ash is working on an expose which will contain this piece. Since it’s quite a lengthy project and nowhere near complete, she decided to post this stand-alone section meanwhile.
It’s a health clinic, although it could be any institution. It’s the government-funded alternative to private practice, which only increases the potential for mischief.
While I’m grateful it exists, I always dread going to my local primary care physician, a nice guy from India who’s too many levels above the fray to contribute to the disciplinary abuses. All I want from him today is assurance that the pills I need will be forthcoming until my next visit, in the form of a prescription with several refills. And though I walk out of the place with that slip of paper in hand, it’s a winding road from start to finish.
It doesn’t always happen but sometimes it does. A longer wait than there should be, especially considering the nearly empty waiting room. At the half-hour mark, having begun to lose interest in the packet of printed pages I brought for company, being pretty sure I once read something about ‘‘if, after 20 minutes…,” and noticing the three unoccupied clerks shooting the breeze, I approach one of them to make a simple inquiry. Could there be a problem? I ask, explaining that whereas I had been scheduled for several hours earlier when I made the appointment 3 months ago, at some point someone called to change it. Could that not have been noted at their end of the communication? Is the doctor running late? Or, in spite of no particular paranoid tendencies on my part, could he not have been told I’m here, inadvertently, of course, (or, as I don’t say, deliberately)?
The receptionist vaguely reassures me she has no idea what the delay is, but nothing out of the ordinary is going on, and I sit down. Soon I hear a small commotion behind me, consisting of children kicking chairs as a custodian (I assume) scolds them, ultimately handing them over to a supervisor in charge of a play room as I wonder why they weren’t put there in the first place. But before washing his hands of them he pauses to caution her that one little boy is on medication (for autism, I speculate), thus his misbehavior “isn’t his fault.”
As he straightens chairs I joke that I feel impatient, too, but don’t worry, I’m not going to take it out on the furniture. Rather than respond to the mild humor in the spirit in which it was intended, he sighs, “Better not. You know, you wait a lot longer in the emergency room, and it’s a lot cheaper here.” Yes, I nod, and try to read but find myself constantly checking the clock, wishing at least I’d brought in my coffee, as the room becomes eerily empty. 20 minutes later, having arrived 55 minutes ago (I was 5 minutes early), and without even engaging my brain, my body lifts me out of the chair and through the swinging doors into the nurses’ station where, I suppose, I might be taken more seriously. “Hmm,” the LPN murmurs, leafing through charts, “he changed the appointment because he was somewhere else this morning, but he’s here now and, let’s see, with another patient.”
I jump on that piece of information. “When was that appointment?” figuring that I could use it to calculate how much longer it would be. “15 minutes after yours.” I’m stunned. “AFTER mine, how…” “I know, but maybe they got here before you did, and that’s how we take them, as they sign in.”
One of the receptionists barges in, looking as concerned as she originally was indifferent. “You can’t just come in here…” “I’m almost done.” “No, you’re not supposed to…” Now the nurse interrupts to express her sympathy, outranking the receptionist into a state of suspended animation. “I don’t know how much longer, but you are definitely next” as I nod my appreciation and return to the patientless waiting room.
Where, apparently, the custodian has been waiting for me. “How dare you…don’t ever…you’re not allowed…” I wait for him to take a breath to interject, “May I ask you a question?” (how long would you wait before investigating…) “NO,” he roars, as I resume reading until he concludes his lecture. A few minutes later I hear him at the reception area, announcing he’s about to begin a break so if “she” pulls a stunt like that again, notify him, and he won’t hesitate to “accompany” me off the premises.
I chuckle softly. As if I’d invest so much time only to blow it on creating an uproar which would no doubt make his day. As if I don’t have sufficient self-control especially after learning I’m not, in fact, being ignored. As if I’d spite myself to prove…well, what? A point to myself? A point they won’t internalize considering I’m surrounded by employees who could have invented the term “I just work here”? As if there is a point, other than getting in and out as quickly and uneventfully as possible, which means staying put and quiet.
Finally, I’m summoned, by the nurse I consulted. Through the forbidden doors, she smiles and shakes her head, “I’m sor…” “Oh, you’re fine. It’s just further evidence that there really is a correlation between job level and level of comprehension. I’ve been reading about authoritarian impulses, but rather than left and right, it seems to be a matter of the difference between smart and not-so smart. No exception to the rules, ever; no intervening on one’s own behalf; you know the cliché about absolute power corrupts absolutely? this is a case of a little bit of power corrupting disproportionately.”
Oh, we have a nice chat, the nurse and I. It’s as if I’ve met the one English-speaker in a community of non-English-speakers. It continues long after my medical record has been updated, my vital signs have been taken. But when the doctor arrives, I don’t mention my adventure at all. From him, I get the promise of medication and ask him about his vacation in India. Eye on the prize, above all.