To enter Dr. Mikes Medical Clinic is to encounter the unusual. Inside was a grand piano that no one played. An aquarium loomed like a big screen TV but contained no fish, only a swaying flap of algae. Against a wall stood a knee-high golden thing with the price tag attached. Mother had been sent there by her doctor. The receptionist gave her a clipboard with a form to complete. Mother sat in the comfort of her wheelchair, and I settled in a stiff, hard but stylish piece of furniture; the tip of its legs made me think of high heels. She filled out the forms, and I returned them. Minutes passed before the receptionist said, You need to fill-- I gave it to you, I said. Where is it? I dont know. She looked at the man beside her. Do you have it? I dont, he answered. Why would I? Both turned to a man at the other end. While the staff fought, Mother spotted the clipboard in the hands of another patient. Steve, look. We got the sheets, and I handed them to the receptionist, which stopped the fighting. During Mothers checkup, a doctor wearing soiled levis wanted to lift her up to the examination table, and she said, No. I helped her up. I wondered if we should leave. An unspoken thought seemed to pass between Mother and me: Lets just get it done. The exam was fast and unnecessary, one that had been given by a nurse of Mothers doctor a week before. Mother changed doctors. Meanwhile, Dr. Mike opened a second clinic.
Posted on: Sun, 12 Oct 2014 15:10:38 +0000
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