A Trip to the DMS

I start my morning at 5am by double checking the 72 pages of forms I have to take with me to the Department of Medical Services. I naively feel lucky that I no longer have to "pay" for medical care. I've diagnosed myself with Deathitis. It's easy to diagnose. Two months before you die the word "Deathitis" appears across your chest in bold red san serif font. According to WebMD a simple day surgery and a pill can save my life. I even have 8 weeks to get it done.

The parking lot is crowded and I have to walk a couple of blocks to the DMS Building, which is also crowded. There is a long line of people waiting to get a number, luckily I've called ahead, I learned this trick at the DMV. I approach the "Appointments" window and a lady greets me without ever making eye contact.

"This line is for people who called ahead, sir." I know, I called ahead.

"If you called ahead you'd have a number, sir." I know, I have a number.

"You have a number?" Yes, I do.

She lets out a long sigh and puts down her emery board and turns on her computer. We wait while it powers up. She then calls a technician because the computer is on but the monitor isn't working. He arrives 30 minutes later and unplugs the lady's fan and re-plugs in the monitor. She is angry and notices I'm still waiting.

"This line is for people who called ahead, sir." I did call ahead, ma'am.

"If you called ahead you'd have a number, sir." I do have a number.

She half reaches for the slip of paper I've been trying to hand her for half an hour when a friend taps her on the shoulder. She gets into a game of "what did you do this weekend". After 10 minutes of that my lady checks her watch and goes on break. I stand there with my slip of paper outstretched.

20 minutes later a different woman returns and takes her place. She is surprised to see someone in her line.

"Sir, this line is for people who called ahead. You need to be in that line over there." I did call ahead and here is my number.

"If you called ahead you'd have a number..." She fades offand looks at my number. She punches it into the computer then unplugs the monitor so she can turn the fan back on.

"Please go to annex W12. That's W as in West, Twelve. 13th Floor, East Wing. Room 11."

I take a tram and it conveniently drops me off at E13, East Wing, where I go the 12th floor. I get into a shouting match with an OBGYN who informs me she doesn't treat Deathitis.

Eventually I find W12, 13th Floor, East Wing, Room 11. It is another set of lines. I have to choose between three lines: Confirmed Appointments, Tentative Appointments, Appointment Confirmations. I choose the last and wait an hour. I get there and try to give he my number. "Do you have the magenta form?" I do not. She informs me its in the back of the room and to fill it out.

I do so and wait another hour in line. She looks at the form and at my number, then shakes her head and looks at me. "You're in the wrong line. You have a confirmed reservation not a reservation waiting to be confirmed." She points me at the correct line which is blissfully shorter.

Unfortunately they don't accept Magenta forms only Fuchsia. I play the line game one more time and reach the front of the line. As I'm about to step forward the man behind the counter goes to lunch. I'm starving but I'm next so there's no way I'm leaving. He returns at a quarter till three and smells suspiciously like lunch beers.

"Next." I present my ID and 10 colorful forms. While he was away I decided to remove all doubt and fill out all the forms available in the room. I did Magenta, Fuchsia, Salmon, Carnation, Cherry Blossom, Cerise, Orchid, Lavender Pink, Hot Pink and Pink. He wades through them and selects the three he likes best.

"Sir, your confirmed reservation was for the AM. I'll have to put you on the tentative reservation list." After a trip through the tentative line I'm shuttled to the Waiting Room Warehouse H. A room the size of a football field awaits me. I am given number 5,439. Now serving: 2,001-2,005.

I try to find a seat. If possible I'd like to sit next to someone else with Deathitis. Its hard to spot them, even though a large number of occupants aren't wearing a shirt.

I eventually sit next to a man with a rake sticking out of his neck and a woman giving birth. Her contractions are 6 minutes apart and her number is 2,414. I spend the next hour feeding her ice chips and helping name the twins. She is grateful and leaves me her number before she goes.

Around 9pm my new number pays off. I go into exam room 88. My 12 year old doctor is there chained to the wall beneath his Calcutta Med Diploma. He has a hammock in the back he can sleep in but he is an indentured servant until he pays off his student loans.

I take off my shirt and he carefully examines my Deathitis. He has to be certain it isn't just painted on. He takes a skin sample and informs me he'll send it to the lab. Results take 3-6 weeks.

6 Weeks? Doctor, I have Deathitis. "Whoa, lets let the boys in the lab be the judge of that."

But I only have 2 months to live. "You do IF you have Deathitis. If you just painted it on you could live longer. Wouldn't you rather know for sure?"

I know for sure! I didn't paint this on! Who would do that? "Sir, we have to follow procedures."

I cry and contemplate strangling him with he wall chain. "Sir, there's a man out there with a rake in his neck. We can't waste time on you're little problem."

Deathitis! I have Deathitis! The word Death is right there in the name! "What's in a name?" He quips.

It's not I realize I hate Ivory School types, even if the ivory is from an Indian elephant.

I return home and await my test results. It's ok, I have time. No need to panic. I stop wearing a shirt. My Deathitis scar is a real conversation starter. I fill my days with Sudoku and raking the leaves very carefully.

Six weeks later I receive a letter that my test results are in and low and behold I have Deathitis. They've scheduled me for surgery at their earliest convenience in 18 months. I call my doctor who informs me if I wanted to have it taken care of in the next two weeks I should have started the proceedings 16 months before I had the disease.

And two weeks later I died.