urgent (we don't) care

Last week, I diagnosed myself with my bi-annual sinus infection. One in September, one in May without fail.

So, I slipped out of work and mentally prepared myself for a trip to the urgent care down the road. For some reason, I really wanted a cigarette. Maybe it was the hope that the menthol death gas would clear my sinuses enough to smell -- even if it was just the odor of the cigarette itself. But I had to fight the urge. I had checked 'non-smoker' on my life insurance application. If the P.A. (you wouldn't see a doctor there if you went in with a missing hand) at Urgent Care caught wind of a Newport, she might rat me out to the insurance nazi's. HIPPA be damned.

As I arrived, I whispered a small prayer of thanks for the empty parking lot. Only 3 cars. That means it should only take me 2 hours to get a prescription written for something I already know I have.

I stepped into the waiting room and wondered how the people inside outnumbered the cars in the parking lot. I stepped to the check-in counter and waited. And waited.

The two receptionists sat directly opposite of the glass window and I knew that they knew I was standing there. Yet they made absolutely no acknowledgement of my presence other than being so obvious in their non acknowledgment.

I stood there not knowing exactly how to respond. I have always thought outright staring at folks is rude. Should I take a seat? I scanned the window and nearby walls for hateful notices and regulations intended to make you feel as small as possible. "No smoking cause we're all having a nick fit right now". "No cell-phones allowed - If we're going to be stuck here bored all day, so are you". "Please don't knock on glass. We will be with you when we damn well please".

Finally, the lady I thought was a modern day Helen Keller turned and spoke. "You been here before?"

"Yeah, but I don't remember if it was a year or three ago"

"What's your birthdate"

I answered, making sure I said 1961 instead of just 61. Ever since the new millenium and the whole y2k scare, I'd been making sure to throw those two extra digits on that response. Am I really afraid someone is going to think I was born in 1861. Or 2061? (I'll never tell)

"Fill this out" she said with no pleasantries and thrust the clip board with the germified pen jammed between the steel trap.

I scanned the room for a seat. The waiting room was basically split into two halves. On one side, about 9 white people sat reading "Good Housekeeping" and studying their shoelaces. On the other side, an older black lady sat watching "Montel".

I walked over and sat right beside the black lady although there were 2 dozen empty seats on that side. I was making a point. I looked up at Montel and saw that he had that crazy Psychic lady on again. If she was so damn psychic, then why didn't she know her hairdresser was all thumbs? I looked at the magazine selection. All were health and fitness magazines with pictures of muscular men and women working out with no sweat. If I look at those, people will think I'm a pervert. I'll just watch Montel.

An hour later, a fat white nurse shoved open the door and called me by my first name. (I go by my middle name, but I've stopped correcting people LONG ago).

I step in the door and prepare to answer 20 questions. It doesn't matter what I say because the doctor is going to ask me the same 20 questions again in about 15 minutes. The last one was "Who is your primary care physician?" Damn. Such big fancy words, I thought. I answered, "Well, you are" She looked surprised that I was still alive and guided me over to the scale.

"TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN POUNDS" she screamed for all in the nearby county to hear.

Why my weight pertained to a sinus infection I'll never know.

I was sent to another waiting room with a paper covered bed and asked to wait. "What, I don't get to take my shirt off so the entire staff can laugh at my belly rolls?" I thought.

The P.A. pretending to be a doctor confirmed my diagnosis and wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic and something called Plemex. What a perfectly descriptive name.

I left and ran across the street to the pharmacy to fill my prescription. While waiting, I took my blood pressure. This particular machine also measured body fat. It said my body fat was good but under the weight chart, it said I "needed improvement".

Must be poke the fat man day, I thought.

6 days later, I'm still coughing but I'll wait until I've got triple pneumonia and a knife in my chest before I step back into the "urgent" care again.