County Blues

My son recently hurt his ankle. He couldn't put any weight on it, and he was even having a hard time not crying, the pain was so great. He had a totally useless visit to a physician, who told him to ice it, keep it raised and keep off it (really - not even an Ace Bandage). If the pain was still there after two days, go to the Adult Clinic at County Hospital. Thanks, doc.

So last Wednesday, we set off to Cook County Hospital (I refuse to call it the new name they've given it). We had been told to get there at 7:30; we actually arrived at 8:10 am.

Let's back up a bit. Wanting to be prepared, on Tuesday night, we tried looking up the clinic online, so we'd know right where to go, where I had to drop him off, etc. Right. Trying to get information from their website was about as helpful as the other doctor had been. So right off the bat, I'm pretty annoyed with them.

Okay, forward back to 8:00 Wednesday morning. We got up later than expected, so the day started off badly. Of course I had to stop for coffee, and my car cupholder is not very deep, so one sharp turn started spilling my scalding hot brew on his good leg.

After a stressful drive down to their campus, we were driving around, trying to find where in the world the front door was. The old building is still there, being taken down brick by brick apparently. I dropped Son off at the new main entrance and started circling back around to find the parking. After accidentally trying to go into the employee entrance, I turned the corner to find the visitor entrance, and was greeted by a man who shoved a paper into my hand, saying, "This lot's full - go park down at Juvenile Hall."

I don't think so. Screw it - I decided to park at Rush and not care about the price. As I walk over, Jazz called telling me that he wasn't in the place where I let him off; he was across the street from it, and he gave me the street address of the clinic. And told me he had to turn off his phone because he was inside the hospital building.

You'd think people should know a little about their workplace. Oh, well, you'd think a lot of things that never come true. Anyway, after asking around a while, I finally made it to the place where Son was waiting for me, in Fantus Clinic waiting room. He had already gone to the first counter and given them his name.

This place is way worse than the DMV. Everyone sits there waiting for their name to be hollered or broadcast over the PA. We waited for a while, and they finally called his name - hooray, finally get to see someone. Wrong. They took his temp and blood pressure.

So we wait again. This time, after an incredibly long time, they called his name. This time he came back to the seats with a registration card in his hand, good for one year. We wait... and wait... and wait... way longer than we've waited the first two times. Finally at about 2:30, Son went up to the front to see if he had missed his name being called. They said that, no, the doctor he needed to see wouldn't be at the hospital until 5:00 pm. And if he did want to leave - which they didn't advise - he'd have to be sure to be back by 4:30 at the latest. By now, we decide to just gut it out.

Okay, let's pause this for a second to take a little look around the Clinic. During the entire day I was there, I could count on one hand the number of White people there. That included me, and I wasn't there for services. Two of the other White women were speaking some eastern European language. Everyone else was Black or Hispanic.

The washrooms were just a tad scary. Garbage on the floor, dirty tiles. I had to wash my hands about three or four times just to take this picture while no one else was in there with me.

He got to see the doctor at 4:30, and had to run (hop) across to the main building for X-rays. We didn't make it back in time to be seen before the doc's meeting, so we waited another hour. By this time, the room was really thinning out. There was actually camaraderie building in little groups of people here and there, commiserating at having to wait all day. One man came out saying, "Now that just ain't right. I wait here 12 hours to see the doctor for four minutes. Something's wrong with this equation!"

Finally, Son actually got to see the doctor. He was told he had a second degree strain, and that it would likely be months healing. He was told to ice his ankle, keep it raised, and keep off it. And they gave him crutches. And an Ace Bandage.

We were not the last ones to be waited on. We left there at 7:45 pm.

Son was also told to come back for a check up in a week, but of course no appointment time. This time I left him at the door, it was only a half-day experience, and he was able to take the bus home, as his foot was much better.

During our day there, I couldn't help but think about the thousands and thousands of people (mostly of color) for whom this is a totally ordinary experience. And, God forgive me, I was thankful I was not one of them.