First you get hit with big charges that are only hinted at prior to the “procedure.” Then all that mystifying paper work arrives—endlessly—and formatted like a maze (don’t they know we’re ill?) with everything in code (why can’t they just say what it’s about?). And all the repetition. This is a bill. This is not a bill. Here’s your summary (again). It’s the most painful part of being sick.

But here’s the most absurd thing: when your doctor works for one hospital and you want to visit the other, the doctor’s office will not make the arrangements for you. You have to do it yourself because they’re in competition. Are they crazy?

If health care is the reform we need, then this is a good place to start—by really taking care of us when we need it, regardless of the turf war. Let’s hope one day they (who are they anyway?) see the light and learn to collaborate for their mutual benefit and our medical welfare.

Yes, business is about profit. But when it’s about only profit, and profit at the full expense of at least some goodness, it’s a bad sign. •

If you’re gonna do one thing right, then at least do coffee right. Put a little more in the darn filter each time. Pay a little—just a little—more for some decent beans. And, please, enough of those thick mugs I can barely get my old lips around. I know they have to go through your dishwasher a zillion times, but how about something with nicer colors instead of the usual beige, brown, black, and muddy red?

Your coffee should be the centerpiece. The thing we talk about whenever your place is mentioned. “Oh, yeah, let’s go there. They have great coffee.” It’s the thing that brings us back even when the food, service, and ambience don’t.

And if your coffee is pretty good, don’t go charging overmuch for it. Cause that’s a turnoff, too.

How hard is all this to understand?

How did this happen? Who started the trend of office assistants being surly, nurses seeming matter-of-fact, and doctors acting omniscient? And why do so many imitate these less than ideal models? Don’t they know we aren’t feeling well already? That we need—and are paying a lot of money for—personal attention and care?

Well, that’s probably where the problem starts, because they know we’re not paying for it; that the insurance companies are. Apparently, that’s who they think their real customers are. We are just patients.

The Usual Story

Oh, happy day

Typically, you show up, the noisy glass window slides open, and the first —usually curt—thing you here is, “Insurance card and photo ID.” No “Good morning, how are you feeling today?” or anything at all cordial with a warm, healing tone. Am I the only one who thinks medical office staffers need a graduate program of their own? Because they apparently have to be taught that that first interaction a patient has during the office-visit is crucial. Right away you feel better or worse. Which means that almost everyone feels worse.

But there’s more than that gauntlet to run. You then have to sit in a barren, windowless waiting room with dog-eared, six-month old magazines and TV monitors that are showing only medical marketing programs. (I do wonder if medical offices get paid to have those depressing things in there.) Meanwhile you have to fill out the same information on three or four photo-copied forms.

Into the cave

And it’s often a long wait. Your 10 o’clock appointment really means a call from the nurse about 30 minutes later, followed by a lonely wait in another—this time much smaller but equally windowless and depressing—room where they close the door (why is that?) and leave you to contemplate the walls full of medical charts, cancer-warning posters, and such. Next to you is the ever-inviting exam table, a glove dispenser, and the blood-pressure gauge. Just the thing to get you in the mood. Depending, of course, whether you have to wait another 10 or 60 minutes.

What might be wrong with me?

When the doctor does finally appear, it’s right to business. Not the business of attending to you, but of assessing the medical facts, because—that’s right—lots of ailing monks are waiting in the other little cells down the hall (typically 6 or 8 are scheduled per hour to meet the requirements of their employers, the local hospitals) so they gotta keep the shuffle going. Get ’em in, check their vitals, poke ’em a little, slap a prescription in their hand, and head out—leaving them alone again to ponder their medical fate and collect themselves before making that final walk down the corridor to the friendly “check out” window.

But What If?

Just imagine this scene. You arrive at your doctor’s office where you are welcomed warmly (genuinely) and offered a fresh, first-grade cup of coffee, tea, or juice? Not from a plastic dispenser in a paper cup in the corner of the room, but in a nice cup by a hostess who, after she’s settled you in, quietly takes your insurance card and ID, goes to the administrative area, and checks you in. On the tables are quality up-to-date periodicals, newspapers, and books—something to enrich the brain rather than distract it. The TV screen offers selections of worthwhile documentaries, biographies, and educational programming. You are surrounded by enticing art that does more than fill wall space—it calls for you to look at it with interest and appreciation.

How about a waiting room like this…

The atmosphere conveys no hint of “medical” or “hospital” or “sick.” For all you know you are in the first-class waiting lounge of a private air carrier. And when they say you have a 10:15 appointment, it means that you are up and moving at 10:15. But instead of being called into the public stall to be weighed, measured, and gauged, you are escorted to an exam room by an amicable nurse who does all those things there, privately, comfortably, assuredly.

And—you guessed it—the exam room is actually pleasant to be in. Nice decor. Comfortable arm chairs. No medical charts or pharmaceutical ads. The medical “equipment” is inconspicuous. You can choose from a variety of musical selections on the audio panel, pick up another something worthwhile to read, or browse the internet on your phone or laptop via the office’s free Wi-Fi network.

and an exam room like this?

A few minutes later the doctor comes in. Or, if he’s going to be late, the hostess or nurse returns as often as need be to say so, to apologize for the wait, and to ask if there’s anything else she can get you in the meanwhile. When the doctor does arrive, he actually interacts with you, talks with you, and gets an intuitive feel for your well being without having to ask directly about your symptoms. Meanwhile he’s intent on two main things: reassuring you and showing no indication of needing to just deal with you and get going. He is there for you in every sense, it shows, and you already feel better simply because of that. When he’s done, he rings a quiet buzzer to let the hostess know it’s time to come and escort you out. A pleasant face enters the room and offers to walk you down the hall to another private check-out lounge where you sit while she brings you necessary forms to sign—all of which she goes over with you in plain English.

Scheduling your next visit

If you need to write a check or process a credit card, you do it from the comfort of a chair or desk, not standing at another window looking down at a busy administrative assistant. Same thing for your next appointment: the hostess sits with you and schedules it. And, yes, she’ll be the one that calls you—personally—the day before your next appointment to say how much she’s looking forward to seeing you. (She’s also the one who called you before your first appointment to ask if you would like original, not photo-copied, medical forms (on which you never have to enter anything more than once) mailed to you so you can fill them out before you arrive.) Oh, and if you did have to wait an inordinate amount of time before the doctor saw you, she automatically gives you a legitimate discount proportionate to the time waited. No questions asked.

I don’t know about you, but I think all this is not too much to ask for—we should not even have to ask for it—when each visits costs anywhere from $80 to $300. Yes, I know that the nasty, lurking issue is the insurance companies, but this would still be a heck of a way to improve what we’ve got. And I guarantee you—those hostesses would make the reputation of many a physician’s office. •

(And here’s a telling article quoted from the NY Times.)

But my bigger concern is those itty-biddy packages of catsup (and how come the mayonnaise packs are bigger?).

First, you gotta open each little pack, hoping you tear a wide enough slice to squeeze enough out—and without spitting it all over the place. And it takes about 10 packs if you really like to slop your fries in catsup the way me and Goodie do.

And if that weren’t bad enough, there’s no place to put the darn catsup. So you have to dump it on a napkin, or on the foil wrap of your burger, or into your chicken-fingers box (and that’s no fun, let me tell you). In other words, you gotta invent a holder for yourself. Then you gotta stare at all those empty, crumpled up catsup packs while you eat lunch. Not what I call a delightful dining ‘experience’ if you know what I mean. (Truth is, though, I’m not sure it’s any worse than those other joints that ‘let’ you pump catsup from a dispenser into teeny-tiny paper cups—you need 10 of those, too.)

But here’s the other thing. There’s no way anybody can get all the catsup out of those little packs. On average I figure there’s anywhere from 5 to 10 percent left in each one. Ever wonder why our landfills are so soggy? Well, that’s one darn good reason I can think of. Next time somebody asks you: “What’s up with these landfills?” just say, “The catsup.”

Oh, and those funny ads? They should really say, “Eat mor chikin… and bring yor own katchip and yor own katchip holda.”

What I’m thinking now is that we customers ought to start a Rebate Revolution that goes something like this. Whenever we shop somewhere, we require from the vendor an advance cash payment equal to 15 percent of the value of whatever we are buying. The terms will be that within 60 days—if the vendor submits proper paperwork in the proper format to the proper place at the proper time, all of which we will stipulate—then we will send the vendor a promise to return to that store within another 60 days and purchase an item equal in value to the 15 percent they paid us.

This thing about them issuing us conditional terms—that’s done. That’s behind us, baby. It’s time to debate the rebate and right the consumer rights ship!

My darling Goodie, poor thing, would have written this cause he’s the one it happened to. But he’s still vibrating on the couch with frustration, indignation, and a foaming mouth. I’m lookin at him now as he tries to recover by gulping potato chips, swilling beer, and watching 14 football games at once.

Anyway, here’s the sad story:

A fine example of clear communication

We’ve been needin a new icebox, so Goodie went to old reliable Sears’ web site, found just the fridge we wanted, was delighted to see that shipping was free, and went about ordering online (fun isn’t it?). BUT, just to be sure, he called the store, explained what he was doing, and asked for confirmation: “The shipping is free, right?”

“Well, Mr. Goodwin, sort of. You have to pay the $70 shipping charge up front because, you see, we use third-party delivery services and they have to be paid, and…. So, Mr. Goodwin, what you do is you send in a rebate after purchase and Sears will send you a credit card worth a value of $70, and there you are.”

“But that’s not really ‘free shipping’,” says my Goodie. “The web site is misleading, and it’s very unpleasant to be told one thing when it really means another very different thing.”

“Yes, sir. It is a little confusing.”

Well, Goodie was confused and aggravated enough not to buy from them. And like any discriminating purchaser, he turned to other vendors. “Let’s try Best Buy,” he said. “They don’t mess with you like that.” And off he went to the Best Buy web site where he found another nice unit at just the right price, ad guess what else? That’s right: a 2-day special discount with free shipping for items over $399. Manno!

The devil is in those “Details”

BUT, just to be sure, Goodie drives to the actual store, asks about the unit which they (the store) had told him over the phone they had in stock. Ah, but it seems it was (surprise!) a computer error. Not in stock after all. But the good news was that, “Mr. Goodwin, if you order it online, you’ll get the free shipping.”

That’s still a good deal, right?

Not so fast.

Because when dear Goodie got home and went online and started ordering, he didn’t see no nothing about free shipping. So he called the store and asked about that.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Goodwin, when you get near the end of the purchasing process, the free shipping will kick in. You’ll see it.”

Never happened. So, right before he’s about to click that awful “submit” button (they gotta find a better name than ‘submit’, don’t you think?), he calls back just to double-check.

“Well, Mr. Goodwin, your item must not be on the list of “selected items” that are eligible for the free shipping discount.”

Indeed, after a lot of harangue and checking, turns out that our dear selection didn’t qualify under the terms of their big, front-page FREE SHIPPING banner (the tricky “see details” part which, by the way, was never mentioned by either the salesperson in the store or the customer rep on the phone—with whom Goodie spoke 3 times).

What on God’s green earth is going on with all this, please tell me? Here’s a store selling good stuff we want to buy and pay good money for—that “submit” button was about to yield them $1,000—yet they are jerking us around. The worst part is that there’s no good reason for them to do it. It only makes things worse.

indeed

So what did we do? We ordered the darn thing from Home Depot which is delivering it in 3 days with, yes, free shipping—no questions asked, no tricks attached, no boondoggling whatsoever.

Too bad that some people actually admire the gall of Sears whose logo says, “Life. Well spent.” But it’s certainly not money—or time—well spent, I can tell you.

You gotta love the exclamation point

And Best Buy, whose slogan says, “Buy with confidence.” The confidence that the ‘deals’ are never what they seem is all I can gather from that.

Wanna know why we’re still scraping the bottom of the economy? Cause too many companies are still lying to, cheating, and blatantly misleading their customers—their former customers. •

Except there’s this one bump, particularly in the left lane, about a quarter mile after you turn onto Lockwood coming from the Ashley River Bridge, right before the overpass.

That thing is like one of those equestrian jumps (what kind of word is ‘equestrian’ anyway?) where the horse, instead of going as fast as possible to get over it, has to stop right in front so as to get sufficiently up and then over. You know, the ones where the horse usually knocks all the poles onto the ground. Which is exactly how it feels in my car—like I’m crashing into something.

And it’s not just my ‘89 Volvo sedan I’m talking about here. That bump should have been fixed long ago, before the road started to feel like an icy bobsled course.

right before the equestrian jump on Lockwood

Don’t any city employees drive that way? A serious hazard, that’s what that thing is.

And yes, there are others. Like the one coming off the connector ramp, just before you merge onto Lockwood. A little ski jump, this one. Followed by a series of challenging bumps that you have to dodge left, then right, then left again before swinging your jolly way into traffic (how come there’s no “speed humpS” sign here?).

And, of course, there’s the ‘big’ jump, where new-concrete-roadway transitions to paved-landfill. This one’s a challenge traveling both directions. Drivers typically either slow down out of fear or speed up to see just how far they can get off the ground. Whooha!

another good landing heading east

Hattie thinks the shock-absorber companies round town are in on all this. I’m not sure. But I stood there for a good 30 minutes and I definitely saw a WHOLE bunch of tax money falling into that big crack. •

Well, I finally figured it out; finally saw through the scheme. It’s their way of recycling. Sure, under the guise of reducing prices, give all those boxes to your customers—who you don’t give bags to even though they pay membership fees—and let them throw them away.

I’m gonna have to check on this, but I bet there are none of those big metal garbage bins behind the club either, cause they don’t have any trash. We take it all home. •

So, is it just me, or am I the only one wondering where the millions (billions?) generated by the educational lottery has gone? Certainly not into the schools. I mean, whose education, or what kind of education, exactly are they talking about?

Please, someone—not Goodie—tell me if I’m wrong about this.

She’s not a particularly good driver, and I smiled. But same thing the next day and the next, until I finally asked her, part jokingly: “Hey Hat, what’s with your car facing out? Worried you might not make it out of here on time?”

She turned with a frown and said, “You ninny. Ever since we got this stinkin computer you’ve been telling me, ‘Back up the drive, back up the drive.’ So I am.”

Poor thing. Now I don’t know what to tell her. Could be trouble.