I Had A Stupid Accident In Israel

Here's What Happened Next....

When helicopters hover above central Tel Aviv, occasionally it signals something joyful: the release of hostages. After macabre handovers by masked militia, Israeli captives freed by Hamas are airlifted to the city, where they receive specialist care at some of the best hospitals on earth.

The tale of how I too ended up in one of these medical facilities does not, unfortunately, feature any war-reporting heroics. Embarrassingly, it involves falling off an e-scooter –a nasty accident that nonetheless provided a taste of world-leading healthcare.

Quite why I suddenly hit the deck as I was cruising along the Tel Aviv beach promenade at 15mph, I will never be sure. What I do know is that I have only myself to blame for what happened while I was busy admiring the view. On the shores of the Mediterranean, bronzed twenty-somethings played beach volleyball, while athletic types jogged along the boardwalk. The vista was all golden sand and golden bodies. As the sun set, the sky slowly turned the colour of a pale pink English rose. Speeding alone, I felt at one with the world. Suddenly, the wind whipped off my cap, sending it sailing into the sky like a little beige kite. The next thing I knew, I was spreadeagled on the pavement, seeing stars.

Perhaps I hit a bump as I turned to look at my disappearing hat, or just somehow lost my balance. Either way, I flew over the handlebars, landing hard. While my jaw and chin hit the pavement, the rest of me smacked onto the scooter’s jack-knifed chassis.

Two kind passers-by helped me stagger to a bench, where I sat in a daze, trying to work out whether I had broken bones or chipped teeth. I had cut my chin and it wouldn’t stop bleeding, but everything else seemed broadly present and correct. I certainly didn’t think it was a hospital job.

Back at my hotel, I was in a better position to assess the damage. I was ghostly white, and developing a splitting headache. By now night had fallen and I was alone in a city I do not know; with only a handful of shekels in my pocket and not a word of Hebrew. I really, really didn’t want to go to the hospital, but the more I Googled, the more frightened I became. Staring at my waxen face in the bathroom mirror, I tried to figure out whether my pupils were dilated, a potential red flag with head injuries. I could not stop thinking about poor Natasha Richardson, the actress who tragically died after an apparently minor fall on an easy ski slope. For several hours after hitting her head, she had seemed okay. In reality, she had suffered a fatal brain injury. What if I too was having what doctors call a “lucid interval” – a brief period without any symptoms of a life-threatening head injury? How could I risk falling asleep?

And so it was that I found myself at the Sylvan Adams Emergency Hospital, a state-of-the-art facility designed to deal with casualties of war. When air raid sirens sound and locals take cover in bomb shelters, doctors and nurses at this hospital continue their work underground. It is all set up for electricity blackouts and flying missiles.

As for idiots like me? They can be assessed and treated in the blink of an eye. No wretched NHS-style 12-hour waits here: just expert attention in literally minutes.

First, however, overseas visitors must pay. It’s an eminently sensible policy that spares the Israeli taxpayer from picking up the tab for tourists who can’t or won’t cough up. (By contrast, the NHS tends to treat foreigners first, and ask nicely for cash second: a costly approach.) I would be thoroughly checked for an upfront fee of around £250.

Surveying the scene in Admissions, I noted the eclectic mix of ailments and injuries characteristic of all A+E departments: frail folk in wheelchairs; anxious mothers nursing sick kids; sheepish looking students post misadventures. Among those waiting was the odd IDF soldier. That is where the similarities with NHS Accident and Emergency services ended. Nobody was lying on trolleys in the corridor; no ambulances backed up outside, unable to drop off patients due to lack of beds or staff; no police officers required to maintain order. The atmosphere was totally calm.

In less than an hour, I would be in front of a consultant, a cheerful Polish surgeon with excellent English. He took a very good look at me; glued the gash on my chin and listened patiently as I fretted about Richardson. Blood tests were taken; results returned in less than an hour. My prognosis? Fine.

I had come to Israel to learn more about war, and how it might eventually end. The plan was to talk to the IDF; listen to intelligence sources and hear the latest from the defence industry. I was also due to visit Technion, Israel’s Institute of Technology – a world-class seat of learning and innovation. Linked to Albert Einstein, it has a central role in national life, training 80pc of Israeli engineers. From creating a microscopic Bible (the entire Old Testament on a chip the size of a grain of sand) to developing cancer cures and artificial meat, it is behind some of the most wondrous innovations on earth.

Happily, I was still able to do all this, but the accident shifted my focus to Israel’s widely admired healthcare system. The contrast with the NHS was too glaring to ignore.

Seemingly in no hurry (another novelty), my Polish surgeon talked of the benefits of dedicated emergency hospitals. (Our own acute facilities deal with both accidents and planned cases under one roof, a set-up that means backlogs in one area immediately affect the other). Separate ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ sites might have saved much misery during the pandemic.

Based on mandatory health insurance with not-for-profit providers, Israel’s health system is means-tested but universal, ensuring even the poorest citizens are covered. By both efficiency and outcome, it ranks among the best in the world – as I can attest. By 10pm I was back in my hotel room, shocked, sore and feeling very stupid. I had been at the hospital for less than two hours. ( In the UK, some 5,700 patients a day are forced to wait more than 12 hours to be seen at A+E). Sylvan Adams uses all manner of time and life-saving devices and AI wizardry to get patients through and out fast. For example, those who can are encouraged to speed up the initial admissions process by using simple self-service devices to provide their vital signs. Robots buzz around providing directions and other helpful information. In quiet moments, staff amuse themselves by testing the AI: seeing if it understands slang (it does) and can tell the difference between male and female voices (it can).

Granted, Israel is a fraction of the size of the UK, with very different demographics. All the same, the NHS could learn lessons from this. So, of course, could I. A month after the debacle, my bruises have finally gone and I’m back on e-scooters. These days though, I’m considerably less cocky – and never hats that might fly off.