Swiss health

Having cancer is rarely a good thing. It might focus your mind on the important things in life, but it also has a tendency to wipe out the newly gained focus by killing you. Most lives are better without cancer. Mine would be one of them, no doubt. But as I can’t choose and can’t change what has happened, I have to deal with it and fight it and win.  It seems to me that Switzerland is a good place to do so.  Here is my experience with the Swiss health system over the last two months.

Switzerland has mandatory health insurance.  You have to give proof of insurance when you register to live in a town or village.  Insurance is provided by a dozen or two companies that are all required by law to offer the same coverage and take anyone willing to sign up.  The companies charge a wide range of premiums, purportedly based on customer service, perceived friendliness and possibly the efficiency of their operations.  I have picked the cheapest insurance.

Insurance comes in four parts.  Health insurance is the core.  Dental insurance is optional, though I will never understand why my teeth are covered differently than my feet.  Accident insurance is also mandatory but provided by one’s employer.  Again, I don’t understand why this needs to be separate.  Does it really make a difference whether a virus attacks you or you scrape off a patch of skin during a fall off your mountain bike.  The fourth element is optional additional insurance, which might cover you abroad or help pay for private rooms in the hospital and care by the doctor of your choice.  I don’t have this.

Health insurance comes with a deductible.  The higher it is, the lower the monthly premiums.  Being healthy, I’ve always chosen the highest premium.  Last year, when I saw a doctor because of fake foot-and-mouth disease, I had to pay for this myself. This year, I’ll easily make it above the limit, and I might try to reduce my deductible for next year if that’s possible.

Once the insurance kicks in, there’s a copay of 10 per cent.  I imagine that this can add up to a substantial sum for chronic diseases that require expensive interventions.  I got CT scans and a PET-CT and was operated.  How much did that cost?  I don’t know.  In contrast to independent doctors, hospitals charge the insurance directly.  At the end of the year, I’ll probably get a hefty bill with my 10 per cent.  To my knowledge, there’s no upper limit, but beyond five per cent of taxable income, one can deduct medical expenses from one’s taxes.  These are more complications than I need.

Getting medical care was quick and easy, and incredibly efficient.  While I had to wait for a few weeks to get the initial consultation, once they had seen me, I was in the hospital within 24 hours.  All but one of the required tests were done over the next 48 hours.  I hardly had the time to breath.  The importance of the missing test was realized over the course of these two days.  It was scheduled for early the following week, just in time for the results to be available for the next meeting of the tumor board.

Hours after the tumor board meeting, I had a consultation with my oncologist who updated me on my situation and introduced me to the outpatient chemotherapy clinic.  The next day, I spoke to a surgeon for the first time.  My operation was scheduled for the next working day.  I spent most of that Friday afternoon getting prepped for the operation, being educated about the planned procedure and the risks, signing consent forms, and talking to an anesthesiologist.

At the hospital, I’ve only encountered the most friendly people.  I had the impression that everyone – doctors, nurses, carers, caterers and cleaners – was deeply concerned about my well-being and was doing everything they could to make me feel good.  Everyone carried a genuine smile and seemed to work with happiness.

When the surgeon who had operated on me called my mom and Flucha – two bundles of nerves close to losing it – they could tell from the first word that things had gone well.  She was positive, enthusiastic and happy with what she had done.

All patients are treated with the same respect.  The doddering geezer with slurred speech and incontinence, hardly able to move but with the occasional twinkle in his eyes, is treated no differently from a convalescing adolescent who’s on the way to a full recovery.  It was a thoroughly pleasing experience.

The pace of events has slowed down somewhat now.  I go to the outpatient clinic every two weeks to get intoxicated and then return 48 hours later to have the portable pump that keeps infusing toxins removed.  The procedure restarts eleven days later.  In between, to venture slightly off topic, but that’s probably why you’re reading, I live a largely normal life.  Few side effects so far, no handicap, a clear head and a hungry stomach.

I have no doubt that I’ll be back in hospital before chemotherapy is over.  There’s always the risk of something happening, especially in winter with my immune system suffering nearly as much as the cancer.  Whatever happens, I know that I’ll be in good hands.  The Swiss health system is taking good care of me.