I knew something very bad had gone down when Skeeter and Boo-Boo came back from the hospital. Skeeter looked like he'd been put through the ringer and Boo just looked pissed. I picked up little bits and pieces but could not put the whole story together so when Boo went off to work, later, I said, "Sooooooo?""You wouldn't have believed it," Skeet began.
"Tell."
I hopped up on his knees and curled up in a position that was just right for listening, but also not face to face so, if his story got really dull, I could nap a little without him being able to tell. He began. "You know how stressed out I was when I left?" It was rhetorical. When Skeet goes off on a tear, there's no getting a word in edgewise. You can go "un-hunh" or "oh" or just nod from time to time and that satisfies him that you're listening. "Anyway, by the time I got to the hospital I was in a hideous state. I wanted to throw up. I felt faint and hot. Boo went off to the cafeteria because this promised to take a while and he really can't help much once I'm there. So I go up to the new surgeon's office and when I get to his waiting room..."
He paused for dramatic effect. He had acting training and it shows. It also shows why he never had a career in acting. "The place was like a charity hospital in Victorian London. Packed. I mean packed. It was eleven o'clock and there were already so many people in there that some were sitting on the floor—"
"—this does not bode well," I said, "when a surgeon is booking so many people like that and is too fucking cheap to provide enough chairs—"
"—no, it is not a good sign—"
"—and add to that that it's a plastic surgeon's waiting room. That's a whole lot o' ugly jammed into a small place—"
"—yeah, well. I could tell some were there for nips and tucks and the like, but there were some who were like me...it didn't show what they were there for."
"Oh, puh-leeeeeeze. The same way you looked at them they were looking at you and they were thinking: rhinoplasty."
"Shaddup!"
"I mean, have you looked in the mirror? a: which side of your family gave you that huge hooked beak and b: poor them!"
"May I go on?"
"Proceed." I said and shut up, but I could now imagine that Victorian charity hospital and now it was populated with all those grotesques you see in drawings for Dickens novels.
"So I go to the receptionist—line up for her, rather. And when I get to check in and give her my referral papers I ask, 'How backlogged are we?' And she says, 'At least an hour and a half'—"
"—Jesus! Even veterinarians don't have those waits!"
"Oh, if I could get a doctor to be as efficient as a vet is, I'd be a fucking happy man...especially when I was at the end of it all." There was a morose little pause before he went on. "Anyhoo. In hospital parlance 'At least an hour and a half' means two or even two and a half hours and Boo had to get to work. So I told the receptionist I was going for a coffee (she gave me a sour look like that was not normal) and I went down to Boo in the cafeteria. On the way down, however, I was thinking.
"I had my first, of the last series of surgeries, three years ago and it was with a very nice surgeon who was utterly disorganized. When you got to his waiting room his receptionist would always say he was running very late and add 'You know how he is' because he was a nice guy who talked to each of patients despite the fact they were scheduled one on top of another. I thought this wasn't a problem until I was doing my post-surgical followups with him. I was in pain, I was weak, I was woozy and I would have to wait in his waiting room for one, two hours and it was pure and utter torture. As I thought of that, I thought of doing this with a shithead surgeon after a surgery that was far more serious and decided: no.
"So I met Boo and we talked and I phoned the referring surgeon (who wasn't in) and left a message that I was going to need another doctor and then I went back up to that fucking waiting room and cancelled my appointment and the stupid twat at the desk didn't even ask me why."
He sighed. The story was over but we both knew the shit-storm was just beginning. Yesterday, we had an earthquake here. As the house shimmied Skeet joked grimly about his referring surgeon, "That must be from her head exploding."
There's one thing I don't get: why is a patient treated like a subordinate? Fuck, if this was me, I'd chew their fucking hands off! Try to do delicate surgery after that, Mofos!
So on it goes. The one ray of sunshine (or not, we'll see) is that Skeeter got his new iPad and spent the night e-mailing and Tweeting what had happened. Also, while he was surfing the net, he discovered a web site where you can rate your doctors. I saw him smile and knew, as he tapped away on his toy, that he was having some fun.
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