“We’ve never had health insurance, and until the Barr-Rattenbury government blew the health budget on that idiotic tram it had worked well. Now it’s a mess and people like us are caught between insane premiums and waiting forever for so-called “elective surgery,” writes columnist ROBERT MACKLIN. 

Last week I joined an assembly line whose efficiency would have Henry Ford weeping tears of joy. 

No, I wasn’t one of the mechanics doing his bit before it passed down the line, I was a metaphorical Model-T on the line itself! 

I was having my headlights adjusted and, but for one big bump at the start, the whole experience was smooth as silk. 

Older Canberrans will have cracked the analogy already. Hundreds and hundreds of them have already joined me on the line in hospitals around the city where eye surgeons are removing cataracts from our cloudy retinas.

Nurse Nardia at my hospital said: “It’s amazing. They just keep coming; and when I think there can’t possibly be any more suddenly there’s another rush.”

The war babies and the boomers have coalesced in this gold rush for the ophthalmology industry and my journey, I suspect, is typical.

I was alerted to the problem by the annual Access Canberra demand for a driver’s licence eye test. While I passed the test, I had trouble with the left eye, which took me back to my optometrist, and a referral to specialist Dr Chich-Hung Kuo.

We’ve never had health insurance, and until the Barr-Rattenbury government blew the health budget on that idiotic tram it had worked well. Now it’s a mess and people like us are caught between insane premiums and waiting forever for so-called “elective surgery”. (What a horrible word is “elective” when my dear wife weeps in pain from the sudden onset of two arthritic hips).

Anyway, my driving to the shops and the chemist with my chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) is vital, so Dr Kuo’s $2400 (less $649.90 Medicare refund) started the process. Then came $3208 (no refund) for the hospital and $600 for the anaesthetist (less $169.50) from our hard-pressed savings. 

Now for the good part. The day before surgery, word arrived that I should report by 11.30am. My eldest son drove up from Sydney and came in with me for an expected four-hour wait (as in the Canberra Hospital). Not so in the new Kent Street Canberra Private in Deakin. We’d barely arrived before Noah and Wang, recently from Bhutan in their medical scrubs, sat with us and checked the details then ushered me into the lift to the third-floor assembly line.

Voila! The blue plastic curtained beds were ranged around the entire floor. Mine awaited, a creased sheet suggesting a former sedan’s recent departure. 

A solicitous Wang brought water and helped me into my gown; I opened my new book on the great Donald Thomson, taking notes for a talk, when Ben, the anaesthetist’s assistant (also in scrubs), reminded me what I was there for and wrote an X above my left eye.

In a trice, it seemed, Wang and Noah were back pushing me and my bed into the operating theatre where Ross, the young anaesthetist, inserted a cannula into my notoriously unco-operative arm vein and used drops to numb the eyeball. Next the kindly features of Dr Kuo loomed into view; time slowed; soft Huo mutters emanated: “Good… good… ah, very good.”

All over, I thought. 

Not exactly. A big dressing covered the eye and – safety first – I had to wait an hour or so in a big comfy recliner on the assembly line floor. And there – I kid you not – they served me delicious fresh sangers with the crusts removed! (The Canberra Hospital version is made from used carpets). And the next day I had to visit Dr Huo’s rooms in Woden for a regular check-up. 

Next morning I removed the dressing and set forth to Kuo’s second floor rooms, only to find the lift out of order. Two flights totalling more than 30 high steps stretched skywards. With my COPD it was Mt Everest plus K2. I could have cried. But then a Canberra tradie – fawn boots, in his 30s – stepped from the shadows. “I’m early for my meeting,” he said. “Lean on me and…”

“I couldn’t…” 

“No worries, mate. Put your arm round the shoulders.”

And I did. We made it. 

At the top I was so overwhelmed I didn’t get his name. I guess he’d say, “No worries”. But I’ll remember his face, with both eyes.

robert@robertmacklin.com