Doctor Doogie and Friends

Ian and I have been settling into Danish life. I now have my yellow CPR (social security) card, my visa card, and my NEM ID. This last card is particularly befuddling as it contains rows of numbers which are meant to be codes. These codes are used for checking one’s e-BOKS (an email account where all government mail is sent including doctor’s appointments, bills, etc.), and online banking. It is strange here that everything is done electronically. There is rarely post in the mailbox, and the need to mail things in to places is simply not done. Denmark stopped making checks a few years ago, and credit cards are tapped on a device to send the payment wirelessly. 

I went to the pharmacy the other day and was told by the pharmacist to please wait just a minute while the robot got my prescription. 

“Robot?” I repeated confused.

“Yes, the robot upstairs,” replied the pharmacist matter of factly.

“You have a robot upstairs?”

“Yes, it saves us time as we don’t have to run around to get your medicine. Ah, here is your prescription,” he said as my drugs were dropped down a chute behind him.

Their love of technology aside, Danes do have simpler ways of managing some things. Ian and I went to the doctor last week to get the ball rolling on my prenatal appointments, and I was instructed to pee in a clear dixie cup…the kind you find by the office water cooler. I wasn’t sure where to put my…specimen. There was no metal door to slide it into. No mysterious hand to grab it, a person you would never have to look in the eyes and know that they were holding your pee. No. At this doctor, I got to hold my own dixie cup of pee. The nurse, a woman whom I love and have pledged all loyalty to, came to get me. She was probably mid to late 40s with short hair, a good sense of humor, and was very motherly. She proceeded to rave about a band called the “Gnags”, while matching my urine to a chart. "We will do some blood tests now," she said. 

I should give her a name. (Please note that all names I give in this blog are made up because I'm deathly afraid of offending someone or using their real name without permission.) I shall call her Hilda. 

     "We will do the triple test too," she continued. Hilda explained that this test was to check for downs syndrome and other chromosomal abnormalities. I agreed I'd like to do the test if it didn't cost too much. Hilda blinked. "You swiped your CPR card at the front desk right?"

    "Yes."

    "Then it's covered."

While I understood the words coming out of her mouth in a literal sense, I was finding it hard to believe them. Genetic testing in the U.S. is not covered by insurance and costs a fortune. More to the point, I would never see a bill for all the blood work she was doing. I would not have to worry about going bankrupt in an effort to birth this baby. What madness was this?!

     "But," Hilda said, "you can not have an abortion now."

     "Oh, I wasn't planning on it," I said, taken aback. 

     "Because people have the choice until 13 weeks. If something is wrong with the baby, they can abort it."

So, I'm pro-choice. A woman should have the right to do with her body what she likes. But I'm not like pro-abortion...I don't think anyone is. No one I know is like, "Yay! Let's kill some babies!" But I had never heard abortion talked about in such open terms without the taboo. Indeed, here, the baby is referred to as "the fetus" by medical professionals so as to take away the stigma. I was surprised and hastily explained that no, we wanted to keep the baby no matter what...it would just be nice to plan ahead if we found out he/she had special needs. Hilda nodded, drew some blood, and told me to wait for the doctor. 

Shortly after, a 16-year-old boy came out with beatnik glasses, a flannel shirt, and Adidas. He shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Hans,” he said. “Come with me.” 

I looked at Ian in surprise. He raised his eyebrows in return and we followed Doogie Howser into his nice Victorian office with lovely oriental rugs on the ground. I suppose if he was a doctor he must have been at least 25, but to us, he looked like just a boy. No lab coat, no title, just Hans in his flannel. 

Side note: I later learned that people don’t like to use titles here as it gives them a sense of superiority. Jante’s Law is a rulebook of sorts, that informs Danes of how to conduct themselves. The rules are as follows:

1. You're not to think you are anything special.
2. You're not to think you are as good as we are.
3. You're not to think you are smarter than we are.
4. You're not to imagine yourself better than we are.
5. You're not to think you know more than we do.
6. You're not to think you are more important than we are.
7. You're not to think you are good at anything.
8. You're not to laugh at us.
9. You're not to think anyone cares about you.
10. You're not to think you can teach us anything.

Rather the opposite of the States, eh? If only Ayn Rand could read this…

So, doctors go by their first names as do teachers. There will be no Ms. A. here…just Lauren, because all people are equal, regardless of their age, education, gender, sexual orientation, religion, or race. 

But back to Doogie…I mean, Hans. He asked some questions. Had a poke around my belly to see if he could find my uterus (no luck…maybe someday when he’s grown up), and told us the midwife and hospital would be reaching out to me through my e-BOKS.

An hour and 15 minutes later, Ian and I finally made our way out of the office. It had been a thorough exam, everyone was on-time and efficient, and we found that we were impressed by the manner that the medical community had towards pregnancy. As we walked home, we could not help but notice the rows of prams outside cafes, with Danish babies sleeping soundly in them. (It is considered very important to have your baby sleep outside in Denmark, even in Winter. Mothers will go into cafes for a chat with friends and keep an eye on their little ones from the window.) Ian and I reflected that soon we would have a little one in a pram, sleeping outside too.