We are incredibly fortunate to have good health care. And we’re even luckier to have good health care providers. Most of them have been part of our lives for 20 years or more. We’re not just on a first name basis; we exchange hugs and family stories. That easy manner is a balm for a hypochondriac like me.
Same with nurses and receptionists. Good to have them on your side. Anything to get the frayed nerves settled down.
But now we have robotic, computerized check-in machines. By the time the machine has electronically recognized me, agreed that I have a proper driver’s license, am sufficiently insured to cover the high cost of medicine, has accepted the fact that I have moved, have a new address and telephone number and am still the person I say I am, I am wrecked. Demoralized. Nauseated. Woozy. I have heart palpitations and sweaty palms. My toes and fingers tingle and I feel faint.
In other words, I need a doctor. And not just the one I had an appointment with.
Actually, I just need a person. Someone to smile at me when I walk in the door, say my name, welcome me, check me in and say those lovely (if not always truthful) words: “Doctor will be with you shortly.”
Image thanks to the Reliant Medical Group