I am not about to pretend that there was ever a time when a visit to the doctor or the dentist was anticipated with glee, but it is not in my recollection that, other than the dread of the needle or the drill, that I would have met the once yearly visit with such trepidation, disdain, and full fledged cringing at the very thought of being forced to deal with the personaliies in the outer offices. 

I have a 15 year old who attends High School (like most 15 year olds) and every year, during summer vacation, we take her to the doctor for her physical (as we do all the rest of our children). The schools in NJ require paperwork filled out during these physicals – attesting to the immunization records, overall health of the child, ability to participate in athletic activities and notations of any ailments or allergies for which medications may need to be administered or avoided during the school year.

For the second year in a row, this particular Medical Practice (who I never liked anyway) has called me to say they need to move my called-for-way-in-advance block of appointments around because the doctor has changed her vacation dates and will not be in the office when we were scheduled to come in. My steel trap of a mind translates this, within a millisecond, to ‘unless we move our vacation around,’ we will not be able to see the doctor until after the school year begins. Doesn't take me long to weigh the choices. (Let's see… Thousands of non-refundable dollars vs. a little scheduling inconvenience…)

 “Let’s re-schedule.”

Much to my chagrin, the appointments are re-scheduled for September 7th. This is the day after Labor Day and for the 15 year old, this is the first day of school; she is the only one of the children who attends this particular school. The other schools will have been in session for over a week by then and they had no problem simply accepting my word over the phone that the appointment is set for September 7th.

Today, the High School Nurse finally returned my phone call. She stops in a few times a week, on her own time, mind you, to check her messages and deal with filing and paperwork preparations for the arrival of the coming year’s students. I find this admirable. Unfortunately, she has to inform me that school policy dictates that the 15 year old may start school but that there must be a letter 'on file' from the Doctor’s Office stating that the appointment is made and confirmed or the school cannot allow my 15 year old to pick up her schedule and buy her books. The nurse goes on to explain to me that the problem is that she (the nurse) will not be in school for the first few days as that is when she is taking her postponed vacation; the letter is really just a precautionary device. I understand and agree with her that a bird in the hand… Suffice it to say, I agree that the letter is a good thing.  No problem.  We agree that a FAX is acceptable and I call the Doctor’s Office to request the letter on their professional letterhead and that it be FAXed over to the school. (Doesn't this sound easy?) 

Dial the Doctor's Office.  The receptionist agrees to provide a letter, but she will not FAX it to the school, she says, because "the schools are a pain in the butt" and she is tired of them needing everything FAXed.  Although I do not have to think terribly hard to rise to the bait and come up with an equally immature response, I decide I am above it and resist.  Instead, I suggest that I drop what I am doing and come over there to get the letter.  She agrees.  (I should have known!) 

Dial the school nurse, again, to let her know that the heretofore agreed upon FAX will not be coming. I take the opportunity to ask her if I may hand deliver the letter to her, if she will be there long enough, or if I should take a stamp with me and mail it from the post office on my way home from the Doctor’s Office. She states that she will be there for several more hours and I am welcome to bring the letter to her.

I put aside my research and frown at the idea of leaving my perfect cup of coffee, get in the car and drive to the Doctor’s Office where I have to drive around the block two times before I finally follow someone from the door to their car and wait while they adjust their seat, repair their makeup, light a cigarette, adjust their seat again and finally shoot me the bird before taking off and allowing me the use of their obviously personally owned parking space. I have always found this type of thing to be amusing. People can be so funny.

The odyssey from the front door to to pediactrics is always interesting.  After stopping outside the office to deeply inhale  a  deliberate patience-inducing breath, I forge ahead determined to maintain my position as I approach the receptionist whose rumpled clothes and uncombed mane are bested only by the chaos on her desk.

“Hi. I am Mrs. M.” I started out with feigned enthusiasm and a forced smile as I extended my hand. “I called a little while ago asking for a letter stating that my 15 year old has an appointment with Dr. T. on the 7th of September.”

Without speaking a word, she grinned smugly and glared at me, while holding the enveloped letter just out of my reach so that I had to lean toward her in order to grab hold of it.

“Thank you. You don’t mind if I open it, do you? I just feel the need to check it.” I had managed, up until this time, to maintain a fairly happy attitude but I have to confess, at this point, the smugness bug had begun to make its way to my features as well. I opened the letter being extra careful not to tear the envelope, took it out and unfolded it. All the pertinent information was, in fact, typed perfectly. But it was not on the Doctor’s Official Letterhead as I had requested. It was on plain white paper. Computer paper. “Excuse me; I asked for letterhead. This is to be an official document in her school file.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No. I can’t do that.”

“Excuse me. I am at a loss to understand why you cannot provide an official letter on a proper letterhead. For that matter, I really feel the need to add that I am at a loss to understand why you could not have FAXed the letter to the school.”

“No.”

“But this looks like something I could have made myself.  It’s on computer paper. I would not accept this as official proof of anything and neither would you.  You know this.  Come on, don’t you think this is getting a bit silly?  I need this to be on the doctor’s letterhead.”

With this, the receptionist stood and showed me all her paperwork.  She went on to tell me about how many appointments they have and how much paperwork it generates and how much of a pain in the butt the schools are being.  She carried on for, literally, (I kid you not) over five minutes, during which time she vociferously referred to the local school administrators by several different names, among which, the ones I actually recall, are, “jerks, assholes, and pains in the ass,” while paying no mind to the fact that she is standing smack dab in the center of a busy pediatricians’ office, surrounded by impressionable little sets of ears.

Maybe it is the onset of pre-menopause; I decided it was my turn to speak.

I leaned in close to her face and spoke barely above a whisper. “My dear, first of all, the administrators of the schools are doing their jobs as dictated to them by the same people who dictate to the doctors in this practice how business is to be conducted: The insurance companies and the lawyers! 

"Second of all, in the time it has taken you to show me all your work and complain about all the schools and their individual policies, you could have prepared this letter for me and taken care of at least five of the tasks that remain still undone on your desk.

“Thirdly, since I am the one who is paying for the services of both the school and this Doctor’s Office, which includes you, I am the one who gets to say who is an asshole… and right now YOU are in first place and going for the GOLD!

“Now, unless you think unemployment insurance can adequately support you, I suggest you get out of your seat and give me this letter on a proper letterhead.”  (I know it's cliche, but cut me some slack; I was trying to maintain my dignity!)

She did.  (See how easy?)

The trek to exit the building was just as bothersome as the entrance and after showing another block circling patient where I was vacating a parking spot, I took my 15 year old's proof of a doctor's appointment to the school and had an appropriately brief, but lovely conversation with the nurse.

Upon my return home, as I sat at my desk and regathered my thoughts to complete the research that I had been performing when all this started, I could not help but note that just over two hours had passed.

It was the wasting of two hours that did it.

Two hours of my time had to be dedicated to solving a problem that could have been (and, let's fact it, should have been) solved with one phone call and one FAX. 

Two hours of my time: wasted because some two-bit, unbalanced receptionist refused to FAX a copy of a letter. 

Well, there will be letters all right! And there will be FAXes of letters. 

IS IT ME?

Carol Marsella (Two hours later) August 18, 2004