international Student voice
you can’t earn a degree you can’t earn a you can’t earn a degree degree if you’re dead if if you’re you’re dead dead Healthcare’s complicated. International student healthcare, even more so. But then again, IKEA manuals are complicated to me. Operating a coffee machine would take me four academic years and $160 K, which is why I use instant. I’m not the brightest banana of the bunch, as much as I like to pretend I am, and I don’t know the first thing about health insurance, or taxes, or adulting in general. I’m not ashamed to admit that – well, maybe a little. Yes, I’ll learn it all firsthand eventually, but that’s a problem for future me, the future not-20-anymore me who’s finally moved out the house and escaped the clutches of her over-protective parents.
WORDS BY N Y
It surprises people when I say I’ve been living with my parents here in Adelaide for 9+ years, but I’m not a citizen yet. My obsession with saving money has translated to a complete and utter envy of the virtually free healthcare and HECS-HELP that Aussies get here. Was starting an Adelaide STEM degree as a non-permanent resident a regret of mine? No comment. Still, I acknowledge the undeniable truth that I am more fortunate than most other international (read: full fee-paying) students, in that I don’t really have to worry about managing private insurance quite yet (thanks, mum and dad!). And so, if you are the me from mid-February 2021, almost losing my left ovary was not that big of a deal. And here we start our runof-the-mill tale with a beginning, middle, and end. Content warning for TMI and
18
medical BS. Sunday 9:45 AM: our protagonist is rushing to the loo with a dull constant pain in her left abdomen. Nothing’s coming out, but the urge is there, so she gives up and gets up. She makes it three steps out before needing to heave her non-existent breakfast. She gets up again, she vomits again. Sensing a pattern, she crawls to the carpeted corridor and calls for help. “It sounds like a kidney stone,” says Dad. So, they wait it out. Writhing in pain on the floor is a great look for her. Sunday 2:30 PM: the pharmacy closes at 5. Mum’s back from church and she calls the home doctor service. It takes 45 minutes to get a hold of one, and it’s 45 goddamn dollars to just talk to one, because health insurance. “From what I’m hearing, it probably is a kidney stone,” says Dr. Phone Doctor. All our protagonist is hoping for is a painkiller prescription; ibuprofen and paracetamol haven’t been cutting it. All she gets is the promise of one. “I’ll send the prescription over to [insert pharmacy here] at [insert suburb] here.” It never comes. The pharmacy doesn’t get the prescription, and the protagonist doesn’t get her pills. 45 goddamn dollars down the drain. It’s pretty dark out now. Time is an illusion. Our protagonist’s parents call a health hotline. They agree that she should probably go to the emergency room. Surprise, it’s an ovarian cyst!
