Diagnosed with a pulse
Nobody feels good. Forget happy. Shove even “satisfied.” You can hardly find anyone who feels good.
She can’t walk, he can’t pee, this one doesn’t know what’s wrong but is sure something is.
Some out-of-work actor demonstrates what he can no longer do with certain of his parts which is what he used to be able to do with part of those parts.
Days of yore, womenfolk schlepped West in a wagon train — and still fed the husband a veal cutlet — or whatever morsel he wanted to snack on.
Today it’s specialists. One only does left hands. Another just mentions which medic to see in order to wait on line for their disease specialist who is fresh from Boston and temporarily shaking some cash out of a patient’s right hand.
TV commercials are mostly pushy shouting lawyers guaranteeing you’ll get your money — after that tractor who ran over you pays them — or it’s MDs hustling medications.
It’s all pills, capsules, doses, emergency rooms, even suggested final resting places. Pros stare into the camera and ask: “So you’re 87 and don’t feel well? Then try XHHFEPGGYGLOCK. Two pills daily and you’ll feel like you’re 78 again.”
You’re automatically being fitted for an MRI, CT scan, ICU bed, ER possibility, X-ray, EKG, stethoscope thump, ultrasound, cardiac echo treatment — and you only came in to get your 4-pound dog weighed.
When you’ve already booked your Forest Lawn accommodations a specialist will finally grant your appointment.
No Tuesdays. That’s his golf day. Not Fridays. That’s his leaving for the weekend day. He’ll see you 7 a.m. on a Thursday. Perfect since the patient lives out-of-state and has to book a hotel room.
Immediately determined on this 7-minute visit is that the patient — who just won a bicycle relay race — needs testing.
Like he right away requires X-ray, echocardiogram, heart test, height, weight, pulse, temperature, heart monitor, stethoscope, blood test, radiation, hearing ability, urine culture — and while there he could hit their seventh floor for a manicure.
A quick treat
In the hospital? Do not have lunch. Food there could trigger a coma. A while back I spent a week in a hospital. Blood transfusions. The whole routine. Some unfamiliar microbe had bitten me. Nobody knew what it was.
NY Post editors Steve Lynch and Keith Poole had already prep’d Steve Cuozzo to take over my page since Cuozzo already writes everything else in the paper.
My private VIP room on a special floor was monitored by police. Day 7 a young MD in training arrived unannounced with: “You have to get dressed and get out. Someone paying more money than you booked this room.”
I was saved. And am still here to bitch and moan another day.
Also remembering the day I walked into the doctor’s office and his nurse immediately said, “Take off your clothes.
In the adjoining room was a guy with his clothes off. I said, “Ridiculous. I came in here to talk to my physician and they made me take my clothes off.” He said: “What’s the problem? I’m the doctor.”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.
