Save yourself.

In the spirit of winter and perhaps also piggybacking a little bit off my last posts, I am writing today’s post with two very sore arms, freshly vaccinated with the latest Covid booster (left arm) and this year’s flu shot (right arm). 

The vaccinations are widely available all over France at nearly any pharmacy; the Covid booster is “free” in France and the flu shot costs 20€ (although you can qualify for a free flu vaccine if you have various health issues or are over the age of 65). I prefer doubling up and doing both shots together as I clearly have masochistic tendencies. Just give me the full whammy, I would rather be miserable for a day or two and be done with it. 

This year, I was lulled into thinking maybe I wouldn’t feel anything at all; for hours after getting the double shots, I felt no pain and so, of course, I went out for wine with my very good French friend (“just one bottle” we had agreed via text to each other, fully delusional). 

After many drinks, the night ended up with me and my friend finishing with a bottle of Champagne Selosse (can't say no to Selosse) with some Americans we ran into, gleefully clinking glasses and sharing stories as they were visiting Paris and were very excited to hear about my life here. Of course, at this point, I felt absolutely nothing in my arms.

After I had finally decided I better get home, I arrived to my apartment quite tipsy and with a carefully wrapped full loaf of bread given to me by the restaurant for, you know, vague French reasons, much to the bemusement of my French boyfriend who made sure I went straight to bed. 

The next day, even though I was not that hungover, I felt like an actual truck had hit me. I had gone to the supermarket Auchan to pick up groceries (and some cheese and Speck for the bread) and very nearly vomited in the canned goods aisle. 

Pro French tip of the day: don’t get your winter vaccines and drink a bunch of Champagne in the same night, trust me, just don’t. Even if it is Selosse.

I had mentioned to both my friend and the restaurant staff that night that I had received my double vaccination, just like I do every winter, much to their incredulity. It will never fail to amaze me that French people, having access to what is arguably one of the best healthcare systems in the world, often do not take advantage of what is offered to them. 

“Bah, AngrygirlinParis, the system here has problems too,” they will tell me with a roll of their eyes and a puff of their cigarette, before launching into a monologue complaining about the increasing privatization and government budget cuts to healthcare. I mean, sure, they are not wrong and it’s not perfect, but it’s close. And coming from the USA, it is damn near a utopia.

Which brings me back to how winters in Paris are no joke. Russians have told me Parisian winters feel colder than in Moscow (something about the humidity).

My lovely médecin généraliste (primary care doctor) knows the drill with me. Every winter I get armed with a prescription of ampoules of pure vitamin D: small, glass vials filled with a yellow liquid that smell and taste vaguely of citrus and dried flowers. I am to take one ampoule once a month every two months until March.

There is literally not enough sunlight in Paris in the winter for my body to produce adequate vitamin D, my doctor doesn’t even bother testing my levels. She also writes me a script for boxes of vitamins that I get refilled at the pharmacy and she is absolutely delighted about my winter vaccine vigilance.

For mild colds, French people treat their local pharmacist as a stand-in doctor and come home with boxes of pills and powders that range from paracetamol to more homeopathic treatments.

So while the access to vaccines and immune system boosting tactics are excellent in France, I will say that when you are actually very sick, the treatment is a little bit more….tough love, French style.

And I have the perfect story for this tough French love, taking place at Christmastime in 2022. I had decided to leave Paris for a week to visit some more distant relatives in another European country. By December 26, one day before I was to go back to Paris, I began to develop a bad cough.

At that point, I was fully vaccinated against Covid and I had already had it for the first time in the summer of that year, so I figured it was likely just a winter cold. My aunt gave me a home test for Covid just in case and I tested negative. I apologized to my relatives for the cough and advised everyone to stay away.

That night at my hotel, I slept poorly and woke up the next day feeling absolutely awful. I had planned the day to give myself some hours to wander around the city streets and explore the shops, but I could barely move. Since I was forced to check out, I curled up on the hotel sofa in the lobby with my suitcase by my feet until my train time arrived. Once on the train, I was shaking and coughing so badly, I just curled up in my seat, mask on, and wrapped my scarf vigorously around my head. I was absolutely miserable. 

Man, this cold is really kicking my ass, I thought to myself.

When I finally arrived in Paris very late that night, I collapsed into bed but could barely sleep thanks to my relentless cough. The next day was a haze. I took another home test, another negative. I somehow made it to a pharmacy nearby to take an "official" test just to be "absolutely sure" (again, it was negative), where a sympathetic pharmacist gave me some over the counter meds and told me “there are a lot of viruses going around right now, it seems like everyone is sick.” I also bought a thermometer knowing I would have to be at work the next day and figured it would be wise to take my temperature.

When I got home that afternoon, I collapsed into bed again and slept. Waking up that evening, I took my temperature, waiting for the beep from the shitty, cheap thermometer.

Beep.

I held it up and tried to get my eyes to focus, my vision was blurring at this point. 

40,8 

I stared at the number. 

Oh wait, that’s right, this is in Celsius. Shit, what is this in Fahrenheit? 

I googled the conversion: 105,44 Fahrenheit.

Holy shit.

I texted my sister who responded with concern. “You should probably go to the hospital,” she told me. “Brain damage starts around 106 Fahrenheit.” 

Shit, shit, shit.

I texted her back that I wasn’t going to the hospital, that seemed a tad dramatic for me, a young and otherwise healthy 30-something-year-old. But she wasn’t happy with this response and stressed that I needed a doctor. I began to google my options in Paris, having no clue if urgent care clinics were a thing here.

I quickly found something called SOS Médecins, a 24/7 service you can call for a doctor to make a house call for anything that does not warrant emergency hospital care. Since it was evening and most same-day clinics were already closed, I decided this was the best option and called the number.

I was on hold for a long time.

When a woman finally answered, because I was blessedly fairly fluent in French at this point, I was able to explain why I was calling, telling her my fever reading and my symptoms. She agreed I needed to see a doctor but explained they were absolutely slammed this particular night and the doctor would only be able to arrive in 4 hours or possibly even longer. I glanced at the time, it was 7pm. 

What choice did I have? 

I told her this was fine, gave her my address, all my codes to get into the building, which étage (floor) I lived on, and specified that my apartment was the one next to the elevator. After the call ended, I went back into bed and curled up in every blanket I owned, the radiator blasting on the highest heat possible as I laid there, shaking and freezing. Those four hours that passed were some of the longest of my life, I felt so sick. Every time I stood up to get more water or tea, it felt like the floor was coming up to meet me and I would collapse. 

It was pretty gnarly. 

At long last, I heard someone coming up the stairs and finally the long-awaited knock on my door. I opened it to find an older man in plainclothes carrying a large satchel.

“Madame AngrygirlinParis?” He inquired, to which I gave him a raspy but grateful oui in response, and ushered him in.

Of course, he only spoke French (which thankfully I could understand perfectly well at this point). He asked me to sit down and began going through his doctor protocol as I explained the fever temperature, that my sister had recommended I need medical care, that I could not stop coughing, that my symptoms began a few days ago, and that I have now repeatedly tested negative for Covid.

I was barely croaking this all out in my scratchy voice and I remember also being mildly embarrassed that my tiny little Parisian apartment was absolutely littered with tissues everywhere and the temperature of a tropical jungle (I was still wrapped in my blanket and shivering as I spoke to him). He nodded as I spoke, giving the occasional “hmph” that he understood, and used his stethoscope, listening intently. He took my temperature and it had only marginally dropped since my 40,8C reading. 

Finally he leaned back, satisfied with his examination, and announced very matter-of-factly, “Madame, you have the flu.” 

The flu? 

I stared at him. I hadn’t had the flu since college. He began to write a prescription on a paper, telling me that he was giving me 1000mg Doliprane (paracetamol) to break the fever and asked if I had any Doliprane at this strength already in my apartment. 

“Yes, I have some leftover since I had Covid last summer,” I told him, remembering that I had been prescribed 1000mg Doliprane by a doctor then, too. This made my current doctor very happy and he proceeded to tell me to take a Doliprane every four hours for the next couple days and fill the prescription he had given me ASAP. For my American readers, this prescription was the equivalent of extra-strength Tylenol. 

“Every four hours?” I asked weakly in French. “What about sleep?” 

He laughed and said, “Madame, you won’t be able to sleep anyway.” He would turn out to be right. 

“Do I need to go to the hospital for a fever this high?” I asked. 

I felt like surely what I had was something worse than the flu and I should be prescribed something a little more, I don't know, strong.

He answered no, I was young and healthy, just take the Doliprane and I would be fine. 

But I definitely did not feel fine so, at this point, realizing this was my chance to ask for meds, my American-ness kicked in with full force. I proceeded to ask if he could also prescribe something for my cough, something for my throat, and something to help me sleep. I think the way I phrased it was as more of a demand, as in, “I need something for the pain.”  

As soon as I was done with my barrage of requests, the doctor gave me an emphatic non. 

“Madame, you are in France,” he told me, his chest puffing out; I could tell he was gearing up for a lecture. 

“We do not prescribe this many drugs in France. You want more drugs? Go back to the USA.” 

He then proceeded to go on a mild rant on how in America, ibuprofen is so overprescribed and causing organ damage to all Americans and paracetamol is vastly superior.  

“Please,” I gasped weakly, “I just feel so terrible.” 

He gave me a smile. “Madame, of course you feel terrible. You have the flu!” 

And that was that. He handed me the prescription, going on to tell me that this was one of the worst flu outbreaks in Paris he had ever seen, he had been running around town all night and apparently everyone was sick with this terrible strain of flu. He reassured me again that I would be fine, just take the Doliprane as instructed. He then proceeded to ask me for payment; this incredible house call by a real doctor came out to a whopping 78€ out of pocket, which would later be reimbursed nearly in entirety by my French health insurance. 

I couldn’t believe how easy this whole appointment was and that I had the luxury of a doctor coming to my home. Honestly, he could have lectured me about how they hand out drugs in the USA like candy all he wanted, I was absolutely marveling at the accessibility of French healthcare (bear in mind, I am living in Paris, it’s different in other areas of the country, of course). 

He also gave me the paperwork for an arrêt maladie, essentially official documentation and reasoning for sick leave that I was to pass on to my employer (if memory serves, he gave me 10 days off, which was also the standard for Covid at the time). I had emailed it to my HR director that night and was officially on leave starting the next day.

And then, wishing me a nice night and quick recovery, he was off to the next patient, leaving me in my humid and overheated flu incubator apartment. I took the Doliprane as suggested and slowly recovered over the next few weeks, although that bout of flu was truly horrible and left me weak for a long time, on par with the first time I had Covid (when I was also really sick). 

I would later find out that scientists and doctors had surmised that in that particular winter, when the flu swept through Paris and hospitalizations increased with flu patients and not Covid patients for the first time, that Covid itself had likely caused weakened immune systems in large parts of the population. So many were hit particularly hard with that strain of flu. 

I also now know from my sister that the flu is not to be fucked with and that most people mistakenly refer to a bad cold as the flu. 

“The actual flu is not a bad cold,” she told me. “It’s so much worse and can be dangerous.” 

This is not a medical blog nor do I have any credentials to comment on medical matters. I will say, do what is best for you and follow the advice of your doctor. 

I will also say that I was incredibly sick that winter, brutally reminded of just how debilitating the real flu can be. And of course, I was deeply, profoundly grateful to have access to such excellent healthcare here in Paris. I am also grateful I have access to a reformulated flu vaccine every winter and the Covid boosters. Maybe next time I won't take them with copious amounts of Champagne.

It is so hard to say no to Selosse, though.

How to survive Parisian winters:

1. Load up on 1000mg Doliprane or equivalent, this will be prescribed to you anyway if you get sick. Don't expect French doctors to prescribe anything stronger, even if you tell them you feel like you are dying.
2. Make sure to schedule a check-up with your médecin généraliste by September, ask for vitamin D ampoules to fortify yourself.
3. Buy boxes and boxes of Berocca multivitamins, take vigilantly everyday.
4. Consider getting a SAD light therapy lamp, scroll endlessly through options while cursing how expensive they are.
5. Wrap your scarf around your mouth (not very protective) or wear masks (more protective) in the métro or on trains, silently ask yourself every winter why on earth you moved to a country where everyone seems to be sick all the time and coughing and sneezing into their hands.
6. Load up on tea and honey at your local Carrefour or Auchan supermarkets, preferably purchased when not hungover and recovering from a double vaccine jab.
7. Research your local pharmacies to see who is providing double flu and Covid vaccines, book on Doctolib or call ahead to schedule accordingly. Many will likely be able to do same-day appointments. Keep the day after your shots absolutely free of any commitments, you will likely feel terrible.
8. Drink Champagne to stave off the seasonal depression, preferably with friends. Champagne Pierre Peters is an affordable option I highly recommend. 
9. Invest in good boots with traction so you don’t fall and slip on the streets and familiarize yourself with the urgent care equivalents available near you. Buy a thermometer. 
10. Be reminded, despite the freezing cold and gray skies, how magical Paris is this time of year when you see all the Christmas lights in every neighborhood and your instagram suddenly gets flooded with images and videos of the first snow (which you sadly missed because it was at 2am and you were in bed).