Is there a reason a doctor’s time is more valuable than my own? I’m not talking about a heart surgeon holding the keys to life or death in his hands as he performs a quadruple bypass. I’m not talking about a neurosurgeon bringing new hope to a tumor victim with a few deft turns of the laser. I’m not even talking about the pediatrician who recognizes that the little red spots covering your toddler are a rare allergy, not mumps.
What I am talking about is my foot doctor.
He’s not actually “my” foot doctor, but he’s the doctor who’s been fixing my foot since it quit working right a couple weeks back. He’s also fixing a lot of other feet, judging by the crowds gathered in his waiting room every time I stop by for an appointment.
Appointment. In the physician’s lexicon, that word is defined thus: “Appointment; the interval of time between when a patient is scheduled for examination and the time the doctor actually sees said patient. Disparity between two times should not exceed 12 hours, unless it is a very good day for golf.”
My appointment was for 2:10 p.m. From previous visits to my foot doctor’s office, I knew this time was mostly hypothetical, like my love life back in high school. So I called ahead, just to make sure the doctor was on schedule.
“Oh certainly,” said the woman who answers the doctor’s phone.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Because last time I was there I had to shave twice while waiting for the doctor to arrive.”
“Hee-hee. That’s a good one,” said the woman. “I haven’t heard that one before.” This indicated to me that she had heard plenty of other comments about the long waits experienced by patients there.
“So he definitely is on schedule, right?” I said. “Because I have other stuff I could be doing if he’s not. I could come later.”
“No, no,” she assured me. “He’s right on schedule.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound unconvinced.
I arrived at the doctor’s office at 2:05 p.m., five minutes early, and let the receptionist know I was there.
“I’ll tell the doctor,” she said, and disappeared into the hallway adjoining her cubicle.
My foot doctor has the most boring collection of magazines imaginable, unless you’re an avid skier, bicyclist or housewife. These are the only three magazine types available in his waiting room.
Speaking of which, what other profession even has something called a “waiting” room? Can you picture a waiting room at a grocery store? At a movie theater? A newspaper office?
Anyone else in the world, when they make an appointment for 2:10, actually intends to see you at 2:10. No waiting room is needed. Only a doctor can get away with this sort of baloney.
Sorry, I’m ranting.
The point is, my foot doctor has a waiting room and I was in it.
I was in it at 2:10, at 2:20, at 2:30, and at 2:45. Finally, a nurse stuck her head around the corner and called my name. She escorted me to an examination room, but I was not encouraged. My foot doctor has four examination rooms and a patient was waiting in every one of them. Some of the patients had long, unkempt beards and looked very hungry, the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a medieval dungeon.
Sure enough, I was waiting in the examination room until 3 p.m. Then 3:10, then 3:15, the 3:20.
When I was a teenager in the ‘60s, I was briefly into transcendentalism. Sitting on the examination table, wearing one shoe and one sock, I tried to revisit the meditation techniques of my youth. I closed my eyes, breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth. In. Out. In. Out. I searched for my “center,” for tranquility and inner peace. I glanced at my watch. Another ten minutes had passed. I was feeling neither tranquil nor peaceful.
I found myself longing for the fabulous stimulation of the waiting room, where fascinating articles on skiing and house keeping were to be found in abundance. The only reading material in this room was a chart showing how all the bones are supposed to work and which could be replaced with plastic and steel when they didn’t.
Finally, I decided I’d had enough. I put my high-tech velcro and plastic cast back on and hobbled toward the door, determined to tell the receptionist exactly what I thought of the foot doctor’s scheduling practices.
At that moment, the foot doctor strolled in, smelling of fresh cut grass and nine irons.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said with a smile.
I grunted non-commitally. I’m not really old enough to be overtly cantankerous or curmudgeonly, but I’m not too young to start practicing both.
The “examination” took a grand total of 28 seconds, during which time he asked me if my foot still hurt, (No), whether I was still taking my medication, (Yes), and whether there had been any swelling, (No).
His advice was that I should wear the cast until my foot quit hurting, then take the cast off. For this, he spent six years at med school.
On my way out, the receptionist asked me if I needed to make another appointment. I was glad she asked. It gave me another chance to practice being cantankerous and curmudgeonly.
Another few trips to the foot doctor and I think I’ll have it down pat.
Foot doctors? Colonoscopies? Are we getting oooold? ;)
Posted by: reii | March 06, 2007 at 01:59 PM
Only the living age! Better to picking daisies rather than pushing them up. The other stuff comes along for laughs and humility.
Posted by: MIM | August 06, 2007 at 02:58 PM