Today the appointment for a test was set for 10:00 A.M. Days before, the automatic hospital messaging system had informed us repeatedly that a patient has to arrive one hour early and register in room so and so. Hence, my mission for the day, like many times in the past, is clear: deliver the patient – my eighty-year-old mother – for the prescribed test on time, find the location, present the necessary documents to whomever is attending the desk, wait for the tests to be done and bring mom safely home. An obvious and clear routine. If only it would have been so simple and easy this time.
The patient is in the building one and a half hours early and goes to the designated room on the first floor to register. I will come back half an hour later, after parking our car in a parking space blocks away from the facility. The registration room is packed to capacity, and the air is so thick that it is even hard to breath. Thanks to some compassionate people, my mom does get seated. One could be sitting there with a bakery number in hand all day just to find out that you are in the wrong place; you had to report directly to the testing area of the humongous hospital in the first place. Fortunately for us, this lovely spring morning there is a person at a computer on one side of the large room, and I decide to take a chance and ask her if we are in the right place after all. Seeing me wondering with a lost look on my face, the woman barks at me “you should stand behind the line.” “Yes, mam, “ I think to myself and comply with the order, I know better than not to, I’ve been pushed around a few times in my lifetime before AARP started a vigorous campaign to recruit me as their new member.
My turn to talk came as a couple moved away from the clerk’s desk. With a grumpy look on her face, the clerk told me just what I suspected: “she (e.g., my mother) should go directly to the second floor, the section so and so…” “Thank you,” I say, and we start a long journey again. Eighty years is an impressive age, especially for my mom, who is as bright, as she always was, and as interested in life as any intelligent person would be. Alas, a brittle form of diabetes is wearing her out little by little in front of my eyes. Those who have had relatives who have the illness, or suffer from it themselves, know what I am talking about here. To those who do not know what this illness is all about, I do not wish it upon you. Diabetes is a very heavy “cross to bear.”
Witnessing my mom’s long suffering from the illness, I started learning to appreciate simple things in life, like not having sudden hypoglycemia attacks, being able to walk without pain, not having to keep watching the clock for insulin shots, medications and meals, being able to walk and even run. Being able to see not just bright light spots, but the smallest details of life around me is also a gift that one day could be lost by any of us. My mom’s illness has direct impact on my own life, but I've digressed here, and must get back to the events of the day.
Finally, after covering the distance of the length that feels like a few city blocks, we are in the right section of the building. Now the assignment for the designated driver/helper (e.g. – me) is clear: talk to the person at the desk and find out what kind of paperwork has to be submitted. The face behind the desk is less than friendly right from the start: “Put this in the tray and sit down.” My second question is cut off with the same abrupt phrase barked at me repeatedly. Alright, I’ve been barked at this morning already. So, I sit down. Mom is tired as tired can be from the long walk, and her eye is filling up with blood again: progression of retinophaty. Strangely, I fear her going blind more than she does. She is quite a trooper.
The waiting room is spacious, many empty seats. Once in a while, some people cross the room back and forth and disappear behind the closed doors into the mystical world of PROCEDURES. We, along with a couple of other visitors, are left with our thoughts and with the clock ticking on the wall. The arrows slowly but surely are moving toward the appointed time. Silence of the dimly lit waiting room is being interrupted by a repetitive clicking noise. I do not pay much attention to it... that is, until much later, when this sound becomes an epitome of indifference and unprofessional attitude to fellow human beings who are here only to receive service.
Half an hour passed, but the clerk did not even look at the paper that I’ve placed in the tray as was told. The lonely sheet is just laying there, undesirable, just like me and my mom in that unwelcoming place. I finally walk up to the reception counter and ask, if my mom will be seen on time, only five minutes are left until her designated appointment time. From many years of having experiences in similar situations, I know that there has to be paperwork filled out and signed, and it is not a trivial task for a half-blind, and half deaf older person, who still insists on doing many things independently. Yes, I do help her, but she still wants to know what sort of papers she must sign.
The clerk assured me that my mother will be seen on time for her procedure. Fair enough, but it is 9:55 (One hour and forty five minutes since our arrival at the clinic). I have to sit down and we will wait some more. Finally, we hear my mom’s name shouted across the room. She walks up to the desk of the “keeper of the gate” and receives a form to fill out. Mom is a polite person, I’d say overly polite, and that, unfortunately, is perceived as a green light to disrespect and mentally abuse her as it happened many times before in various situations. When she came back with the clip board, I noticed that her form is in Polish. In mounting frustration, I grabbed the clipboard from my mom and rushed to the counter again, requesting the form in English. Here we all could judge me, and I could say “the devil made me do it,” but now, reflecting on the entire situation, what made me voice my opinion about the clerk’s attitude out loud was frustration boiling over from experiences over my life time with all kinds of rude, incompetent people with cushy jobs behind "important" desks. With more and more gray hairs in my head, I can no longer stand mental abuse directed neither to my mom, nor to me, especially from those, who are there to help, and not to obstruct, jeopardize and sabotage simple work flows, procedures and tasks of customer service.
Yes, I could not resist making a stern remark, wondering if stapling a pile of handouts is more important to this specific person than attending to the clinic patients. Then, using the same tone of voice as I was spoken to (we all teach each other, don’t we?) I kept repeating that I need the form in ENGLISH. In response to my request, I was informed in a very loud voice that she will not stand me being in “her clinic.” My jaw just “hit the floor,” not literally, of course, and I reminded the woman that I, as a taxpayer do contributed to the clinic, how could it be “her clinic.” (What an argument, really, and most importantly very “original” in this day and age.)
“I am also a tax payer!!! You will not tell me how to do my job!!!” – The angry voice is coming from the other side of the desk. What do you, readers, think? Could it be a good material for the “Saturday Night Live?” Believe me, if some of the visitors dosed off for some time, they were wide awake by this point in time. Wow oh Wow! Did I touch a hot spot (e.g. – Ego) or what!
That’s all, folks, honest admission. You will think that I am hiding something. Alas, I wish the situation would have been spicier than this, which would have made the story more interesting for you to read. On the contrary, there were no swearing words, no threats coming from my mouth, just stern tone of voice expressing my strong disappointment and dissatisfaction with the quality of customer service and indifference regarding a patient's (my mother’s) needs.
You might wonder what has happened afterward. After all, it would not be fair just to leave you in suspense, would it? Thus, a “O.K.”, here it comes:
“Get out of MY clinic!!!” “I will not have you in MY clinic!!!” “I will call security and will escort you out of MY Clinic!!!” The exclamation marks indicate the level of the voice of the attending clerk. No kidding, friends, while we were filling out the form in English (by the way, I had to find the other form on the counter myself; my repeated request to give us the English form was completely ignored at this point in time). Then the woman behind the desk had phoned the security-police. In her first sentence was the following statement: “She is white!” Now that explained to me the entire ordeal and the attitude of indifference and lack of courtesy on the part of the clerk.
Around ten minutes passed away, way past the appointment time, and one after another two officers walked into the room. After receiving instructions from the receptionist, they walked up to me and without asking me what has happened gave me a directive to leave the facility, so they could talk to me "outside." Why? On what grounds? Why they considered their right to violate my rights as a citizen to escort me out of the public place when the entire incident was caused by the incompetent and rude employee of the clinic? What right did she have to be rude to me and to request me out of “her” clinic? Why someone who is so easily disturbed by visitors’ dissatisfaction regarding their service is allowed to work there in the first place? Is she not trained to deal with frustrated visitors who feel ignored, and unwelcome, and have to wait for the unknown seams like forever? What exceptional right does she have to racially profile visitors of the clinic instructing the police to “hunt down” the white one?
Later, in the administrative offices, I will be told that the main concern of the hospital is for my mom to have her test: the hospital's main objective is concern for the patients. Oh, really! Why then they put people in charge of customer service who are sabotaging the scheduling set by the hospital, and provide visitors with anything but clear and precise information, instructions, and with at least bearable quality of customer service. Why they are allowed to “bark” commands at visitors, behave as if visitors do disturb them, and why do they not even listen to the visitors’ concerns and questions, interrupting people who talk to them half way through their sentence.
These questions are open to this day, and, I believe, will not be answered simply and easily in the near future. Police assumed that there were legal grounds for removing me from the waiting area of the public place before all facts were in, so, they removed me from the premises. They chose to publicly humiliate a middle-aged woman and an elder woman. The clerk told her story to the police in the presence of everyone in the room, and my side of the story was supposed to be told to the officers outside, without witnesses. Still, one of the two officers chose to listen patiently, and I explained to him the other side of the story. Another officer told my mom to shut up; he told her that he would not listen to her, and accused her of making racial remarks after she told him that she is frequently being ignored and treated in that hospital like a second-sort citizen. I do not envy the officer's mom. A young man talking like this to an eighty-year old woman….
My mother left the waiting area with me only after we repeatedly asked the officers to return her ID back from the clerk. We were not about to leave her documents “hostage” with the “courteous” clerk. I hate to disappoint you here. No, I was not hand-cuffed. I only received a suggestion to go to talk to patients’ advocate or the administrator and voice my complaint. I chose the latter. With my heart pounding like a mallet on a rock, I felt that no one will help us today. Obviously, the procedure that prompted security to act the way they did demonstrated to us, that "customer is always wrong." We were assumed guilty as charged by the “owner of the clinic.”
When we reached the administrative office, I was hoping that someone will be able to take my mom back for her procedure, since I am no longer allowed on the premises of the clinic. At this time, my mom, too distressed from the unusual experience, refused to return to the second floor section “so and so.”. Who could blame her?
Now, I only needed one thing – the name of the “courteous, attentive and caring” receptionist. Here we have a start of the entirely different story. However, I will not try your patience anymore, and will summarize it here briefly. It took another hour to finally determine who was the person who ordered me escorted out of “her clinic” One administrator was calling another administrator who called on yet another administrator. And the clock kept persistently ticking. It would be funny if it would not be sad: I suddenly realized that it is a very difficult task for the hospital administration to easily figure out who is working where at any given time in that huge public facility. Supposedly, J. F. is the keeper of the gate, as a pleasant well-mannered supervisor (in my view, the only truly understanding official) finally told me. Others did not want to tell me the name of the rude and indifferent receptionist claiming that they do not know who she is. They wanted all of us to have a meeting at this time. I refused their insistence to tell them the entire story all over again. I imagine, the police would share their findings with the hospital administration, wouldn’t they? Besides, my mom was clearly suffering and pleading with me just to go home. Of course it was exhausting for her to be wondering through the long corridors of the building and waiting, waiting, and receiving no clear information as to when and how long the procedure will take.
When all is said and done (or written in this case), I strongly feel that my mother and I, we both had received a deliberately lousy service and mental and emotional abuse from the desk clerk J.F. It has caused us unwelcome anxiety, humiliation and our rights as private citizens were violated. We left the clinic. My mom chose not to stay there a minute longer.
Was the hospital's first and foremost concern really about patient's needs in this instance? What I took out of this entire experience is that it is necessary to just shut up no matter what, listen to the commands barked from behind the desks, sit down (“sit, dogie, sit!”) and wait, wait, wait. After all, papers on the desks are always more important than people, aren’t they?
I am sorry, mom, that I did not shut up and sit down this time. I have a lousy excuse: as I age too, it is becoming increasingly difficult to witness directed at you, or take myself another mental and emotional abuse from complete strangers who are “in charge.”
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