Part 6: Outlet

    I don't think the technician who  asked if I'd been late for my appointment believed me when I said I had arrived early and had waited 45 minutes because he excused himself and left the room to visit the desk.  When he returned, he said he knew I hadn't arrived late, that it was a problem at the front desk which had caused him to take the 10:00 appointment ahead of mine.   He was OK about it, and so was I, and the procedure went smoothly, taking only 10 minutes or so.  Then I left to return to the line so I could check out.  I know the drill by now, and the location of the sign.
    I'm still ready to just leave for home, but when I asked the woman at checkout when I could get the results of the test, she said the policy is that I would be contacted only if the results are not as expected.  I already knew that because there it is, plain as day, printed on each appointment card:  "We will notify you of any test results that are other than what your doctor expected."  These folks don't deal in unnecessary interactions.  Now the problem is:   I don't know really what the doctor expected.  My next scheduled appointment is not until July of 2016.  And since the office has botched up my paperwork for today, how can I be sure that today's report finds its way into the proper hands:  what channel does it go through before or if it reaches the doctor?
    I asked if a patient portal was available, and was told it's in the works but is not yet working.  No surprise there.  When I mentioned the above, that my appointment time had been somehow mishandled, she asked if I would like to talk to a supervisor about it because all she herself can do  is handle check ins and outs.  At first I said no, but when she said the supervisor is right there, I agreed.  That's what supervisors are for, right?

Part 5; Tea-colored Tedium

   The  voice at the end of the line had told me I might have to wait ten minutes or so, but it's now more than 30 minutes.  The woman sitting next to me has grown restless waiting for her ultrasound.  She is complaining, quietly enough, to her companion, and on her cell phone, threatening to leave if she's not called soon.  Her appointment was scheduled for 9:00 and it's now past 9:30. She tells me that I'll be waiting longer than 10 minutes past my appointment time too. She can't understand why a procedure of this type would run late.  They're all by appointment, aren't they.
     She evidently has some place else that she needs to be, and I don't, so I'm not really bothered by the delay, just bored enough, now that I'm done with my newspaper,  so that my attention turns to the decor of the room, the carpeting first because I'm mostly staring at the floor.  The office has been completely renovated within the last year, so the carpeting has to be new.  But it doesn't appear so.  The color is kind of a sepia toned weak-tea shade, and the pattern looks like vintage brocade drapes, but with a random trail of some kind of wandering design.  There is  a large stain, or maybe it's only a temporary spot, over near the row of windows.  I hope it's just spilled water.
     Tired of gazing downward, I look around and see that the walls are also the same dreary shade of pale tan, and note further that the upholstery of the chairs is the same hue.  It could be that someone somewhere decided this shade of brown is the most restful for cardiac patients, but it reminds me of the color that the late writer Kurt Vonnegut identified as "babyshit brown."

The Sign, Part 4

    The sign, the one behind the pillar, is about the size of a standard cookie sheet, maybe a little smaller.  It is held up by what looks like a portable  shaft of some sort, stuck in a slot across the top.  It reads, "PLEASE WAIT HERE TO BE CALLED BY A RECEPTIONIST, TO CHECK IN AND TO CHECK OUT.
     More later, about the sign.....

Biding time, Part III

  After duly standing in the single line before being called up to  one of the 6 windows, I sat down in one of the more centrally positioned rows of seats in  the vast waiting room of the cardiology office.  Well, there are about 30 doctors associated with the practice so lots of patients wait lots of time.  People were sitting, waiting, along both sides of the room as well. A man came out of the examining room with his checkout paper in hand and started to present it to the woman at the first window on his left.  "Oh, no," he was told, "You have to stand in line, the one over there, behind the post."  He quickly rectified his position and took his place behind the 5 or 6 people standing in the line.  The line concealed behind the post.
      A while  later, a man entered the office and obediently walked up and joined the line, to check in.  A woman in a walker appeared behind him, and in a strident voice, said, "Sir, you took my place in line.  I was here before you."  He turned, surprised, and told her as he stepped back out of line, "Help yourself."  Then, mumbling, "I didn't see you, didn't know you were in line."  She ignored his mutterings, and him altogether; she just wanted her place in the all-important, one only, line. I assume that since she was using a walker, she had taken a seat along the side of the room, but still wanted to reserve her space.  Sometimes cardiac patients become fatigued.   Because by this time, I had finished both the Jumble and Crossword, I was bored enough to notice that his face had turned red, with embarrassment probably, and maybe a little anger.  I would hope that his discomfort would have been directed not at the woman's aggression, but at whoever is responsible for the hellish situation of the facility, but he said nothing, nothing I was aware of anyway.

Waiting Room, Part II

    He is so out of place in the cardiologist's waiting room. First of all, he is young, so that makes him stand out, but not as noticeably as the way he is dressed.  He is wearing a suit, a well-fitting one at that.  And real shoes, the only pair of leather-shod feet in the waiting room.  Moreover, he has a haircut, the kind that, while fairly long on top, shows undeniable signs of having been razor-cut in areas. His appearance screams "Pharmaceutical Rep."  He may as well have been wearing a sign.   He sits, waiting, for a while, but not for too long.  A female staff member appears to tell him that unfortunately, Dr. P. will not be able to see him today, as the doctor  is "swamped" with appointments.  Another office tech appears, trying to offer another option. The two women continue to fawn over him, kind of competing with each other to see who can be most helpful, one advising the other that "we don't want to keep him waiting too long." (The waiting room is lined with waiting patients, who presumably are not being paid for their time.)  Finally, it is decided that the man should return another time, that the doctor he was hoping to see would be so informed.  As he prepares to leave, he hands the staff member a packet containing a dozen or so packages of samples of some kind.  The staff member exclaims, "Oh, are you giving these to me?"

The Hell That Is A Medical Office

    All else aside, for now anyway, this is the story for today:  My appointment, for a routine ultrasound, was scheduled at my last visit about a month ago for 9:30 this morning.  I arrived 15 minutes early, stood in the line of humiliation,  and checked in.  The rep at the window said there would be a wait; they had a lot of ultrasounds scheduled for today.  I told her I knew I was early, that my appointment was for 9:30.  She said I may have to wait until 20 of 10:00.  I didn't mind, sat and did the Jumble and the Crossword, and time went by.  At 10 o'clock, I decided I would leave if the wait went over one hour.  I was called in at exactly 10:15, and the first thing the tech said to me was:
"Were you late for your appointment?"  No, I told him, and said that I'd been waiting 45 minutes.  He left the room, and returned, saying "they" hadn't sent the order and that he'd taken his 10:00 o'clock patient ahead of me.
    When I went to check out, I asked when the results would be ready.  She seemed surprised, said I would be notified if the results were not as expected.  I asked if there was a patient portal and she said they were still working on setting it up; it wasn't available yet.  I said, considering what had evidently happened to my paperwork today, that I wanted the results myself.  My next  appointment isn't until next July.  Who knows what could happen to another piece of paper by then.
    More later----I like to remember these things, so life seems better without them.

P.T. and H.W.

P.T. stands for physical therapy and H.W. for housework.
      For one of the physical therapy exercises, the therapist handed me a piece of flannel cloth, positioned me in front of a wall, and instructed me to hold the cloth against the wall, and make 10 circular clockwise motions and then change to counterclockwise motions, as if I were washing the wall.  Really?  Part of the reason I was at physical therapy was because it was painful to do something that involved scrubbing anything.  Is there no upside to having a torn rotator cuff?  Not even an excuse to avoid housework?