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By: David Calder/ 1994
I dropped off my son, a 17-year-old high school senior heading headlong
toward the 21st century, at the gym one evening last week. Although this
young ruffian has caused innumerable headaches in the past few years,I
had anticipated no troubles from his latest venture: a tryout for the
school basketball team. He has played ball for three years and seemed
assured of a spot on this year's quintet.
About a half hour later the phone rang.
"Dad,this subdued little voice pleaded,they won't let me try out."
My loud, brash, outspoken and callous offspring had suddenly become a
little boy again.
"Dad,he said,if I don't get a physical by tomorrow night, I won't be
able to play."
"Jeesh, I muttered,was silent for a moment, then said,I'll see what I
can do."
Fortunately the next day was not a busy one, so I sallied forth at
8a.m. to try,somehow, to get a doctor to give my son a physical.
I realized quickly that phone calls were useless.My only hope was to
meet someone face to face who might pity my anguish and allow me access
to the head and horns of that great beast called healthcare.
Into several offices I bounded optimistically. Out of all of them I
stumbled,dejectedly. The common response was incredulity. How could I
possess the temerity to suggest that,on short notice,the high and mighty
might tend to the lowly and meek,short of a life threatening emergency?
One slickly dressed young lady tried to be helpful by asking,"Well, who
does he usually see?"
"Nobody,I replied,if he can help it."
You must now realize that I keep my relationship with the beast as
minimal as possible. I steer clear.
The typical outer office of a modern doctor's complex is a
bland,antiseptic place that features six or eight young females busily
punching computers,answering phones,shuffling forms and politely
reminding John Q.Public that his presence is somewhat
annoying,particularly if he doesn't possess an engraved appointment
card,a pocket bulging with money or an insurance voucher that announces
his membership in some holy alliance.
"Hippocrates,where art thou?"
"I'm hiding in the cellar and don't want to come up."
I gave up and went home. I called a relative who at one time had worked
for the beast when it was smaller and tamer.
"Well,she said,you could call Dr.B."
Dr. B, it turned out, is an elderly female doctor who practices in a
little town to the west of us. I called Dr.B. and explained the situation.
"Goodness,she said,bring him right over."
I picked the boy up at school and drove a few miles down Rt.2 and
stopped at an old colonial residence with a tiny faded sign out front
that announced Dr.B.'s practice. We entered the old house and were
greeted by a smiling,bespectacled lady of about 75 and a mongrel dog who
appeared about the same age.
"Come right in",the lady said.
We followed her and the dog into the examining room. The old dog
summoned all his strength and jumped right up on the examining table and
lay down,white whiskers and all.
"Sit right down, Dr.B. said, and we'll see what we can do about helping
this young fellow play basketball."
Dr.B. checked him all out and said,"Well now,I guess probably he can
play basketball," and signed a slip to that effect.
"Thank you very much, Dr.B., I said, how much do I owe you?"
"Oh,that's all right," she replied.
I realize that my persona does not exactly exude affluence but I
insisted that I wanted to pay her.
"Well,I get $12 for an office call," she said.
I gratefully handed her $12 and mentioned that the old dog looked quite
comfortable lying on the table.
"Oh, she said,he's waiting for his treatment. Would you like to see it?"
And she proceeded to give the dog a thorough massage of his spinal
column. The old dog wagged his tail and his tongue was hanging out.
I patted the old dog and said,"Now ain't you a good old fellow."
"Ayuh,said Dr.B.,he sure is."
I thought to myself that the dog was not the only good old creature present.
The boy and I went back out to my pickup and headed, reluctantly,back to
the 21st century.