On the evening of June 14, 2005, I received a rude lesson in basic physics. That lesson is as follows: when a person steps on a child’s toy that just happens to have wheels on it, pain will be involved.

 

The human knee is probably the worst-designed part of the human anatomy. It’s basically a bunch of bones sitting on top of each other connected by muscle. With all that the knee is asked to do, you would think that the Creator or Evolution would realize that that’s one area of the body that you don’t want to skimp on in terms of support.

 

But I digress. All of my weight came down on my right knee. Much screaming and howling followed. An ambulance was called. The paramedics were on the short side. I asked them if they thought they should call for backup since I’m 6’7”. Dirty looks were shot in my direction and the two of them somehow managed to load me in the back of the ambulance (and probably rupturing a couple their internal organs in the process).

 

On the way to the hospital, I asked one of them to please call ahead and let the Emergency Room know that I required the services of an American Sign Language interpreter.

 

I am hard of hearing. In terms of decibel loss, I’m 95 in my left ear and about 65 in my right. This basically means that I can’t hear a thing out of my left ear and my right ear is at roughly 60% capacity. I can speak clearly (thanks to about 12 years of speech therapy) and use the telephone, as long as it has an amplifier (otherwise, I have to cram the thing halfway down my ear canal).    I call my house the Pinball Machine because it’s full of flashing lights and buzzing things to let me know what’s going on with the phone, fire alarm, doorbell, and so forth. So my hearing loss is very real and if interpreters can be utilized, I’m all for it.

 

I was assured that my request had been relayed to the proper person and that someone would be there to facilitate communication. Fantastic. I should also mention that my wife was meeting me at the ER. She is totally deaf. I’m always concerned that she be able to follow events.

 

We arrived at the ER and I was taken to a room. One of the paramedics told me that he had again conveyed my request for an interpreter. Bless his heart.

 

I have had occasion to visit many an Emergency Room during the course of my life. One fact that quickly becomes apparent is that the wait for services can take quite a while. This is understandable. Aggravating, for sure, but understandable.

 

I try not to be a difficult patient. I figure that those in the medical profession put up with enough grief (literally and figuratively) so I try not to add to it.

 

I do not remember how much time passed. I again asked where my interpreter was and was informed that it was being worked on.

 

Then the doctor came in. He had this swagger that told me that he was convinced that he was God’s gift to the world and that his feces didn’t stink. Don’t ask me how, but I just knew I was going to have a problem with this dude.

 

I told him (using my voice) that I needed an interpreter and his response was:

 

“But you can speak.”

 

OK, give the man points for his brilliant deductive reasoning. That didn’t change the fact that I still needed an interpreter. I mentioned that my wife was deaf and had the right to know what was going on as well as I did.

 

“Well, why don’t you sign for her?”

 

Now let’s just stop here for a second and take a good look at this, shall we? He was suggesting that I, a patient with a significant hearing loss, act as an interpreter for my wife. He was conveniently forgetting that I was in a LOT of pain.

 

My dislike for this pompous ass was growing at an exponential rate. He was definitely not going on my Christmas card list.

 

Had I been by myself, I most likely would have let it go. Although I would have preferred an interpreter, I have gotten by with my residual hearing for years. Did I really want an interpreter? Yes, but since emergency rooms are not known for being bastions of peace and tranquility, my normal inclination would have been not to add to the chaos any more than necessary.

 

But this doctor, this idiot with a medical degree, had committed two transgressions that bothered me far more than the searing pain in my knee.

 

One, he had made the assumption that since I could speak, I could hear enough to get by without an interpreter. In other words, he was applying a very common stereotype that the deaf have had to put up with for centuries. Two, he was minimizing my wife’s concern in a very condescending way. That is the equivalent of spitting in her face and that wasn’t something I was prepared to tolerate.

 

Add the fact that my knee really did hurt and you can understand why I wasn’t feeling like Mr. Sunshine.

 

I argued with the guy and I didn’t even try to be polite about it. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could have sworn that he had this SMIRK on his face. I was determined to wipe that smirk off his face, my knee be damned. 

 

My wife finally told me to be quiet and let him check me over. She was upset about the lack of accessibility but she was more concerned about my well-being.

 

The interpreter showed up in time to tell me that I could go home. I asked her when she had received the call and she said about thirty minutes previously. If memory serves, I had made the request something like three hours ago.

 

Modesty prevents me from repeating what I said next, but let’s just say that the more colorful parts of my vocabulary were expressed in a loud manner. They gave me a pair of crutches. I waved them around and threatened to perform a full proctologic examination on anyone who even BREATHED in my direction. Not only had I dealt with a doctor who was a flat-out piece of fecal matter, but I felt as though I had been lied to for the past 180 minutes. What’s more, all of these other educated medical professionals LET it happen. Oh, I was ready to hurt somebody.

 

It was recommended that I contact Patient Services to file a complaint. I did this the very next day, although privately I felt as though I were wasting my time. Customer service and satisfaction in this country has been steadily declining for years. The most I expected was someone who would at least pretend to be sympathetic to my concerns. I almost decided not to do it but in the end I did, figuring that if nothing else, my feelings would be on record.

 

Imagine my surprise when, about a week or so later, I received an official letter of apology from the Emergency department. They said that the insensitive doctor was reprimanded and would be sent to sensitivity training. 

 

Pfft. They should have tarred and feathered the SOB, then given him the mother of all wedgies.