It took three months to get my first doctor’s appointment in Toronto, which in American time means I could have developed a new personality, changed my diet, and possibly grown a second mortgage before I got seen. In the U.S., I was accustomed to healthcare moving with the speed and grace of a shopping cart with one bad wheel. So naturally, when I finally got an appointment here, I was suspicious. Efficient medical care? In this economy?
When I arrived, I discovered my doctor was a young man, which is a fun little twist when you are a woman in your forties and have reached the age where you expect your physician to either have wisdom, gray hair, or at least a face that suggests he has paid off student loans. Instead, I got the medical equivalent of “freshly minted and eager to suggest screenings.” He told me to get a pap smear and a mammogram, which is apparently the Canadian way of saying, “Welcome. Please present your reproductive organs for inspection.”
I did not respond by telling him to rub his perineum with a toilet bowl brush or put his nuts in a panini press, which honestly felt like a sign of remarkable personal growth. That was the full extent of my restraint for one day, and frankly I think I deserve a commemorative plaque.
And yet, the truly shocking part was this: I was seen on time. On time. Not “we’re running behind” time. Not “the doctor is in the building, spiritually.” Actual, real, chronological on-time medical care. This never happened to me in the States, where every appointment felt like a test of endurance, patience, and whether I had brought enough snacks to survive the waiting room.
Then came the part that made me question whether I had accidentally wandered into a public-health fantasy novel: I paid nothing for the visit. Zero. Nada. In America, a doctor’s visit always had a mysterious price tag attached to it, like a restaurant where the menu is legal but the final bill is a hostage situation. Here, I walked out without feeling financially mugged.
And the prescription? One dollar for a 90-day supply, thanks to Drew’s secondary insurance provided by his employer. One dollar. Ninety days. At that price, I’m half convinced the pharmacist was just trying to get rid of me politely. I have spent more than that on gum, disappointment, and the kind of grocery store berries that collapse under their own optimism.
Also, I did not have to wear a paper gown, which deserves recognition as a national virtue. There is something deeply dehumanizing about being asked to put on a garment that feels like it was designed by someone who hates dignity and open backs. So congratulations, Toronto: you have already outclassed the U.S. healthcare experience by removing one humiliating layer of thin, crinkly paper.
Toronto healthcare has made a strong first impression. It is slower to access but somehow faster to deliver, free at the point of care (mostly), and mercifully short on paper-based shame. I came in expecting inconvenience and left feeling mildly impressed, slightly suspicious, and weirdly patriotic about a country I did not even grow up in.