Have you been to the emergency room of a large metro hospital lately? I hope not! Those places are a zoo. I had occasion to visit the walk-in area of one the other day, fortunately not as a patient.
The first thing I noticed was a security guard and metal detector. Were they afraid terrorists would attack the hospital, or what? The detector buzzed as I went through, probably from the cell phone in my purse. The security guard merely yawned. Guess I didn’t fit the profile.
“Where do I go to get someone’s stuff back?” I asked.
“Get in line,” she told me. I figured I’d best not push it or they might decide it was worthwhile to interrogate me after all.
As I said, I was not there on an emergency. My daughter came through the ER as a patient earlier, and they had locked up her wallet. I just wanted to get her stuff back. But there I was in line with all the sick folks who were trying to out complain each other since the most critical patients are seen first.
The stressed out receptionist was talking to the man at the front of the line and filling out forms. He put his head down on the counter and told her he was having chest pain and felt nauseated. I tried to remember how to give CPR and drew a breath of relief when she finally finished his forms.
“Who’s next?”
Before I could open my mouth a little guy with a stocking cap jumped in front of me and said, “I am!”
“What is your problem?” asked the receptionist, with sweat beads popping out on her forehead and a wisp of hair falling over her eye.
“Psychiatric,” said the new customer, “Didn’t my doctor call you?”
Boy, was I ever glad I hadn’t argued about whose turn it was next. Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed to get processed much faster than the guy with the heart attack had.
Finally, I made it to the front. “Err, I just want my daughter’s stuff that you locked up. See, I have the form that the nurse filled out and my daughter signed it.” I waved it under her nose.
“Lorinda!” Come out here, she yelled toward the back.
Meanwhile an injured delivery man in line behind me was dripping blood on the floor and holding a towel on his hand. “Do you have insurance?” the clerk quizzed, as the poor guy struggled to find his Blue Cross card. Fortunately, it was his left hand that was injured, so he could sign the forms without too much trouble. Forms are very important to an emergency room it seems, almost more important than blood or pain.
Lorinda eventually showed before I fainted and looked at my form. “This stuff has gone to the cashier’s office,” she said, as a wheel chair whizzed by and through the automatically opening blue doors, narrowly missing my toes.
I left with the metal detector still buzzing in my ears, and headed out to search for the cashier’s office. I finally found it only to be told that I had the wrong form. My form was only for the ER. “The patient needs to come in and sign our form,” said the cashier.
“But, she can’t come! She’s critical. That’s why I’m here.” What’s the matter with these people anyhow?
“Bring her on a stretcher to the back hall and I’ll come out there,” the clerical Einstein generously offered. Rules are rules, he insisted, and he could lose his job if he digressed from them, regardless of permissions or conditions.
What a ludicrous policy!
Believe it or not, I finally ended up meeting him out back with a paramedic pushing my daughter on a stretcher. The deal went down okay, and I got her wallet back at last.
I must be dreaming this, I thought. Surely it is an episode of MASH returning to give me nightmares. Afraid not… It is for real … just an ordinary day of business as usual at the hospital.
A few years ago, I was forced by circumstance to spend a great deal of time in the trauma waiting room of a large hospital. While this is obviously a place of great drama, it also became a source of great amusement. After lengthy observation, I began to notice that the people in the waiting room actually seemed to fall into amusing categories.
I apologize in advance if this reminds you of your relatives. It reminds me of mine also. I love our southern culture, but sometimes I just have to have a little fun with it.
My sister and I are planning a trip together to London. I’ve never done anything like this before, so it will be an adventure.
ndon’s Last Fling
I have a dog living under the bed. His name is Gizmo, but you can call him Giz. He is a miniature Sheltie. Giz is as weird as his name, very shy, timid and afraid. He spends most of his time hiding. I should mention that he actually is my daughter’s dog. When he is not under her bed hiding from imaginary doggy danger, he is looking out the window waiting for her to come home and protect him.
“Where did all these gnats come from?” I asked, noticing some small bugs on the living room carpet. Closer inspection revealed they were not gnats at all, but tiny black ants with wings. Ants? With wings? Why would I have winged ants in my living room?
The time is changing again. I have an extra hour of daylight in the evening starting this week. But that creates a problem – what to do with my extra hour? Just about the time I get adjusted to standard time, it springs forward to daylight saving time. I really hate all this dallying around with the clocks.
Okay, we are going to have another cooking lesson. After last year’s experience, I’m not trying to do deviled eggs. This year the eggs will go straight to the potato salad – no detours.
The first and most important part of deep-sea fishing is that you must be at the sea. If you live within driving distance, that is not a problem. We inlanders must limit our deep-sea experiences to vacations. While most ladies will be content to simply lounge on the beach and pretend they went fishing, the men and a few purists will insist on actually fishing. It does add a bit of excitement to a vacation.
Spring is here and my wardrobe is sadly lacking, in fact, almost non-existent due to the extra pounds put on during the winter while wearing bulky sweaters. I am so tired of pinning skirts shut because the buttons don’t quite reach and spending the day trying not to breathe because a button or seam might pop. So, I go shopping.
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