46. Nobody’s Fault But My Own

The Year Of Paying Attention

I was in the subway when I realized I’d left behind the Official Piece of Paper from my Primary Care Physician, authorizing me to see my new urologist. The gatekeepers in the urologist’s office will wave me through, I told myself — they’ll allow me to provide the Official Piece of Paper later. You know that mental buzzer that sounds when you’re indulging in wishful thinking? Or the voice that whispers, “you should gas up now,” or “just go back for an umbrella?” That voice you routinely override? And then find yourself on the shoulder of the highway, or soaked through to the skin? I paid it no mind, and proceeded to Mott Street.

I was in a hurry, and my doctor’s office in Chinatown was where I could see my new urologist before departing for my month in New Orleans. The kidney stone that showed up on a scan wasn’t bothering me a bit, cunningly biding its time until I was far from my medical professionals. I like Chinatown, until I get there, whereupon I remember I hate insanely crowded streets when it’s unseasonably hot and I’m running late, jogging from the Citibike rack to the doctor’s office.

“Do you have a referral from your primary care physician,” the friendly woman behind the counter asked. I did my shuck-and-jive, no-but-it’s-fine-because explanation, handed over my shiny new insurance card, and in return received a clipboard with a pen attached.

I filled in the form, joined nine or ten other patients, all Chinese — I know, it’s racist of me to assume they’re all Chinese — sitting quietly around the waiting room reading Chinese newspapers and magazines. I admired the ease with which the perky young women behind the counter moved between flawless English and whatever Chinese dialect each patient spoke. Unless it wasn’t Chinese, and I’m just a racist.

I listened to an animated foreign-language conversation on a cellular speakerphone, by a man sitting under a sign that read “Please don’t use your cell phone in the waiting room.” I wasn’t bothered. I noticed forty-five minutes had passed since my appointment time. I didn’t mind. I looked out the window at snarled traffic on Canal Street. How great is New York City, I thought.

I heard my name, and hopped over to the counter, where I was handed a sealed plastic specimen container. “The men’s room is to the right, then to the left,” the friendly woman told me. How great is Chinatown, I thought, marching into the public men’s room down the hall. The key on a big wooden stick wasn’t necessary, as the men’s room door appeared permanently ajar. I completed my mission, and noticed the name on the now warm container was inaccurate — “Warfeld,” missing a critical “i,” a single letter that can make all the difference in the world of digital medical data.

I handed back the lumber-and-key, and told the friendly woman, “the name’s wrong on the label,” friendly but not too friendly, as if to say, “it’s my lab results we’re talking about here, not somebody with a name similar to mine.” I returned to my window seat, thinking how good it is to be unemployed or retired with nothing pressing to do, as other patients were summoned, and new people arrived and sat down.

“Mr. Warfield?” I heard, happily noting the proper pronunciation, and hopped back to the counter. “We can’t find the referral online, and we called your primary care physician and left a message, but we haven’t heard back from the office,” the friendly woman said. Another friendly woman said, “We called the insurance company, and we understand you have a two thousand dollar deductible, so you’ll be paying for this office visit in full.” My face barely tightened. “I’d like to see the doctor today, because I have a kidney stone that’s moving around,” I told both friendly women. “Let me try to reach my doctor’s office.”

Thirty minutes later, I had listened to every conceivable recorded message from my doctor’s office, some multiple times, and had spoken with one human being, who could help me only if I was cancelling an appointment. Back to the desk. “Since my insurance isn’t going to pay for this appointment, can I keep it, and provide the referral letter when I get back home?” “Let me check,” said the friendly woman, picking up her phone and confirming that, no, I couldn’t do that.

So — now I have an appointment for tomorrow morning. I’ve duct-taped the referral letter to my torso so I can’t inadvertently leave without it. It’s nobody’s fault but my own. The friendly women who knew I wasn’t going to see anybody without that letter didn’t want to upset and disappoint me. The staffer who knew the details of my insurance deductible better than I myself was doing her job. I thanked them all for their help, took the elevator back down to crowded, dirty, noisy Canal Street, and descended into the subway.

Since arriving home I’ve heard on the radio that the President has authorized companies who don’t want to pay for contraceptive healthcare on moral grounds to do so with impunity. In order to best preserve my mental health for the rest of the day, I shall avoid additional newscasts.

Next week: I Just Want To Keep An Eye On You
The Year Of Paying Attention, 2017, starts here.