Sick And Tired

Okay:

So, yesterday I went to the ER at Providence Hospital, just a few blocks up the street from my apartment. My mother gave birth to me in that hospital. Since 1979, things have gone down considerably.

Of course, I first tried to make an appointment with my Primary Care Physician. The receptionist was kind, but unmoved. "Sorry sir," she kept repeating. "We simply cannot see you before Monday."

"Did you tell him that it was Claude and my throat hurts?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Would you like to schedule something for next week?"

"I could be dead by then."

So, I packed my bag: my iPod, my journal, a jacket and a good book. How did I learn to pack so well for the ER? My ex-girlfriend would go to the ER at least 6 times a year for one problem or another. Before I met her, I hadn't been since a stick ball accident in elementary school when I nearly lost my eye. But she turned me into an expert.

First you wait. Then you go to triage and the nurse asks you to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten. Then you wait some more. Then you go to registration and they take all your insurance info and give you your bill. Then you wait some more. Then they call you to the back and put you in the room with the reclining bed with the strip of butcher paper on it. Then you wait some more. Then a doctor comes to check you out. Then they leave. Then you wait some more. Then they come back with your prescription and your discharge papers and it's over.

Anywhere between 3 and 6 hours, depending on the time of day.

This is American health care.

According to the insurance companies and their lobbyists, it may be free and relatively quick in places like Cuba, France and Canada, but instead of writing you a prescription for antibiotics for your sore throat, they'll send you home with a bottle of warm salt water and a friendly reminder to not kiss anymore prostitutes.

Because foreigners simply cannot do medicine like Americans. They ain't got the requisite skills.

So, in triage I was interviewed by a nice white lady named Lucy. When asked to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, I said four. "Thanks for being honest," she said.

"Does this mean that people in more pain will be seen before me?"

"Actually no. We have to send this stuff into an oversight company. I'm not sure what they do with it."

I didn't believe her.

Then it was back to the waiting room with me until they called my name for registration. There, a woman who reminded me of my Aunt Bennie gave me a co-pay bill for $50. Not bad. Less than a tank of gas, but that's not saying much these days, now is it?

Then it was back to the waiting room again where I read and watched CNN alternately. Incidentally, Obama thinks child rapists should get the death penalty, McCain supports the Supreme Court decision to overturn DC's handgun ban, and North Korea is handing over information on their nuclear weapons program.

At some point my mind started playing tricks on me and I thought I heard my name called. I wondered back to the triage area where I heard a ruckus through the doors. I looked through the window pane and saw that security was escorting a middle-aged black woman from Lucy's office. Lucy was standing across from her door, pink-faced and belligerent and pointing at the floor in her doorway. "That is totally inappropriate. Totally."

Everyone looked to where she was pointing and took baby steps away, shaking their heads.

Please, I thought, somebody tell me what's on that floor. Piss? Vomit? Shit? I must know.

Finally, my name was called to come to the back where I was directed to a room of my own. I waited there for close to thirty minutes. Then they sent in a doctor. A pretty doctor.

Just my luck, I hadn't opened my mouth in an hour, and I was sure things were pretty funky. Not that I could tell. My nose has been useless all week. She broke out the Popsicle stick, checked me out and then left. She wasn't in there two minutes. She didn't ask to hold my balls or anything. Hardly what I would consider thorough. When I wait four hours to see a doctor, and she's this cute, I expect to have my balls handled. Call me crazy.

It was after she left that I began checking stuff out. I had finished by book and was nearing my attention threshold. I took my blood pressure. Did you know that scale with the numbers on it connected to the pump is called a Sphygmomanome?

Of course, I couldn't resist the temptation to look into the Bio hazard trashcan. Nothing interesting there.

What was interesting was how dirty the place was. It wasn't any cleaner than my bathroom at home, which is saying a lot. There was all kinds of gunk on the walls, and the floor. And, of course, in a hospital , you're wondering, what is that gunk exactly and why doesn't anyone bother to get in here with a mop and some bleach occasionally? This place should be, like, the golden standard for cleanliness. It was like a public restroom in a decent mall. Not totally filthy, but still not clean enough to take a shit.

A nurse came in twenty minutes later with my prescription and discharge papers.

The primary diagnosis: Pharyngotonsillitis

My prescription: Zithromax 500mg

Doctor's orders: Lots of fluids. No smoking, alcohol or soda. Don't return to work until July 2.

Which sucks because I'm still probationary and don't have any sick leave.


The whole ordeal took five hours. But, oh well. I wouldn't have taken a vacation otherwise.


Thanks, Air Borne Bacteria.


And thank you, for reading.


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GOBAMA!


Innocent Question: If I ever should find myself needing to go to the ER again, I'll be going to the white side of town. Does that mean I'm becoming a snob?