Health Care in America: An Intimate Glimpse

I am an obese 75-year-old man. I recently had a large cyst removed from my spine, along with some bits of bone for which the surgeon said I had no need. The surgeon, trained at the University of Pennsylvania and Harvard, had an impressive resume and came highly recommended. He was, in addition, a very likable fellow. He looked about 18 years old.

I had last had surgery 30 years earlier in Switzerland, where I had a large room with a window overlooking the Alps in a hospital that boasted a splendid wine cellar. The nurses, efficient and caring, even brought drinks for visitors. When I experienced a bit of postoperative trauma, the surgeon was at my bedside within minutes with a sizable glass of cognac. I speculated recently on how patients were now cared for, more than a quarter of a century later, in the United States, my native land. Rather differently, I discovered.

The operation itself, as far as I could tell, went very well. I had naively assumed that I would have a private room, but perhaps all of them were occupied; it was not offered as an option. I awoke to find myself on a narrow bed in a small room that I shared with another patient. A curtain separated me from my fellow sufferer, whom I never saw. He enjoyed the window overlooking the parking lot. I was able to note his television preferences, which were limited to cartoons and basketball. I also saw his many friends and relations of both sexes and all ages, who, perforce, …