Goodbye to St. Elsewhere
Hospitals are fascinating places - I could dilate on them for hours, until the first rays of rosy-fingered dawn bathe the gray eastern sky, which usually occurs while the doctor is slumped in a chair in the Trendelenburg position, slowly relaxing the grip on his umpteenth cup of coffee as Mr. Sandman dumps a beachful in his bleary eyes. It would be difficult for me to calculate the number of hours I have spent inside the walls of these institutions of mercy without the help of a Univac or some other such behemoth of artificial intelligence, and Gawd-help-us if I ever decided to chronicle all of the maypole dances, potlucks and other jocular gatherings I have missed because I was “on call.” It’s a good thing I love my job more than life itself. Who says movie stars have it all? I get to jump out of bed each daybreak and drive the buggy to the only place in the world where people are encouraged by trained professionals to pass gas.
Alas though, it is time to say “Ta-ta” to our visit to St. Elsewhere. Our tour concludes today and unfortunately must be scored as only mediocre since the docent neglected, with a rather annoying smirk I might add, to take us through several sections of the place. The laboratories, doctor’s lounge, waiting rooms, operating rooms and foyer were passed over, which reeks of a sleazy attempt to stiff the consumer. Even the cheapest vacation package to Paris includes a peek at the Mona Lisa, for Pete’s sake.
As we search for a way out of this man-made maze called the hospital (I confess once I left scraps of a Philly steak sandwich as markers all over the 10th floor of one building while blazing a trail to to elevator), let us take one final, tender gaze at this tribute to science, diligence, compassion and most importantly, evolution (let me know if anyone ever unearths a Surgi-Center manned by Australopithecines). I can think of no better way to say goodbye than to head for the trusty family station wagon and wave a cheery adieu to the tranquil palace in the rearview mirror. This of course means we must find our car in the hospital parking lot. Wish me luck.
I recall exactly the first time that I became aware of a hospital parking lot. I had just finished working the graveyard shift as an orderly while on summer break from college, and as I hiked to my ‘73 Caprice Classic (maroon), parked but a mere tee shot, then 3-wood-7-iron-sand-wedge-three-putt away from the entrance, I happened to pass a small lot right next to the place. It was packed with sleek, freshly laundered convertibles and Teutonic chariots. Casual strollers risked a nasty case of whiplash by craning the neck to see which vehicle was the most elegant. I stopped and with breath-holding awe approached a silver Mercedes coupe’. Reaching a respectful distance from the car I peered through the window and saw an engraved plaque on the dashboard with the doctor’s name on it, written in loving, nay, adoring script.
Holy Moses, I thought - this is the doctor’s parking lot! Why the Commissars from administration let the doctors have their own enclosure was the last thing that entered my mind on that morning. Remember, in those days doctors didn’t have to even find their own charts - they were stacked on a little cart in the hallway each morning by the day shift nurse, ready for use during morning rounds. Being a layperson however, I did feel a twinge of disgust fly in amongst the flock of admiration chirping away in my gullible head - I mean, come on, who says that doctors have to have their own special lot? It just ain’t fair, and how soon till I get my magnetic passcard so I can glide my shining-example-of-capitalistic-exploitation into this royal corral?
Many summers have passed since I held that job, and now I go about my rounds in a Tin Lizzy that is not ostentatious, but certainly would not ever be confused with the neighborhood teenager’s jalopy. Some of the hospitals I visit have special gated lots and some don’t. It makes no difference to me, since one of the most exciting aspects of modern life in this country is finding a good parking spot. I still feel a little funny though when I park next to some sleek roadster with plates that say “MBA DOC.” That seems to be somewhat extravagant to me, and those who know me best would agree that one could sell sno-cones in the infernal regions before the day came that I tooled around in such a paragon of profligacy. I am happy just to be here. I ain’t going to toot my own horn, that’s for sure. Just call me Joe Anonymous.
(If I do get a plate though I’ll put this on it: VALUES - better off using an obscure literary allusion. Wouldn’t you agree, Count Mippipopolous?)
