Compassion Is Not Our Passion

On May 17, I had the pleasure of having to enter Windsor Regional Hospital’s Met Campus for an urologist appointment. I had only been waiting the required six months to get in to see an urologist, having researched the first one and decided that no way was I going to see one that boasted about doing his own vasectomy in his own office.

I didn’t need a doctor with a God complex looking up my private parts. God only knows what he would have done while in there, as a vasectomy wouldn’t have gone over well seeing I’m not as equipped in that area.

Anyways, I demanded to be referred to another urologist; one that a female friend had good experiences with.

When I received the call from the office with the date and time I was told quite a few times that I must be at the admissions desk a half hour before my 1:30pm appointment. I had to be registered in and given my nice plastic id bracelet to wear for the duration of my time at said appointment.

It seemed very important that I remember this key bit of information, so much so that I wrote it in block letters, highlighted it, and underlined it so that I wouldn’t dare forget it.

At precisely 12noon I jumped into my Journey and proceeded to make the trek from my home in the county to Met Campus on Walker Road. Yes, I know, it doesn’t take me an hour to get into Windsor from where I live, but I was taking into consideration my travel time down that long stretch of Walker from Oldcastle to Tecumseh Road.

You know, all the lights, the people making turns at the last minute with no signal and, yes of course, the only main artery that everyone uses when you need to get to the heart of that end of Windsor.

Now, just a side note here.

For all you people who are upset that the mega-hospital is looking to be built across from the airport, make the drive to either hospital in Windsor from the likes of, let’s say Harrow, and see if having the new hospital at that site isn’t just a tad bit easier to travel to.

If I could have it my way, I’d make it accessible from the 401, making coming into the city a rarity for someone coming from the county. But, hey, what do I know about ideal mega-hospital locations?

Anyways. Getting back to my story.

I arrived at the hospital at 12:50pm. Yes, it took me 50 minutes to travel in, find a spot to park, and walk to admissions. I took my number and then a seat.

My number was called pretty quickly, so I entered and sat down at the desk. I proceeded to hand over my health card and a list of medications which I was told was important to bring. The health card was accepted, but I was told the list of medications would be needed downstairs, so I threw that back in my purse.

Now came the million of questions.

Current address, phone number, religion, case of emergency, yada yada, you get the idea. I was polite, even though I’d taken almost an hour to get to where I was through the tons of Windsor drivers and lights.

The gal handed me back my health card, jumps up and grabbed my new, fancy, white plastic id bracelet, and told me she needed my right wrist, not my left one, for said bracelet. I was about to be my usual self and throw her my left one, but thought, “She doesn’t look like she’d be amused so let’s not poke the bear.”

I took my new bracelet and a fancy yellow folder and was told to follow the yellow line from the elevators downstairs, all the way to the end and, oh, if I got lost, the directions are located right there on the sticker on the front of the folder.

Hmmm. I dunno. Yellow folder, yellow line, elevators. I’m not sure this 45 year-old can navigate the dungeons of hell at Met Campus, but I’m willing to try.

Off I went with a smile and a have a nice day attitude.

I found the elevators and, wouldn’t you know it, there was a yellow line on the floor. So, I thought to myself, “Should I start singing I’m off to see the Wizard?” Then, I rethought the idea, because I’d land on the mental ward floor, and I’m not sure they would do a low-carb meal there so I could stick with my new dietary guidelines.

I began to follow the yellow line and, as I twisted and turned through the bowels of the basement, I landed at the Urology Clinic reception desk.

Okay, it’s a nurse’s station with a bunch of curtained rooms all around it, but I landed safely without getting lost and without having to look at the directions on my nice yellow folder.

I saw the nurses were talking and shoving food in their mouth, so I put the yellow folder up on the desk and proceeded to rifle through my purse looking for my list of medications which would be asked of me.

A nurse saunters over and asked me if I’m in the right place. I smile and say, “Yes, I believe so”. She then asked me, “Do you know why you are here”?

I was thinking about coming back with a sarcastic response, but she didn’t look like she would take kindly either, so I responded with, “Yes, my doctor referred me to Dr So and So and he’s to look at a cyst that might be on my bladder.”

She then asked me my name. At which point I almost said, “Hang on a second and let me see what they called me on this fancy ID bracelet,” but I could really tell that stuffing her face before talking to me didn’t suffice her hunger. Perhaps she should have had a Snickers bar, instead.

I politely gave her my name. Then I saw there was a list for the operating room, so I guess the mistake that threw her over the edge was me asking if I was going to be having surgery during this appointment. She looked at me and said, “Didn’t anyone explain why you are here?”

I was almost afraid to respond, but I’m pretty wiry and I figured if she was going to take me on I could probably get some Kung Fu kicks in.

I looked at her and responded with, “I received a call that I was to be here today at 1:30pm to see Dr So and So and at no time did anyone mention to me about any sort of surgery. But, if surgery needs to be done, no big deal. I can handle it. I will just call my friend to come and pick up my car and pick me up after I’m discharged.”

I thought it was a decent answer.

Ahhh. I guessed wrong again. She threw a piece of paper in my face, letting me know that it would explain that a little scope would be done but, no, I wasn’t having surgery today. Then, I got the look of, “You can read right?”

I gingerly took the piece of paper and she then shoved a clip board in my face with a pen and said, “Go to room 4 and fill this out.”

I slowly took it from her for fear I’d get my arm ripped off and she told me, “Oh, and just so you don’t think we are sitting around here doing nothing, we are actually on our lunch break.”

I looked at her and wanted to respond with, “Girl, let me run up to the cafeteria vending machine and get you a Snickers, cuz you’re in need of some chocolate or alcohol, and I don’t think they sell alcohol here on Campus.” But, I kindly responded with, “Yes, understandable seeing its 1:15pm in the afternoon.”

So, as I sat in room 4 awaiting my scope and filling out the required paperwork, I was thinking to myself, “Did I really need to know that it was their lunch break in that way? I mean, if I talked like that to someone at work, my manager would be all over me like white on rice.”

Could she not have said, “It will be a few moments as we are on our lunch at the moment, but someone will be right with you.”

Had I been disrespectful to this highly over paid woman for her to treat me so poorly? I see all over in that darn hospital Compassion is our Passion motto. Seriously, did you miss the memo there chickee?

I’m the most polite person you will meet until you give me a reason to tell you where a bear goes in the woods. And, for those who really know me know that my sarcasm comes first, way before I reach my boiling point. But, I didn’t think I had been sarcastic.

I also didn’t think I had asked anything wrong, nor did I give her any rude remarks in return; unless she was a mind reader. Yeah. That probably explains it.

Personally, I could have made a big “to do” about it and contacted administration of the hospital and said I think there was no need for that type of interaction from this woman. But, in all honesty, would it have made any difference?

Probably not.

About the Author

Heather Burton
Heather is a contributing writer to the Square Media Group. Her articles reflect her insightful and witty personality on events from politics to everyday living. Heather has called the Windsor area "home" for over 35yrs. Email Heather Burton