Is There a Doctor in the House?

One day four or five years ago when my father, of blessed memory, was being seen by a retina specialist for macular degeneration, he was treated with insensitivity by a receptionist. That day, and my failure to defend him, has stayed with me.

I fictionalized the event in Dream House.  More recently I reflected about it in an essay, "Last Dance":

We had been waiting for some time in reception, my father and I. His lips were parched from one of his medications. He was thirsty. When I asked the receptionist for water, she filled a teeny cup and handed it to me with an annoyed, dismissive look. Twenty minutes or so later my father needed more water.

"I'll go," he told me, his hand stopping me as I started to rise.

Steadying himself on his cane, he shuffled to the reception window. He looked tiny, frail, the slope of his shoulder that had been shattered in one of the labor camps more pronounced. He handed the woman the small white cup.

"Can I have some more water, please?"

I couldn't see his face, but I knew he was smiling. Even when he wasn't feeling well, my father was a charmer to his many doctors and their staff, and they were all fond of him.

I did see the woman's face. Lips pinched with impatience, eyes rolling. I heard her say, sternly, "Mr. Majer, next time you come, bring a water bottle."

I should have defended him. At the least I should have told her, "Wait till you grow old." Instead I swallowed my indignation, my father shuffled back to his seat and sipped his water, and eventually we saw the doctor.

That was several years ago, and I still regret my silence. Months later I had an appointment with my internist, whose offices are in that same building. In the elevator after my appointment, I debated for a second, then pressed UP instead of DOWN and mentally rehearsed what I would say to the blonde receptionist. I would pull her aside and address her privately. I had no interest in embarrassing her. I wanted to enlighten her, to urge her to treat another old man or woman with more compassion and gentleness.

She was no longer there.

The woman who had replaced her looked at me curiously, and I left realizing what I should have known all along:

Most times we don't get second chances.

Last week I had a second chance.

A year or so after my father died I spoke at an event about a scene in Dream House in which Molly Blume, waiting in a doctor's reception room, witnesses an incident identical to what I had witnessed. An elderly man asks for water. The receptionist tells him what she told my father. I had looked forward to righting the wrong that had been done to my father, to doing in fiction what I hadn't done in real life.

In Molly's words:

I watched the son. He'd looked up from his laptop at the receptionist's rebuke, and I saw anger pinch his lips. He made a motion as though he was about to stand, and I tensed in anticipation. Tell her off, I cheered silently. But indecision crept into his eyes, and then a sort of embarrassment because he saw me looking at him. He sat back, his face flushed, his eyes avoiding mine, and returned his attention and fingers to the laptop.

I supposed he didn’t want to create a scene. I supposed that in those few seconds he'd decided that the repercussions of an outburst would outweigh any momentary satisfaction. Maybe the office would give his father a hard time scheduling appointments or filling out insurance forms. Worse, maybe they'd ask him to find another doctor. I understood, but damn, I'd wanted him to put the woman in her place. I wondered what I would have done if it were Bubbie G who'd been yelled at. To be honest, I didn't know.

At the event, I spoke about the origin of the scene, about my lingering feelings of guilt and powerlessness. After the question and answer segment, a woman from the audience approached me. Her name was Frederica.

"You're talking about Doctor X, aren't you?" she said.

I was surprised. "Why would you say that?"

"Because my mother is his patient, and I've been upset by the behavior of his staff."

Last Thursday Frederica e-mailed me. There was no greeting, no explanation, just the following transcript of her conversation of January 4 of this year with the doctor's receptionist, a transcript she has given me permission to use:

Frederica: Hello, this is Bertha Barlaz's daughter.  I believe my mother had an appointment this week.  She won't be able to keep it as she died last
week.

Office staff member: Okay.

End of conversation.

I was stunned, horrified. I e-mailed Frederica, commiserated with her about her loss, shared her outrage . I urged her to let the doctor know.

An hour later she e-mailed me again:

That wasn't the end.  About 5 minutes ago I had a phone call:

Frederica: Hello
Voice: May I speak to Bertha?
Frederica: She isn't here.  Who is calling?
Voice: This is Dr. X's  office.  Bertha has an appointment....
Frederica: Excuse me, but I called a few days ago to tell you that my mother died last week.
Voice: Okay, great, sorry about that.
(end of conversation)  (the last line is verbatim- i wrote it down)

Frederica added that she had no intention of informing the doctor. First, she said, she'd have to go through his staff.

"And do you think he'd care?" she asked me.

I didn't know if he'd care, but I had to do something. For Frederica and Bertha, for my father. I asked permission to phone the doctor on her behalf. Frederica agreed.

So Friday afternoon I Googled the doctor and phoned his office.  To the less than friendly woman who answered the phone, I said that I wanted to speak to the doctor about a personal matter.

"What's it about?"

"It's pesonal," I repeated.

"Does it have to do with your eyes?"

"No. It's a personal matter."

"Are you a patient?"

"No. My father was the doctor's patient." I told her his name.

She took my phone number and said she'd give the message to the doctor.

Five minutes later my phone rang. The doctor, according to my Caller ID.

It was his staff manager. Much friendlier and more polite than the first woman.

"I screen all of the doctor's calls," she told me. "Can you tell me what this is about?"

I repeated that this was personal, that it related to my father, who had been a patient.

At first she couldn't find my father's file. They had misspelled his name.

"I'll give the doctor your message," she said.

Ten minutes later the doctor phoned. I thanked him for returning my call and began. I told him that something had happened with his staff over three years ago, that I still regret not having brought it to his attention then.

I told him about his receptionist, who had advised my elderly father to bring a water bottle next time--this, after we had been waiting for well over an hour. "Her remark was callous and insensitive," I said.

No response from the doctor.

"My father's experience was brought back yesterday when the daughter of one of your patients shared what had just happened to her."

I told him about the phone calls.

Again, no response.

"I  hope you'll bring this to the attention of your staff," I said, filling the silence.

"I'll do that. "

He speaks.

"I want you to know," he said, "that my staff gets only laudatory comments."

"Obviously, not from everyone," I pointed out.

"Thank you for calling and bringing this to my attention. I hope you have a good year."

I hung up, disappointed, frustrated. I suppose I should give the doctor some points for calling, and for listening.

Here's what I think he should have said:

"I'm so sorry that your father had an uncomfortable experience with my staff. I'm so sorry that no one acknowledged Mrs. Berlaz's daughter's loss, or her grief. I will talk to my staff and make sure nothing like this happens again."

Too much to ask?

I wonder if the doctor plans to call Frederica to express his condolences and to offer an apology.

I'm thinking no.

Comments

[Rochelle]

Thanks, Julie and everyone else who commented. Yesterday I found myself in the building where Dr. X has his office - wondered whether he ever spoke to his staff.

[Julie Herman]

Rochelle:

I am so glad that your missed opportunity came around again -- and that you were able to do the right thing for Mrs. Berlaz's daughter.

How many people have been through that office and have never spoken of the treatment they endured.

There are good people in the world -- you have proven this through your actions.

If it is a comfort to you that your father's indignity was not in vain, consider this: If you had not continued to relive that incident, would Mrs. Berlaz's daughter have found the champion you became?

Thank you for speaking up.

[Joe Bickley]

We have devalued compassion most dangerously in the interests of economies of time. It is no longer a social or academic virtue. The truly sad thing to me is that these receptionsists have no idea that what they were saying was wrong.

[Barbara W. Klaser]

I agree that there's a certain need for medical professionals to maintain objectivity and avoid burnout, but in my mind that doesn't preclude common courtesy. In both cases, blatant rudeness and even a kind of cold cruelty entered into the interactions with patients. That is directly in conflict with what we hope would be a healing environment.

One can maintain emotional balance and still be kind.

[alan]

Dear Mrs. Krich,

I come to your blog by way of SeraphicPress.com. I just read your story of the doctor's staff with great interest and will comment a bit more later when I have more time, but I do plan to visit your site frequently.

I am ...

Very Sincerely yours,

Alan D. Busch

[Barbara Brown]

The sad fact is that keeping a "professional distance" from patients is not only encouraged but carefully taught.
One could almost forgive this cold and even cruel behavior on the part of the doctor's staff when we consider that the purpose of the "professional attitude" is to continue to "serve" without reaching the burn out phase that can come from allowing themselves to feel compassion for each person in their care.
In the end, however, there is absolutely no excuse for it.
Meanwhile, every person that we meet in our lives who knows better and brings care, concern and genuine empathy to others and shares their humanity with each to the next is that much more precious.

I applaud your bringing this matter here to share, please accept and add my support to that of others here along with those who do not know what to say to make clear that they, too, understand.
Please, too, consider this an attempt to make apology for those among us who seem to have simply forgotten how to feel genuine concern for their fellows, and act appropriately in the community. I add my voice so that I, too, may help assure you that you are not alone in your protracted sadness, so you know that you do not bear it alone.
Barbara

[Shirly]

Unfortunately, I believe that medicine has become too much of a business and lost its element of empathy and/or compassion. Perhaps naively, we as Jews think that others should be mensches too. More often than not, as evident by Rochelle's accounting, that is no longer the case. At least you got the doctor to call you back and the same day!

[Jo Anne]

I had a similar experience when I complained to a doctor. I had received a phone call that my mother's ride hadn't come(she was in a wheelchair). When I called, I was told that the staff had brought her downstairs and left her alone in the dark waiting for a ride. When I started crying and said I was shocked that they would do this, I was told that "your mom is not our problem. Our office is closing." I called the doctor the next day. My phone calls to him went unreturned, so I wrote him a letter. I received a letter back, but rather than an apology the doctor BLASTED me for my accusations. I came to the conclusion that this type of behavior wouldn't be tolerated unless the person at the top also had poor values. It almost seems worthless to complain under these circumstances, because (shockingly) there is no one to complain TO. Our examples are in the medical field but I find this occuring to a lesser extent in other professions that deal with customers.

[rabbi neil fleischmann]

I'm thinking no too, regarding your last line. But it was good for you yourself that you followed through and said what had to be said. Man's inhumanity to man comes in daily doses, in private places, so many people living lifes of quiet abomination. Sad.