You’re not listening

Dear US Healthcare System:

I feel abandoned.

>Before I start, let’s be clear: this isn’t about my personal issue. That simply served as a trigger for the broader questions.<

I have a (mild) chronic issue that hasn’t responded well to treatment, but I don’t have any way to ask questions or get simple answers. If I want to talk to my doctor, I have to make an appointment several weeks out. I can ask questions through my health portal, but that involves sending a message, having someone relay it to the doctor, waiting for his answer, and relaying his answer back to me. This process usually takes an entire business day. If I have a question about the response I receive, I have to start the whole process all over again. An exchange that should take five minutes of direct conversation can end up literally taking days.

Why have you made healthcare providers so inaccessible to the people they are supposed to be helping?

What would happen if my condition were more serious than the one I have now?

Whom do I ask for help?

You tell me to avoid Dr. Google, but when I’m struggling with pain and my mind is racing and my doctor isn’t readily available, where else should I go?

You tell me to advocate for myself, but where? How do I do that when I can’t get past the wall of administration? When I can’t talk directly to a provider? I can tell my story and ask my questions and fight to be heard, but I have to do this over and over and over again to get to someone who can actually help me. And this takes So. Much. Time. Don’t you think I have a job to do or a household to run?

This is absurd. All this effort to ask a few questions. Why have you removed access to our healthcare providers? To put it into an SAT analogy, our healthcare system : healing :: automated phone systems : customer service. I can’t get to the right person to actually get help when I need it. Every issue has to escalate to something bigger than it actually is just to receive attention. And you wonder why I’m one step from snapping when I finally do get to talk to someone.

How do we get back to basics? Seriously, all I want is a simple conversation.


Me (and everyone else in this country)

Close encounters

galaxyWhile getting a haircut the other day, my brother chatted it up with another salon patron. Somewhere in the conversation, they exchanged enough information to spark a flicker of recognition in her memory. A few questions later, she fanned it into flame. This woman was our second cousin.

We (I’m lumping myself together with my brother here) hadn’t seen each other in more than 25 years, probably closer to 30. We were all just kids back then, and as middle-aged adults, our appearance has certainly changed a lot. I find it amazing that this once reasonably familiar fixture from our childhood–we saw each other a couple of times a year–even made the connection.

If I had been in that salon chair instead of my brother, chances are that this happy coincidence never would have taken place. Where my brother frequently reaches out to others, I often keep my nose in my smart phone or a book. Thrilled as I would have been to make the discovery, we wouldn’t have had the chance.

That set my mind racing.

  1. How many rich experiences have I missed because I have been reluctant to engage? I’m often hesitant to initiate conversation and tend toward observation rather than participation in certain circumstances. What or whom would I have discovered if I had simply said Hi?
  2. What causes people to lose touch with others who had once been a familiar part of our lives? Lack of interest? Lack of effort? Time and tide? Is this a natural culling or tragic laziness? Who are the people around me I want to keep in my life? And how do I make sure I do it?
  3. Whose path have I crossed and not known it?

Forget sci-fi. Sometimes it takes a close encounter of the second (cousin) kind to get me out of my little world.

More than words

deskYesterday I got to meet in person with a colleague from the other side of the world, a co-worker from Europe with whom I normally communicate via phone and email. He’s an affable guy, and I enjoy his company and the stories he tells from his travels. I started looking forward to seeing him as soon as we scheduled the meeting.

The meeting didn’t go as planned. Although we both clearly appreciated the face time, the reality of it was a bit stilted and awkward. The words didn’t flow as easily as I expected and we struggled to find easy conversation. Although our mother tongues differ, it wasn’t linguistics that got in the way.

It was my desk.

Always before, our in-person interactions had been in more collaborative settings: at small conference tables, in facing chairs, in cars, across restaurant tables, walking shoulder-to-shoulder on office tours. The way my office is set up, however, allows only for a couple of chairs on the side opposite my command center.

And that’s how it must seem to the person on the other side–a command center. Nestled safely inside my u-shaped work surface, everything I need is within arms’ reach: my computer, my phone, my printer, my files, you name it. The person on the other side is forced to sit meekly in the side chairs (or so it must seem) and lob conversations volleys across 36 inches of divisive work surface.

A vast, laminate barrier.

I don’t think it was my particular desk that caused the problem. It wouldn’t have mattered if it were blue instead of brown, 24 inches instead of 36 inches, or had rounded corners instead of squared. The fact is that my desk got in the way of our conversation. It put one of us in a power position, however unintended, and hampered the exchange of ideas. I didn’t like it.

Interestingly, I’ve always been aware that physical position matters. I can learn a lot about people by simply observing where they choose to sit around a conference (or dinner) table. I’ve even chosen to hold sensitive meetings in another room to take away the stigma of “the boss’s office.” I find it odd that I didn’t take the desk effect into account in this case.

I will next time. It’s not just words that matter.