Appointment

The last time I got sick, I went to a walk-in clinic where they swabbed my throat and charged me $110 dollars. My husband took one look at the invoice and insisted I find a primary care physician. "Just call someone out of the insurance book and schedule a physical,” he said, waving the invoice at me. “It’s not that hard.”

I decided to ask around for recommendations. My hairdresser had an internist she liked, but his office is three towns away.

I asked my neighbor who was working in her garden. “The era of personal care in medicine is past,” she said, flinging compost too close to my feet. “All the good doctors are leaving medicine. Good luck finding someone decent.” I stepped on some of her petunias.

My friend recommended her doctor. “The office staff is rude, and you’ll be kept waiting at least an hour,” she said. “But the doctor seems to know what he’s doing.”

I called immediately.

“The doctor is not accepting new patients,” the receptionist informed me. “Try again in August.”

I looked through the 550 page insurance book of service providers until I found a medical practice in a local office complex that had a big parking lot. “Perfect,” I circled it with a red pen.

The voice mail picked up. I punched 5 for the medical office; 3 for new patient appointments; 2 for No, I'm not diabetic; 2 for Female; 2 again for No I'm not on blood pressure medications; 4 for my type of insurance.

While waiting ‘on hold’, I defrosted a roast for dinner, browned some potatoes and made ice tea from scratch.

“Can I help you?” Finally.

I asked for an appointment with the physician listed in my insurance book. “That doctor is no longer with this practice,” she said.

I held the book open with my cooking spatula. It left a big Pam Cooking Spray stain. I named a second doctor. “That doctor does not accept new patients,” she said.

I swatted at a gnat; Pam sprayed onto the wallpaper. “What doctor can I see?” I asked. “Dr. Hammer is available.”

"Perfect.” She proceeded to enter my information into the computer, asking more questions than a four-year-old on a five-hour car trip.

Eventually we finished with the details and I wrote the date on my calendar. “I found a doctor!” I announced when we sat down to dinner that night.

My husband shrugged. “I told you it was easy,” he said. I stifled the urge to jab him with my fork. I decided right then to cancel the appointment. I don’t really need a doctor anyway.

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