UNFIT

It’s Monday and I want to make an appointment with my doctor of Family Medicine, also known as my Internist. At 7:59 a.m. I dial 486-2409. The battle begins. A machine says, ‘Thank you for calling Dr. Olivera’s office. Regular hours are 8 a.m. to 4. Please call back.’ Ok. It is then 8:01 and I call back. The machine tells me to call 911 if this is an emergency call. ‘Well, Voice, this is not an emergency,’ so I keep holding the line for ten minutes, talking back to dead air, ‘No, I am not in pain, but your office system is making me sick.’

My watch reads 8:10, the same as my computer time. At 8:15 a human insults me, ‘Please hold the line. I have seven calls ahead of you.’ If I were a little bit stronger, most likely I could have bashed my phone to little white bits. Why do I do this to myself? The same crap happens every time I want to make an appointment, ask a question, get an Rx re-filled.

Trying to calm myself, I go out to my small but satisfying garden, snip a few roses and my finger. ‘Ouch!’ Maybe I should call the doctor now and be honest, this is an emergency. A large thorn is stuck in my thumb. I’m bleeding. Damn, why if I had to do something so dumb did I do it to my right hand? I can’t get the thorn out with my left one. My left hand was part of the package my mom got when I was born. I hardly use it, can’t write with it, tie my walking shoes, hold my coffee cup. I’m good for nothin’.

‘Marie, Marie,’ I call to my next door neighbor. ‘Can you help me?’ From her second floor dormer window, Marie calls back. ‘What do you want? I was just going to the toilet. ‘Hold it a minute. I need you to get a thorn out of my thumb before I bleed to death!’ Marie runs down stairs and performs minor surgery. First she scrubs her hands under very hot water, takes a good look at my finger and I think she is going to puke. But no, she goes to her emergency kit, pours rubbing alcohol over her eyebrow tweezer and pluck, out comes the thorn. I am treated to a swab of neosporin and a Mickey Mouse band aid. ‘Thanks, Doc!’

I also thank the inventor of push button dialing. If I had to use the antiquated round dial, I’d have to wait for my husband or use my nose. The left fingers simply don’t do circles.

I dial 486-2409 again, hit #8, the secret code to reach somebody who will set up an appointment for me, eventually. The line is busy. After 3 more tries, I’m in. ‘I’d like an appointment with Dr. Olivera. He’s been my doctor for 15 years. I have questions that need answers. How’s next Wed., in the morning?’ ‘Your name and birth date, please.’ I give it quickly yet hold the line for close to 10 minutes while the lady is most likely making appointments for the entire city. Music plays. Vivaldi is about to put me to sleep, when the operator tells me the doctor is booked all next week and then leaves for a ten day vacation in Mexico. ‘I can set up an appointment for you Wed., a week from today, with the doctor’s new P.A. Is that O.K.?’ ‘No, it is not O.K. I want to see Dr. Olivera.’ What am I to do? Every single day, a few times every hour, t.v. commercials push another new product. The colors are awesome, the singing bees stupid, even the Viagara updates suggest I talk to my doctor about such and such or it might cause a heart attack or a stroke.

‘If I can’t see Dr. Olivera, you find me a fully capable doctor, not an assistant, someone I can talk to or tear up my entire folder.‘ I hear the operator laugh and then I am disconnected. I fool her. She must be sitting there waiting for me to call back, but I don’t. Tomorrow is another day, #8 to leave a message and when I give her the message I intend giving, she’ll hang up on me too. I’m getting very nasty, fed up with ‘ask my doctor’ baloney. The lousy automatons are driving me insane. I’m so upset, I really do need a doctor. My heart is pounding. My blood pressure is heading for the stroke territory.

There’s a knock on my door. ‘Janie, it’s Marie. How’s your finger? Still got it?’ ‘Do me another favor, Marie. Dial 486-2901, then hit # 3. Give whoever answers my name and birth date 11/11/52. Ask for an appointment next Wed. with Dr. Olivera about 10.That’s all you have to do except say ‘Thanks. I’ll be there, and hang up.’

Marie sits down, removes her always handy little black cell phone from her back pocket and dials the number. Instantly, or even faster, she gives my information to somebody. Marie says what I told her to say, including the thanks and I’ll be there.

However, I don’t get it. If I could use my left hand like ordinary people do, I’d make a strong noose, hang either of the doctor’s receptionists or myself.

I wait for Wednesday and am not surprised. Dr. Olivera has gone to Mexico and I will be seeing his PA.