Doc in the Box Read Online Free PDF

General Hospital loomed in front of us on Lindell Boulevard, a jumble of fifty years of mediocre architectural styles. We found a parking spot in the garage, a near-miracle right there. It was almost always filled.
    “Look at those bastards,” Georgia said.
    “Which ones?”
    “The doctors. They’ve got the best parking spots, right near the entrance. It’s one thing if they needed a close parking space because they had a medical emergency. But this is ridiculous. Two ground floors of parking reserved for perfectly healthy physicians, while seriously sick people have to park four and five levels up, then wait for the elevators. No wonder people hate doctors.”
    “The doctors get to park free, too,” I said. “You know why God is God, don’t you?”
    She shook her head.
    “Because he couldn’t get into medical school.”
    At least I had her laughing by the time we got to the hospital lobby, a pompous eighties addition that was supposed to be impressive. Instead, it looked like the hospital was trying to drum up more business. The green marble floor seemed slick as a skating rink, and terrified the patients who used crutches and canes. The bubbling fountain tantalized wayward toddlers. About once a month one took a header into the water. The atrium ceiling allowed the hot St. Louis sun to beat down on anyone waiting on the spine-crippling benches.
    Once out of the lobby, the hospital was a maze ofdepressing tunnellike halls, bristling with heating ducts and pipes. There were so many new buildings and additions, the only way to find your way around was by following one of the red, blue, green, or yellow lines painted on the floor. Radiation oncology was on the blue line. Georgia and I made nervous chatter as we passed pathetic sights in wheelchairs and on gurneys. Both of us were too frightened to talk about what we were really seeing.
    The radiation oncology center was in a separate wing of the hospital. We walked into a room that smelled stale and closed in. It was decorated in 1980s face-powder pink. The chairs were worn, the gray industrial carpet soiled, and the cheerful, anonymous pictures of pink flowers were crooked. The magazines were well-thumbed and six months old. The receptionist, a plump woman in a flowered smock uniform, could have been pretty, except for her dissatisfied expression. She was busy laughing with a radiation therapist, who was sitting on her desk. The receptionist ignored Georgia and me. We stood there for maybe five minutes while they talked and flirted, and Georgia, this new Georgia I didn’t recognize, was curiously passive. She just stood there.
    Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can anyone here help us?”
    The receptionist looked up, frowned, and said, “What do you want?” The flirtatious radiation therapist oozed away.
    “We have an appointment for radiation therapy,” I said.
    “What’s your insurance?” she asked.
    “Medallion American Healthcare,” Georgia said, sounding like she was sleepwalking.
    “PPO or HMO?”
    “HMO.”
    “Where’s your referral sheet?” she said.
    “My what?” Georgia said, finally coming to life.
    “Your referral sheet. Your HMO requires it. If you don’t have your referral sheet, you can’t have treatment.”
    “But Dr. Partland said all I had to do was come over here. He didn’t give me a sheet.”
    “Sorry, can’t do it without the paperwork,” the receptionist said, not sounding sorry at all.
    “Dr. Partland’s office is in the next building,” I said. “We’ll go get the paperwork and be right back.”
    “Too late,” the receptionist said. “We’re closing in ten minutes. We’ve been here since eight this morning, and we’re not staying late. She can come in another day. Tomorrow, maybe.”
    “This is unconscionable,” I said. “This woman has cancer. You’re going to let her suffer because you don’t want to stay five more minutes?”
    “One day won’t make any