I fear an insidious transformation may be creeping up on me. I find myself spouting – shudder – philosophy. Such an abomination would lacerate a major tenet of my belief system.
Should you spot this happening, please find a way to stop me. Yes – it’s your responsibility.
* * * *
Up here, in the pleasant PA boonies, Guthrie Healthcare serves almost all our medical needs, and they do it quite well, all things considered, with top-notch docs, nurses and receptionists. I don’t think Linda and I have ever had a negative in person experience with anyone at any office.
But there is one aspect of Guthrie that’s just plain dreadful: a system-wide failure of communication. I don’t mean direct interactions so much as seeming not to know what communication means or how it works. This can range from not placing signs at eye-level in waiting rooms to Linda returning home from hip-replacement surgery and not receiving a “how are you doing?” call or email.
Some examples:
- Linda had an appointment in orthopedics in Sayre, 40 miles up the pike, in the Guthrie main clinic. Once we tracked down the proper waiting room (many have no external signs indicating which specialty they cover), we went to the registration desk to find no one on duty. Turns out, registration that day was being taken in the office corridor 8 feet to the right. There was no sign on the registration desk to alert us; the only visible one was inside the doorway of the office corridor. So every time a new patient entered the waiting room, one of the seated waitees had to point them in the right direction.
- Phone calls reminding us of upcoming appointments arrive at 8:15 in the morning, when us retirees are barely astir, and those with a job are trying to bolt a quick breakfast. The robocall asks you to press 1 to accept the appointment. There is no other way to immediately acknowledge acceptance. And if the call goes to your answering machine or voicemail, it ends with a rapid-fire blast of phone numbers and extensions that you can’t possibly write down at that speed. And with no repetition to help you catch up.
- Through an email reminder, you can access a website to pre-register for your appointment. The purpose of this eludes me, since when you arrive at your appointment you still need to go to the registration desk to show you are actually there.
- Following Linda’s wrist fracture, she arranged for physical therapy near Guthrie’s satellite hospital in Towanda – woohoo! a mere 20-mile drive. We were told to take the first left past the hospital driveway, and given the numbered address of the building. Piece of cake. Alas, the cake was baked by Snow White’s evil stepma. We drove up the short residential street to a large parking lot on the left serving two… oh three… um four? buildings facing in different directions. None of these sported a sign giving building name or address. We recognized one structure where we’d both had physical therapy, so that must be it. No, inside we learned that this particular kind of therapy was held in the long 3-story building on the far side of the parking lot. We trotted over and found, Lord be praised!, a sign for all sorts of specialties housed within – but not the one we were there for. Next, we began our search for an entrance. Once we managed to find a door, we had the choice of stairs or a dwarf elevator off to the left. We chose the elevator, whose internal sign admonished that all medical facilities and practices were on the third floor. (For convenience, I’m sure.) Linda’s appointment went fine, as usual. On the way down in the grindingly slow elevator, which announced each floor with a sound somewhere between a “ding” and a mechanical slap, I thought, “I never want to know what’s on those first two floors.” That may be where Dr Frankenstein stores spare parts.
- Linda had another appointment in Sayre, that 40-mile drive, this time in one of Guthrie’s many outlying buildings. Once we tracked down the correct outlying building and she presented herself, she was told that her appointment had been cancelled two months ago and rescheduled for next year. Linda had received no notice of such rescheduling – and this appointment was itself a rescheduled one. The receptionist was cordial and helpful, setting up a new appointment for a couple weeks later, though she couldn’t fit Linda in before we drove our 40 miles back home. I definitely didn’t want to seem unappreciative, but I said, “Guthrie seems to have a difficulty with communication.” The receptionist’s response: “I agree with you, 100%.” So… it’s not just our imagination.
* * * *
I wonder if the following has been considered legally, and if so with what response:
The note on almost any product this side of toilet paper warns you to “Read all instructions before using this product.”
As we all know by now, this is written not to protect the user, but to protect the manufacturer from being sued. Their lawyers can argue: “He cut off both arms because he did not read the instructions.”
But… If someone does not read the instructions because they did not read the instruction to read the instructions, what kind of legal tangle does this create – a verbal möbius strip?
* * * *
I’m patiently waiting for someone to create a deepfake of Trump speaking logically. Or maybe quoting Aquinas.
* * * *
“Meaning” is a term that has come to piss me off. I don’t want even its shadow over my life.
As I see it, there is no such thing as meaning, on any scale, absolute or personal. The search for meaning is a continually failing attempt to coordinate our assumptions of what should be – an amorphous glue that changes viscosity throughout life, without our registering the change.
* * * *
As a kid, I didn’t like condiments. Mayonnaise gave me the squirms, and I flat-out hated ketchup. The only item I’d slather ketchup on was scrapple, because scrapple was the worst supposedly edible substance on earth; anything, including demonic intervention, would improve it.
* * * *
When and how did Keanu Reeves become thought of as an actual actor? Didn’t he started out as a joke?
lickhaven 