Medical Blues

While living in Spain I found out that I don’t exist, which came as something of a shock. According to the Spanish health authorities I was a non-person.

We’d arrived in Spain after living in France for five years and thought we knew all about bureaucracy, but we’d yet to encounter the Spanish version.

Knowing one of our priorities was to register with the Spanish health service, we went to Huercal Overa, our nearest centre. We were armed with passports, form E121 provided by Newcastle, photocopies of marriage and birth certificates, residence cards and an abundance of hope.

The waiting area was packed. Several people were talking in muted English tones and in the corner sat a lone Spanish couple who looked under siege.

“Is this your first or second visit?” asked one elderly gentleman with an air of resignation. He went on to explain that he and his wife had been the day before, only to find they needed photocopies of their documents.

Derek and I smiled smugly; we’d been down this route in France and, like boy scouts, were prepared. Or so we thought. When our turn arrived we presented our sheaf of papers, but to no avail. We needed three photocopies of our marriage certificate and two of everything else. We returned the next day, greeting other returning couples as long-lost friends.

This time our photocopies were approved and we were directed to a second office a short car ride away. There we both filled in a form requesting a health service number. Everything was stamped and we received a new form which had to be taken to the first office where we would be issued with our numbers. Derek received a paper card and I was added as a dependent.

We both registered at the local doctor’s surgery. Weeks passed and Derek saw various medical practitioners without any problems. Eventually his plastic card arrived through the post. Clearly all was working as it should for him.

In the meantime, I’d requested an appointment to see a specialist for a check up. After waiting for four months without a response, a call came from the doctor’s receptionist to say I didn’t exist. But I do, I cried. I’m registered at Huercal Overa. Too bad the computer didn’t agree.

We returned to Huercal Overa the next day. At the first office there was much scratching of heads. I was already registered, so registering again wasn’t an option. The problem, it transpired, was that I hadn’t been given a number the first time around. Back in the car and off to office number two.

“You need to fill in this form,” said the lady at the desk.

“But I filled in one of those the last time I was here; can’t you just get the old one out of the files?” I asked.

The lady shrugged. If I’d filled in a form they’d have given me a number. “So,” she said, eyes gleaming. “What is your number?” No number? I couldn’t have filled in a form. Her logic was irrefutable. I filled in the form.

I was given my very own number, which I immediately gave to our doctor’s receptionist. She in turn passed it on to the hospital and requested an appointment.

The receptionist phoned a week later. My newly issued number? The computer said it didn’t exist.

Advice on registering with foreign health services can be found in The Healthy Options section of The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World