Kimberly Emerson

Read any article about extending your life, reducing stress, increasing your energy, and they will all tell you the same thing: see your doctor regularly.  Get your annual check-up.  Most of us acknowledge that this is in our own best interests, but we don’t do it.  This week I went to see my doctor and remembered why.

Rewind a couple of months: last fall, I tried to fill a prescription and discovered I was out of automatic refills.  Fair enough, I thought.  I hadn’t been to see my doctor in over a year.  It was time I stopped in to undergo some of those yucky tests that I am thankful only occur every twelve months.  (I have one friend who gets them all done every year on her birthday.  She hits the doctor and the dentist in the same day.  Not, to my way of thinking, the best way to celebrate, but hey – to each her own.)  The receptionist at my doctor’s office consulted her book and said “We have an opening on March 24.” Since that was over four months away, and no one wants to see me go that long without Prozac, I asked if they had anything sooner.  No, I was informed, they did not.

Someone at the office must have talked to the pharmacy, because they did refill my prescription, but the appointment stood.  I put up with this for one reason only: I love my doctor.  She is one of that rare breed who actually listens to her patients.  A couple of years ago, when my father and grandmother both had surgery in the same month, I was in her office about my sinuses.  She asked her usual, “So, how are you doing today?” to which I responded, “Do you really want to know?”  She said she did, and I told her all about my family’s medical ailments.  Before moving on with the appointment, she sat down and talked to me for about five minutes, explaining the basics of what would happen with both procedures.  They were scary, yes, she told me, and they were necessary, but the doctors did these all the time, and both my relatives would be fine.  (As indeed they were, thank God.)  She also got me referrals to a lung doctor, an ear-nose-and-throat guy, and an allergist to check out my persistent sinus infections.  (The allergy doctor did the trick.)  She does the medical profession proud with her focus on all aspects of her patients’ care.  I cling to her with a tenacity envied by leeches, no matter what my current health insurance has to say about it.

The day of the appointment finally arrived, and I set out first thing in the morning to make my way to UCLA.  The good doctor used to be located in a little office on Venice Boulevard, a mile away from my apartment.  Parking was free.  I didn’t always avail myself of this, because if I had energy and time, I’d walk it.  Unfortunately, my doctor is part of the UCLA medical establishment.  This is good when it comes to things like surgery, because it means in an emergency I’d go to UCLA hospital, ranked something like Number Two in the country.  It is, however, also bad, because it means that my beloved Dr. Agzarian is part of a bureaucracy that does things like decide doctors in conveniently located offices with free parking aren’t maximizing cost-benefit, and should be moved into their main facility.  Thus, I now must shuttle over to the behemoth that is UCLA Medical Services, a collection of three large office buildings located on the school campus.  It isn’t all that far from my condo, as the crow flies, but I have yet to find a way to get there that doesn’t happen to be the same way that many, many other Angelenos are going at the same time.

After stopping at the ATM to get money for parking, I navigated the upscale streets of Westwood that surround the campus.  (It is one of the great ironies of our city that UCLA, a state school, albeit a trendy and respected one, is located in an area where most of the houses go for seven figures, while USC, a private institution with four times the tuition cost, finds itself in South Central, one of the poorest sections of town.  My guess would be that in 1880, when USC was built, the economic demographics looked a mite different.)  Trying not to get irritated by the fact that I would have to pay $8.00 for the privilege, I pulled into the subterranean parking structure next to the offices.  Empty stalls littered the top floor, all marked “Reserved for physician.”  Not for the likes of me, I thought.  I’m just a lowly patient, who’s paying $8.00 to park beneath you.

Once I had secured myself a spot fairly near the elevator, I rode up to the second floor.  Once upon a time I used to schedule all my medical appointments for the late afternoon, so that I wouldn’t have to miss much work.  After the time I waited, between the doctor and the lab, for THREE HOURS, I decided there had to be a better way.  My doctor recommended that I come in early, and she was right.  Now I can plan on spending about an hour and a half there.  Of course, I also have to resign myself to taking three hours off work.  Funny thing, even though my appointment was one of the first ones, I still had to wait.  Not sure for what.  The receptionist sought to fill up my time, updating my insurance information and securing my co-payment.  My job switched insurance companies a couple of months back.  Now I was really glad I stopped at the ATM, because I’d had no idea that I had a co-pay, and I was out of checks.  (Modern gadgetry being what it is, it’s entirely possible that they accept debit cards, but I was glad not to have to test the theory.)  Another $15.00 down.

Finally admitted to the doctor’s office, I changed into the snazzy hospital gown allotted me, and followed the nurse’s instructions as she took my temperature, checked my blood pressure, and weighed me.  (Their scale weighs me in at five pounds more that the one I have at home.  Perhaps my own scale feels a bond with me and is being kind.)  At last the doctor arrived.  Upon looking at my chart, Dr. Agzarian declared, “You’re on Prozac.  You should have been in to see me before this!”  Now, I fully understand the concern at letting Prozac patients wander around loose.  I wanted to tell her that when I called, four months ago, to schedule the appointment, it hadn’t been quite as long, but it seemed pointless. 

I got prodded and poked and stabbed once in the lab, and was finally permitted to leave.  Upon leaving, my doctor told me that I was to come back in six months (I really thought a year was okay, but whatever) and to get a mammogram before I returned.  I reflected on the fact that this meant two more days of missing several hours of work, because no, they would not let me schedule them for the same day.  Sigh.  It’s not that I love my job – anyone who has more than a five-minutes’ acquaintance with me is aware that I can’t stand it – but I like to save my vacation time for more amusing things.  More time gone.

When I returned to the parking garage (which fortunately did accept ATM cards, since the co-pay wiped out most of my $20), it was to discover that the rate had gone up, and I would now be paying $11.00 to rescue my car from the automotive dungeon in which it was currently being held hostage.  $11.00?  The parking rate had gone up by almost 50% in a year and a half?  Perhaps they just intend to keep raising it until people rise up in armed rebellion.  Which, at this rate, should happen some time next week.

After gritting my teeth and paying the garage fee, I drove over to Peet’s Coffee, the last refuge of tranquility in an ugly world.  I stop here every time I go to see Dr. Agzarian.  It’s my reward for getting through this necessary evil of undergoing procedures that strip me of my last shred of dignity and paying for the privilege.  Soy vanilla latte and lowfat scone:  $6.10.  Restored sanity: Priceless.

When I finally got to work, it was 11:00 and I realized that the parking garage’s Early Bird special was long over, so I’d have to fork over $22.00 to remove my car from the premises.  Thankfully, my employer will reimburse that to me, or I would scream.

When I added everything up at the end of the day, including my missed work time, I was out $130.00.  That doesn’t include the bill my insurance company will send me for my part of the doctor’s visit and lab work, which usually comes out north of $300.00.  And I have pretty good health insurance, compared to a lot of other folks. 

I realize my complaints are petty.  Many people in the world – heck, in my own city – don’t have access to the kind of health care I am privileged to receive.  But if the doctors would like to know why we don’t make our appointments like clockwork, well, this is why.

If you want more people in your offices, try handing out gift certificates to Peet’s as people leave.  It can’t hurt.