Once a year I go off my rocker and visit Dr. Strangeglove
for fixing a virus. It seems every year around January or February I get a bug
that will not leave me, so off to the practitioner of healing herbs, medicinal
potions and cranky politics.
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| Dr. Strangeglove |
The women who run his office have been doing it for several
years now, since the closing days of World War II, having escaped the hell of
Germany and found their way to Brazil, then Holbrook, Long Island, New York.
And so I will enter the doctor’s office and the one behind
the glass partition will eye me suspiciously and ask my name, pull out my file
and ask if anything has changed since my last visit. I will of course make her
nuts when I say ‘Yes, I’m sicker’ and she will ask me what is wrong. I will not
tell her and we will begin the slow circle dance of annoyance.
Why should I tell the receptionist what is wrong? Will she
recommend a course of action with an insightful diagnosis, or should I get that
from Dr. Strangeglove? Him I am paying, her, she’s along for the ride, and
doesn’t own any medical certificates. Yes, I am a troublemaker.
Many years ago, I had a child that was very ill and I called
the pediatrician, and got the receptionist on the phone, whom; may or may not
have been a nurse. She gave me her advice and as a young scared parent, I
followed it, only to have to call back the office angrily and ask for the
doctor. He in turn was angry also at the advice given. Since that day, I will
NEVER listen to a receptionist or nurse when seeking a medical opinion. I have
the upmost respect for the nurses of the world, all they do for so little
compensation and even less respect, but I want the best possible advice I can
get.
So in about an hour I will lock horns with another
self=described expert and she will not be happy.
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