us and can’t find any available appointments near me.  So the nearest emergency room it is.  It’s nearly two miles away and up on top of the cliffs, so it doesn’t take long to decide that we need a cab.  I find one, give him a call, and ten minutes later Rachael and I are seated in his van headed up the hill.  When he drops us off we tell him we’ll call him back later, and he nods and smiles and then turns to chat with an attendant - he’s obviously up here all the time.

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We didn’t check the time when we entered the ER, but it was somewhere around 5:30 or 6.  The small waiting room is packed, with maybe around 15-20 folks sitting there waiting.  There’s no visible admissions desk, but after I test the two doors someone comes up and points us to a window hiding behind a screen, where a receptionist is checking someone in.  We take our place in line, and ten minutes later I’m admitted, after I show my passport and we identify our payment or insurance plan.

We’re lucky to find two empty seats next to each other, and for the next half hour we sit there waiting for my name to be called.  While we wait we’re nearly getting seasick because our seats are part of a unit of four, and the other two are occupied by two other women in an animated conversation.  The seats aren’t bolted securely, and these women are constantly rocking our boat with their movements.

There’s little activity in the room.  Occasionally someone new comes in, or someone leaves, or someone gets called into a room.  It’s going to be a long evening obviously, but it’s a pleasant surprise when my name’s called after only about a half hour.  I’m called into a screening room where I get an initial assessment - blood pressure, temperature, weight, etc., and then am sent back to the waiting room.

We wait.  People come, people go, some in visibly poor condition - a toddler with his head wrapped in a bandage, a badly handicapped man with some sort of cognitive or vision issue or both who’s helped into his seat by assistants.  It’s an opportunity to be reminded of how fortunate we really are in the scale of things.

It’s at least two hours more before my name is called, and I’m taken to an examination room, instructed to just have a seat on the table, and told to wait.  So I wait - for nearly a full hour, long enough that I start wondering if I’ve been forgotten in here like a missed order in a restaurant.  After about a half hour I open the door and stand in the doorway, making myself visible to remind staff I’m still here.

While I wait I start updating Rachael who’s still back in the reception area of course, so she’ll know the situation and not worry about me.  Finally, at somewhere around 11 there’s a knock on the door and the doctor finally enters.  She lets me know that she can understand some English but speaks it less well, so we do the best we can.  She gathers more information: symptoms, headaches, digestive issues, medications, have I had my tonsils out, etc.  We narrow it down to just my cough and expectoration, and a moderate sore throat.

She informs me they’ll perform three tests: a combined Covid/grippe test, a bacterial swab, and a chest X-ray.  It’s an intermittent process: an aide comes in to administer the Covid test and delivers me a new hole from my nostril to the sky; the doctor comes back and administers the bacterial test; I’m told to follow the yellow line to the X-ray room, and then return to my post to wait for another twenty minutes or so until test results are in.

The doctor returns and goes over the findings, which are mostly positive. I don’t have Covid; I don’t have the grippe (influenza); I don’t have strep; etc.  There’s just the one thing, a dark spot on my lower right lung.  I have the onset of pneumonia.  She goes over my prescription: antibiotics, paracetamol for symptom control, and stop taking ibuprofen!

She thinks I should start taking the antibiotic now, but I’ll have to get it at a pharmacy.  She finds the nearest open one, calls them to deliver the prescription, gives us its phone number and address, and tells me I’ll need to phone them when we arrive because they’re not actually open.  And the clerical staff are gone for the night, so she says we’ll be receiving a bill someday.  And then we’re done.

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It’s midnight when I’m released and rejoin Rachael in the waiting room.  Its dark, and there’s only one other person there still waiting for something or someone.  Rachael pulls out her phone, I pull up the iPad and we find the number of the cabbie who brought us here; but when we call there’s no answer.  So we methodically go through the entire list of eight cabs, calling each with an increasing feeling of despair as one after another refuses to answer.  

We’re out of luck, and consider our options.  We could keep sitting here in this room for another seven hours or so until we can find a cab, or we can walk.  I check the distance: 2.7k, which isn’t the best but achievable.  I check the weather, which is important because among other foolish things neither of us brought a coat.  Fortunately conditions are surprisingly good tonight, the best that could be hoped for: dry, mild breeze, reasonably warm.

It’s an easy choice: we’re walking.  And it’s a fairly easy walk, considering.  We’re on quiet streets the whole way, and in fact we don’t see a single car or person out the entire way.  Most of the way is on completely unlit streets - a little spooky, and dark enough that we’re each using our phone - I to navigate, and Rachael to wield the flashlight and light the way.  We’re startled by a bat and a few barking dogs, but otherwise it’s very quiet.  It’s an adventure, one we might actually enjoy in other circumstances, but it’s not ideal if you have bad knees and pneumonia.

We make finally make it back to our room around one, set an alarm to make sure we’re up in time for the open hour of the nearest pharmacy, and call it a night.