They were all nice--don't get me wrong. There wasn't a sourpuss in the bunch--men or women. They all handled the bald guy with the walker with respect and dignity. I don't doubt for a minute that they're all sweet people. Sweetness is all I saw from any or all of them.
They were all nice, but there were so danged many.
Before you get to the massive front desk, two sweet church-like greeters aim you politely where you're going. Let me just say, you need it--the cardiac center of Sanford Hospital, is Titanic in breadth and elegance. Some directions are in order.
The front desk has three receptionists. One of them (let's call her Employee 3) turns her head over the shoulder, "S- C-H-A-A-P," she spells, "and whatcha' got for a birthday, sweetheart?"
I announce my birthdate, the first time in a unending ritual.
"1948?" she says, stupefied, then turns around. "Honey, you are one good-looking ''48."
I'll write Sanford later to tell them to give that one a raise. I was there for a heart exam--something nuclear; she'd already turned it into a drum.
Anyway, employee 3, 4, and 5 make a paper copy of something regarding my visit; Emp 3 slips it in a folder, gives it to Emp 6, who has appeared out of nowhere to tell me I'm only slightly off course and usher me to the east section of Sanford universe. I'm not quick on my feet, so she holds the elevator door open, smiles professionally, and sinks us both down a floor, then holds the doors open again, takes me to Emp 7, who's behind yet another front desk, where she drops off my blue folder and ushers me to a waiting room chair.
I am clearly among the elderly, like everyone else, a half hour early.
Olympic gymnastics are on a tv across the room, so I get up slowly and steer myself into a position to watch. Not smart--it's the men's competition. Such incredible grace, and I've got to reach for the walker just to stand up.
A half hour passes. At 11:46, Emp 8 emerges from a hallway door, picks up the blue folder and asks for James. I tell her my birthday. She's could be the granddaughter of the woman at the front desk. Says nothing.
She brings me into a room with a hospital bed, tells me to take off my shirt and strings me up with an open-season hospital gown, puts me on the bed and opens the gown slightly, asks permission to shave the eight or ten hairs in the strategic positions the electrical nipples need to occupy, then tells me what they're going to be doing, and leaves.
Emp 8 draws blood, checks my blood pressure, gets me ready for the juice I'll get eventually, hi-tech stuff the camera will observe as it snakes through my heart. Employee 8 has been with me for fifteen minutes, longer than anyone.
Emp 9 is a stocky bald guy, the photographer. He pushes me into a room a bit farther down, where something sort of Rihanna-ish is on the boom box behind me. At least it's not Wagner. Emp 9 gets me comfy and shoots the film.
Emp 10 comes by to get me up on my feet once the film is shot. It's a tussle--I'd been almost sleeping. She walks me back to the room where my phone is still lying on the table, and she tells me it's a good idea for me to drink some caffein, so would I like coffee or Diet Coke or something else maybe? That's Emp 11, who gets me a Diet Coke--and it's cold.
Emp 12 is the pro. He carries whatever "nuclear" is part of the test, tells me that it's got some kick, and I should tell him if the world floats away or something. But he says the effect won't be long. He's young for a shaved head, but he's the only one dressed like a doctor's--wishful thinking maybe, but that his job is top of the list is clear when the others--Emps 13, 14, and 15--all stay in the room for the treatment.
In just a few seconds I'm verklept. The juice mimics the effects of exercise I'd be going through if weren't for that walker. What goes in needs to be measured once it's flailing and sailing through my system.
One of the gang--maybe 13 or 14--gets me up and helps me hobble to yet another nuclear room, where Emp 16 tells me we're almost done and "how was the muffin?" (Emp 15 got me a muffin, first calories I'd had in 12 hours). Emp 16, the second photographer, is kind enough to stick a pillow down under my knees and lets me know that it'll be just a few minutes (12 to be exact) before I'll be on my way to, "where do you live in northwest Iowa again"?
Emp 16 takes me out of the second nuclear room and walks me back to the waiting room. I head for the elevator, take it up one floor, and go back to the where, if I'm lucky, Emp Three will be free once more to relieve my heart of any lingering nuclear tensions--and she is, thank goodness! She calls me "49," but who's going to kick about numbers?
So when Barbara pulls up I'm soon enough on my way home from Sanford Heart, scurrying down Minnesota Avenue on the old way home, when I try to make some sense of the scrapbook full of faces I'd met in two hours, sixteen (at least) different men and women who could call me their patient.
I'm not someone who reduces life to a financial ledger. That Sanford needs 16 people to run an old guy through a nuclear stress test is their business, not mine.
Medicine is a science, of course, ever-evolving through research and practice; but it's also very much an art, thoughtful people knowing how and when to help those who need it. But when finally we left the airport-like entrance--valet parking!!--I couldn't help being reminded that medicine also a business. My goodness, it's a business, a huge business.
I should mention that Emp 3 pushed me into the car and told "47" she'd put my walker into the back of the Subaru, then pointed to Barbara. "You be good to her," she said and shut the door.
Nice touch.
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