People used to be obsessed with cleanliness. In those days television was essentially a mechanism to sell soap. We still have soap operas, of course, but we are now obsessed with health, especially pharmacologically induced health. And our 3D flat screen TV is a handy machine to sell pills and ointments. It is all so well done that there are people now who will select a given channel only because they do not want to miss the funny advertising. Just turn on the TV and actually listen for an hour. You will hear and see a minimum of three clever medicine-related commercials, and all of them will end with the by now ritual, i.e. customarily repeated, phrase: “Ask your Doctor”.
As if that were possible. They are pulling your leg. They know very well that in the United States of America, the land of unlimited possibilities, you can do just about anything. But two things are left that are not possible: you cannot place a direct telephone call to the President, and you cannot reach your doctor, by phone or any other way, to ask him something. In fact, you may not even have a doctor, ever since he went the concierge way. Thank God you will at least always have a President. He has not gone concierge yet. Or she, as the case may be.
Well, one should at least try the doctor. So I dial the number. A machine answers: “If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911”. Well, no. It is not an emergency, I explain to the machine. I am just sick. And the man on TV said I should take two of the pills from the package he was holding up. And I should ask my doctor, presumably to pin him down and force him to decide then and there if those tablets “are right for me”. Hello? Hello? – Hung up.
All right. I try again. I ignore the 911 invitation. The conversation continues. At the doctor’s end still a machine. “Please listen carefully as our options have changed”. I listen until they mention Dr. Smith, my doctor. I press 5 as instructed. Another machine cuts in, so fast that I cannot catch the first two words but the message is clear: I have reached, it says, “the office of Sally Fango, Doctor Smith’s nurse. If you have reached this message between 8 AM and 5 PM I am either out of my office for no particular reason, or at lunch; or in my office but two strong gorillas are restraining me so I cannot reach the phone”, or words to that effect. Oh, there is an addendum. “If you leave me a message before 3 PM I will call you back today, or else tomorrow, unless tomorrow is a Saturday, a Sunday, or a holyday. If you don’t hear from me by Monday, hang up and dial 911”.
I am a patient patient. I try again. I let the machine go past number 5 and am rewarded by an option to make an appointment. I press the appropriate number key. Another machine answers. I am invited to press zero for an assistant. Progress! A real person picks up the phone but tells me that the appointment person is there only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This is Friday. Pause. “You can leave her a message”, the lady says. But her voice sounds very tired, as if to imply that that would not be of much use, anyway.
Monday rolls around. I call again. Bad timing: “This is the exchange for Oldtown Medical Services Inc. The office is now closed. Your call is important to us, please call again.” So we can tell you how important? Or am I putting words into their mouths?
Now, actually there is a Dr. Smith, my doctor. I have seen him. But he is well shielded from prying eyes. In other words, I know that he is, but not where or when. Once I met him in the library. I should have asked him then. I am sure he would have loved that.