A Visit to the “Medicare for All” Clinic
Come with me on a trip to the future…
The waiting room is full.
I’m there with a twisted ankle.
A line has formed in front of the tiny reception desk.
People are clutching their new government issued, Universal Health Cards as they wait to sign in.
Those who have already checked in are occupying all the seats in the stuffy waiting room. Many more are standing.
I’ve been waiting for close to two hours.
My ankle is killing me. I twisted it running for a bus.
Standing for about a hundred and twenty minutes hasn’t helped.
People keep grabbing vacated seats before I can get my own.
Finally, someone calls my name.
I hobble across the stifling waiting room, past the frantic receptionist, and into an ice box of an exam room.
I’m told to disrobe and put on a flimsy “johnny,” even though my problem is a sore ankle.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’ve turned blue.
My ankle is now numb from the cold.
In rushes a clinician. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Well doc, I hurt my ankle while running to catch a bus.”
“Do you smoke?”
“Just a few a day,” I answer.
“How about alcohol?” he continues.
“I have a couple of beers, and sometimes a glass of wine with dinner. What’s this got to do with my ankle?”
He ignores my query. “Why were you running for that bus? Didn’t you leave your home in time?”
“I overslept that day, but I reached the bus stop on time. That damn bus driver decided to leave early. I went running after him just as he was pulling away. That’s when I twisted my ankle.”
The doctor considered this, then sternly asked, “How many beers did you have the night before the accident?”
“Look Doc, I don’t see what this has got t…t…to do with my ankle.”
“How long have you had that stutter?” he asked.
“It’s just that I’m c…c…cold. This exam room must be fifty degrees. And, I’m practically naked.”
“I thought you had a sore ankle. Why did you take off your clothes?”
“The person who showed me in told me to get undressed. Can I put on my clothes now?”
He ignores me. “OK, I’m referring your case to an alcohol and smoking cessation clinic. I think with some counseling, you should be able to get back on your feet.”
“But DOCTOR… What about my ANKLE?!?”
“Have you always been this hostile?” he asks.
“Doctor, I’m not hostile. I just want to get my ankle fixed up.”
The doctor considers this for a moment, then begins to look more intently at my history.
“I notice that you were arrested for disorderly conduct back in ’88. A police dog bit your ankle. Is that true?”
“Well, sort of. But that was a long time ago.”
“Our guidelines are clear about previous criminal related injuries. I’m going to refer your case to the local Justice Department office downtown.”
“Doctor, can’t you do anything for my ankle NOW?”
“Certainly. When you leave, make an appointment with radiology for X-rays. Right now, there’s only a ten-day wait. Meanwhile, stay off your ankle, and cut down on the booze and smoking. It’s people like you who make health care more expensive for the rest of us. Think about that,” he advises sternly.
Vowing to think about it, I hobble out of the ice box exam room.
Unfortunately, I forget to put on my clothes.
Someone calls security.
Now, I’m in a jail cell, waiting for the jailhouse doc to look at my ankle.
At least I won’t get any more lectures.
Plus, it’s a lot warmer in here.
