Sick Care

It's generally good to look good...

I had to go to GIANT Hospital Complex in BiG CiTAY today. Nothing serious. Just a regular checkup with my diabetes doc. But it's always an ordeal.

I find it's best NOT to dress like a patient. Because patients at these kinds of "health care" facilities are the lowest people in the hierarchy and you get treated like trash. Not by the doctors, but by everyone else.

Patients are lower than the Ethiopians who push the wheelchair bound fat people. They're lower than the West African ladies who run the coffee stand. And to the low-level fat Latina administrators who man the registration desk, patients are less than human.

So I find it's best not to look like a patient. You've got to dress like you've got someplace better to be. Instead of shorts and a t-shirt I go with dress denim, a pressed shirt, and nice-ish shoes.

Normally at this time of year I'd layer up with a nice sweater, but sweaters are awkward when they're doing you blood pressure or drawing blood.

Instead I go with a slim PataGucci puffy vest over the dress shirt. A vest is a nice courtesy to those nice healthcare workers who always want to do shit with your arms.

But today was different. Today I looked like a patient. I have a case of Face-AIDs, more commonly known as shingles. It's my first time dealing with Face-AIDs, and I've got this gnarly rash on my forehead.

To cover my face-AIDs rash I've been wearing a flat brimmed ballcap. I keep it low on my face to cover the AIDs part. Of course I can't pull off my normal not-a-patient outfit with a hat like that, so I wore a hoodie instead.

Now I look like a patient.

Fuck.

This going to suck.

But at least the Face AIDs is covered so I don't look like a sick-patient. Sick-patients are the worst kind of patients. Nobody wants to deal with a sick-patient. The other patients don't even want to deal with sick-patients.

The sick are the untouchables of the Big Hospital caste system. Avoid looking like a sick patient if at all possible.

I checked in online, so I just blew past the thick Latina registrars. Not that they even acknowledged me.

I'm walking down the corridor towards my doctor's office, when I spy some hot little creature walking towards me. I assume any hot woman not dressed like a doctor, nurse, or tech is a sales rep--because the hospital admins are all fat.

She was skinny and gorgeous. And maybe a little latin. Long black hair and the knee high boots were driving me crazy. She's coming right at me, swinging that tote bag filled with drug samples or device samples or free pens or whatever the fuck the sales reps bring to hospitals.

She's about to pass me. I'm going to look her in the eye and smile--just like I instinctually do to every other beautiful woman I see. Because they deserve recognition for being beautiful. It's not easy being attractive, and I'm going to give them the recognition they deserve.

So I do my usual look + smile, and she gives me... nothing. Not a damn thing. She wasn't looking away. She didn't even notice me. It was like I was invisible.

And then I realize: I am invisible. Because I look like a patient today. Got it.

It's always good to see my Endocrinologist. He's a good dude. I enjoy talking to him, but I don't have many medical questions. After 20+ years with Type 1 Diabetes I know almost as much as he does about the disease. And he knows I know this, so after briefly examining my Face-AIDs we just shoot the shit.

The conversation eventually turns to the absurdities of the US healthcare system. Like how he has to write "uncontrolled diabetes" on all my scripts and lab orders.

My diabetes is fairly controlled, but if he wrote that down my insurance company wouldn't cover the things that actually allow me to control it. So officially my diabetes remains "uncontrolled".

Another absurdity is the fact I'm even here seeing him today. I'm fine. I don't need a checkup.

However, most insurance companies require that I show up every 4 to 6 months so the clinic can document that I still have diabetes and my incurable disease hasn't been miraculously cured.

Without the quarterly to semi-annual "documentation" insurance won't cover my insulin, glucose meter or insulin pump supplies.

Super fun.

We say our goodbyes, and I head off to the lab for bloodwork. They have a phlebotomist in the office. This nice black lady who always asks how I'm doing and then explains that I'm exactly where Jesus wants me to be.

I like her. She's lovely. But she's out today. So I have to trek to the BIG LAB in the main hospital building.

On the way out I see another sales rep type. Also hot, also skinny, also in knee high boots. I'm not going to bother trying to get her attention, but I happily check out her amazing ass as she walks in front of me.

Then she turns to open a door, and her eyes catch my eyes pointed right at her ass.

Whoops. Busted.

The eyes are windows to the soul. She sees right in, and doesn't like what she sees. Because my soul is all about that ass.

I smile and she cringes.

Oh well, it's better than being invisible. I should have taken off my hat to expose the Face-AIDs. L'esprit de l'escalier.

I'll be back in a few months not dressed like a patient and get her to smile back. We'll make this right in the end.

The BIG LAB is packed full of patients. Some sick, some not. Lots of fat people in there. They have special chairs for the fat people now. 1.5x the width of the standard chairs. But ironically the fat chairs were occupied by normal people, so the fat people had to sit stuffed into regular chairs.

It's quite the wait, but that gives me time to reflect and ponder this place. I've got a view of the main hospital entrance. Hundreds and hundreds of people coming and going. You can tell who works there, who's ill, and who's a family member.

Does anyone really get well in a place like this? Can anything good come from something with an industrial scale? It's hard to imagine.

It's finally my turn to get my blood drawn. There are two thick Latina phlebotomists helping me. I assume one is a trainee.

They're speaking spanglish to each other, but I hablo just enough to know they're talking about me and how they can't see a vein. The one who I assume is the trainee can't pronounce "testosterone". She keeps calling it "test one".

There's an issue with my "test one" draw because it's supposed to be done before 10am and now it's in the late afternoon. I tell them my doctor just wrote out the lab order and knows I'm doing it now so please just take my blood now so I don't have to come back.

There's some back and forth. I realize my mistake is trying to use logic, because they're just not getting it. So I calmly tell them not to worry because it will be fine.

Telling a Latina not to worry and assuring them it will be fine is a form of hypnosis. It always works. In the end they drew all the blood.

The last step was a urine sample. This was to be a "clean catch" and it has a specific protocol. The new girl was trying to explain how I need to wash my hands use the moist towelette to clean my dick. But she was too embarrassed to use the word penis and pantomimed the dick washing part. That was entertaining.

I got into the restroom and place was filthy. Used dick-washing towelettes were all over the floor. I was supposed to give them half a jar of urine, but I filled that shit the brim.

At the end I put my sample in the metal cabinet above the sink. There was another sample in there already, but the previous patient only managed to fill it a quarter of the way up.

Now I just felt proud.

On the way out I stopped at the coffee stand. These nice West African gals work there and always make me laugh. I got a lemon soda and a oatmeal cookie.

The cookie tasted good.

Because I have Face-AIDs and I earned it.