Anyone who knows me is very much aware how much I dislike doctors, hospitals and emergency rooms. I just don’t believe in them any more because they are not “doctors” anymore, they are just “health providers” – but they provide nothing, not even hope anymore to those with life threatening illnesses.
Doctors (no, health providers) don’t even see patients any more; now they have Physicians Assistants (PA’s) looking at the sick people while doctors play golf – contradicting themselves by calling the assistants “physicians” assistants when they should be called HPA (health providers’ assistants) until they learn how to play golf, and then they find an assistant to the assistant.
I know someone who takes several pills every day: for this, for that and for everything in between, but walks with a crutch, has pain in the head, pain in the back, pain in the leg and has become a pain in the you-know-where with family members that keep track of all the pills’ schedules.
We all know that when a health provider’s assistant prescribes any pills, that is a life-term pill, and then there’s the second pill and the third pill and so on and so on.
I once went to a health provider who prescribed some pills that I never even took, and when I visited another health provider he told me that I never had the illness that the other guy told me I had. It could be that I was cured by the pills that were prescribed but never taken.
But anyway, that is not what I intended to write about for this week.
I have issues on hand and I am going to try to explain in this short space.
Last week I went to a “specialist” (a Urology Specialist) on West Charleston Boulevard, where the rude telephone answering person who is supposed to welcome the patients forgot how to be a human being, and before she even said hello, welcomed me to her Urology Specialist office, or asked me for my name, she asked me for my insurance card.
I could have been there because I was lost and was looking for directions, or because I had an emergency and needed to use the men’s room, but neither would have mattered. All she wanted was to see my insurance card.
Then, the same rude telephone answering person acting as receptionist announced loudly to all the other people sitting in the waiting room that I had not paid the co-pay on my last visit a year ago.
I was embarrassed; my face must have turned red because I felt the heat of it, so I decided to reply in kind, and turned to all those people sitting in the waiting room pretending to be reading a magazine, and as loud as she did in announcing that I hadn’t paid, informed those people that
I, in fact, had paid my leftover co-pay, and repeated it twice more in case someone did not hear me the first two times.
As always, there was someone there who must have been a “neighborhood watch” for the waiting room, and despite the fact that he might not be too good in writing due to the fact that it took him almost an hour to answer a few questions on the form they give to all patients, he put his paperwork down and started berating me because I was being verbally abusive to the phone-answering woman.
When I asked him if he had any business getting into our conversation,he told me that “the phone girl” was his wife.
I told him to sit down, shut up, and mind his own business, but the brave old man took his glasses off and wanted to fight me. When I started laughing, he told his alleged wife to call the police and started coaching her on what to tell the police when they got there.
After I gave the phone girl my insurance card — of course – I sat down and started filling out the questionnaire that they make you fill out every time you visit the health provider’s office, regardless of how many times you had previously visited that office.
I finished the filling-in part of the doctor’s visit and was seated there patiently waiting for my appointment that was scheduled for twenty minutes prior, when I saw a whole squadron of police officers walking into the medical office.
I had already forgotten the earlier incident with the waiting-room watcher, and then I realized that he really did have his alleged wife call the police because I had “verbally abused” her.
Now here they were, ready to “protect” a rude woman and justify the neighborhood waiting-room watcher. If I were a betting man, I would bet that if she was his wife, he probably verbally abused her and now wanted to look like a lifesaving hero in front of strangers.
Three police officers responding to a call that took place twenty-five minutes earlier, with a little old man like me, and after everyone had already settled down and had gotten on with their life.
Three police officers responding to a call involving two old men that most likely could not even lift a chair to throw at each other – that may have cost the taxpayers a few bucks that the $42-million sheriff claims they don’t have.
Three police officers responding to a call that didn’t amount to anything, while our sheriff is asking the community to pay for the funeral of one of the best, most decent police officers the department has had instead of collecting the ten grand from the stupid SOB that did not know how to read a sign ordering everyone to stay out of that area.
Three police officers responding to a call with a neighborhood waiting-room watcher/Urology Specialist security guard protecting his fifty-years- his-junior alleged wife, and a wimpy old man fearing for his life while at the same exact time, a purse-snatching, a robbery at a liquor store, a man run down by a hit-and-run and two other police officers were risking their life on a bank robbery call that could have been taking place.
I do have to say in all fairness that Officer Givens, who spoke to the scared telephone operator fearing for her life and asking for help, was very professional, very much a gentleman, and an asset to the police department.
The other two officers didn’t even bother to listen to my side of the story and stood out of the way of Officer Givens, who appeared to be in charge and doing a very good job of handling this extremely dangerous call from the Urology Specialist’s newly appointment security guard and the telephone operator in distress because of an upset and embarrassed and humiliated little old man like me.
My name is Rolando Larraz, and as always, I approved this column.
Rolando Larraz is Editor in Chief of the Las Vegas Tribune. His column
appears weekly in this newspaper. To contact Rolando Larraz, email him
at: Rlarraz@lasvegastribune.com or at (702) 699-8111.