RTA delivers healthy lesson in multiculturalism

Our doctors and nurses come from across the world.

I owe my life to the Roads and Traffic Authority of NSW, which is surprising considering the grief I caused them during the construction of my wildlife sanctuary near Gosford. It appears they don't harbour grudges.

It began when they wrote informing me that as I was about to turn 75 I required a health certificate to prove I was still capable of driving a car. This caused some jocularity among the local peasantry until I asked those with an impeccable driving record to hold up their hands.

Outraged by the impertinence of the RTA but realising there was no alternative, I reported to my GP, who filled out the forms adding I should also have a blood test. No worries I thought, remembering the words of the great Tony Hancock, "Pure Anglo-Saxon with a dash of Viking thrown in." I expected to pass with honours.

There are many things that can cause the colour to drain from one's face and one is to hear the doctor say, "I want to see you immediately."

With trepidation I reported to my GP, a delightful fellow from Afghanistan, who made me aware of how multicultural our health system had become.

First the good news. "You're a type two diabetic and your prostate-specific antigen is too high." "What does that mean?"

"It means you're going on a diet and having a biopsy and an ultrasound." While I was not surprised at the diabetes, previous blood tests had shown my PSA levels to be normal. This time he was not so encouraging. "It has a 50 per cent chance of being cancer but it could be a half-dozen other things. The good news is that you're more likely to die with prostate cancer than die from it." "Oh! Goody."

So here I was, 26 years after a heart attack and five years after a hip replacement, standing with my trousers down facing a po-faced doctor with a rubber glove.

"Let's begin with the prostate," he muttered. Unfamiliar with Afghan humour, I resisted the temptation to joke about the fickle finger of fate and the Khyber Pass.

Then I headed for the ultrasound, where the multicultural nature of our health system was confirmed by a delightful Russian woman doctor.

The following day I faced a grim-faced GP. "You have a 7cm aortic aneurism." Having lost my mother to a brain aneurism 50 years earlier, the word chilled my bones. "I've made an appointment for you with a cardiovascular specialist," were his parting words.

I needed cheering up so the specialist was just the man. "There is a 30 per cent chance of it erupting at any moment." "And?" "Then you have an 80 per cent chance of dying." Another doctor said cheerily: "You'll barely feel a thing. It will be over in seconds."

When I stopped shaking, I asked, "When do you intend to operate, tomorrow or Wednesday?"

It was the doctor's turn to look shocked, "Oh, no," he replied. "I can't operate for six weeks. I'm going on holiday and my wife would kill me if we didn't go." I couldn't think of an appropriate response. The doctors remained cheerful but then they didn't have the aneurism. When they said, "You'll be right mate", I knew I was back in Australian hands.

"I wouldn't want to spoil your holiday," was my parting shot.

Thus began the longest six weeks of my life. The biopsy, by a doctor from Montenegro, wasn't exactly a piece of cake but I was in and out on the same day. I told the doctor I didn't want to know the results until after the operation for the aneurism.

No one told my local doctor, who rang to tell me there was no cancer, only a mild infection that could be cured with a few pills. At last a good news phone call.

The fact that I'm writing this column is testimony that I survived. After four days I was back home with the family, who said, "We told you you'd be all right."

So why this column? To express my admiration for the health system and the people in it. Sure, I was upset about the delayed operation, but my specialist said: "We're not short of doctors. It's nurses we need. We don't pay them enough so they leave for more remunerative careers. That's why we have waiting lists."

It was the nurses who made life in Canberra Hospital bearable. I wouldn't do it for 10 times the pay but, to a woman (there were no men), they were caring, cheerful, professional and able to put up with the demands of grumpy patients. And where are they from? About half are Anglo-Celts; the rest are from China, India, the Philippines and all points north, south, east and west. They are the best reason for a multiracial society. They have added immeasurably to our health system.

Which brings me back to thanking the RTA for saving my life. If nothing else this column may be a lesson to those who complain about needing a medical test to get their licence renewed.