Though the Greek healthcare system is crumbling, novelist Paul Johnston found his treatment in Athens to be wonderful.
Why would a foreigner choose to go for major surgery in a Greek state hospital in one of the most rundown and dangerous parts of central Athens?
Surely 12 nights there would make Dante's Inferno seem like a walk in the Elysian Fields?
As I lay recovering from a radical prostatectomy a week ago in a twin-bedded room on the fifth floor, I occasionally asked myself that question, especially after midnight when the sounds from the streets below included heavy blows and screams for help. Occasionally, but not often.
Because I have history going back nearly 10 years with the Polykliniki, a small general hospital about 100 metres from Omonia Square, once the thriving heart of commercial Athens but now a hub of illegality of all kinds, haunted by the homeless and migrants without papers.
Irony was a rhetorical device first used by the ancient Greeks and is in full flow in the modern country: Omonia means "concord".
In 2003, the surgeons in the urology ward relieved me of a very advanced and aggressive tumour, at the cost of a kidney and associated piping.
In 2008, the gastroenterology clinic diagnosed me with bowel cancer. And now I was back for the removal of my prostate.
I have a malformed gene that makes me susceptible to certain cancers. I sometimes wonder if some malevolent fate or curse as in the Greek myths has blighted my life – think Agamemnon, murdered by his wife, or Philoctetes with his stinking leg wound – but even that metaphorical view of genetics seems not to apply.
I'm the first in my family to have this syndrome. Maybe it's because I'm an atheist.
I could have had the operation in the UK, but I never gave that serious thought. I doubt I'd have got from diagnosis to operation in six weeks.
Besides, the surgeons in the Polykliniki have become friends and, despite the fact that many Greek doctors are on the take, I have never had to put a cent in one of those notorious "little brown envelopes".
There have been media reports recently about shortages of essential supplies and drugs in Greek hospitals.
A friend going into another hospital was told to bring his own toilet paper. I did experience that side of the economic crisis this time, having to buy the support tights that briefly turned me into a fashion victim, as well as a course of anti-coagulant injections (latterly, to my horror, self-administered).
Other than that, the Polykliniki seemed perfectly well stocked. The food was even an eye-opener on occasion – the roast chicken with okra would have graced a luxury hotel's tables.
My wife stayed in the hospital while I was recovering, as is the Greek custom. We got close to the hard-pressed nurses. After the night shift they have to make their way home through the mean streets, often finding their cars ransacked.
The repellent neo-Nazi Golden Dawn party, quick to spot an opportunity, has offered to escort hospital staff – some have little option but to accept, while others tell them exactly where to insert their offer.
The long-suffering security staff wear stab vests. One hospital employee heads off with a large knife in his belt to deter potential attackers – this in Athens, not long ago one of Europe's safest cities.
The doctors in the Polykliniki are interested in one thing – doing the best for their patients, often under the most trying of circumstances: the hospital is on the front line, patching up junkies and other unfortunates, as well as surgical patients.
They perform a vital social service. Inevitably, cuts mean that it may well be closed down at the beginning of next year.
Which would be a tragedy. In Homer's Iliad, the healer Machaon, son of Asclepius, is also a warrior, a member of the heroic class.
The doctors and nurses of the Polykliniki are heroes to hundreds of patients every week. They represent the "good Greeks", the many who pay their taxes and have accepted huge salary cuts without complaint.
Business leaders, shipowners and the rentier rich have been keeping their heads down. For the modern day healers of the Polykliniki, that is not an option. I salute them.
• Paul Johnston is a Scottish writer who spends much of his time in Greece. The fifth of his Greece-based Alex Mavros novels, The Silver Stain, is available now. For more info, visit www.paul-johnston.co.uk
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/greek-election-blog-2012/2012/jun/16/greek-elections-blog-hospitals?INTCMP=SRCH
Surely 12 nights there would make Dante's Inferno seem like a walk in the Elysian Fields?
As I lay recovering from a radical prostatectomy a week ago in a twin-bedded room on the fifth floor, I occasionally asked myself that question, especially after midnight when the sounds from the streets below included heavy blows and screams for help. Occasionally, but not often.
Because I have history going back nearly 10 years with the Polykliniki, a small general hospital about 100 metres from Omonia Square, once the thriving heart of commercial Athens but now a hub of illegality of all kinds, haunted by the homeless and migrants without papers.
Irony was a rhetorical device first used by the ancient Greeks and is in full flow in the modern country: Omonia means "concord".
In 2003, the surgeons in the urology ward relieved me of a very advanced and aggressive tumour, at the cost of a kidney and associated piping.
In 2008, the gastroenterology clinic diagnosed me with bowel cancer. And now I was back for the removal of my prostate.
I have a malformed gene that makes me susceptible to certain cancers. I sometimes wonder if some malevolent fate or curse as in the Greek myths has blighted my life – think Agamemnon, murdered by his wife, or Philoctetes with his stinking leg wound – but even that metaphorical view of genetics seems not to apply.
I'm the first in my family to have this syndrome. Maybe it's because I'm an atheist.
I could have had the operation in the UK, but I never gave that serious thought. I doubt I'd have got from diagnosis to operation in six weeks.
Besides, the surgeons in the Polykliniki have become friends and, despite the fact that many Greek doctors are on the take, I have never had to put a cent in one of those notorious "little brown envelopes".
There have been media reports recently about shortages of essential supplies and drugs in Greek hospitals.
A friend going into another hospital was told to bring his own toilet paper. I did experience that side of the economic crisis this time, having to buy the support tights that briefly turned me into a fashion victim, as well as a course of anti-coagulant injections (latterly, to my horror, self-administered).
Other than that, the Polykliniki seemed perfectly well stocked. The food was even an eye-opener on occasion – the roast chicken with okra would have graced a luxury hotel's tables.
My wife stayed in the hospital while I was recovering, as is the Greek custom. We got close to the hard-pressed nurses. After the night shift they have to make their way home through the mean streets, often finding their cars ransacked.
The repellent neo-Nazi Golden Dawn party, quick to spot an opportunity, has offered to escort hospital staff – some have little option but to accept, while others tell them exactly where to insert their offer.
The long-suffering security staff wear stab vests. One hospital employee heads off with a large knife in his belt to deter potential attackers – this in Athens, not long ago one of Europe's safest cities.
The doctors in the Polykliniki are interested in one thing – doing the best for their patients, often under the most trying of circumstances: the hospital is on the front line, patching up junkies and other unfortunates, as well as surgical patients.
They perform a vital social service. Inevitably, cuts mean that it may well be closed down at the beginning of next year.
Which would be a tragedy. In Homer's Iliad, the healer Machaon, son of Asclepius, is also a warrior, a member of the heroic class.
The doctors and nurses of the Polykliniki are heroes to hundreds of patients every week. They represent the "good Greeks", the many who pay their taxes and have accepted huge salary cuts without complaint.
Business leaders, shipowners and the rentier rich have been keeping their heads down. For the modern day healers of the Polykliniki, that is not an option. I salute them.
• Paul Johnston is a Scottish writer who spends much of his time in Greece. The fifth of his Greece-based Alex Mavros novels, The Silver Stain, is available now. For more info, visit www.paul-johnston.co.uk
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/greek-election-blog-2012/2012/jun/16/greek-elections-blog-hospitals?INTCMP=SRCH
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