Bad Backs and Bad Attitudes
Waiting Room One had plush leather seats, polished hardwood floors, pristine white walls and a vacant desk sporting the only colour in the room in the form of an ice blue Apple laptop. The room would have been labelled stark if less money had been spent on its designer minimalism. Two closed varnished light oak doors occupied one wall.
I hovered for a minute by the empty desk wondering whether I should call out, or sit down and wait for someone to appear. One of the doors opened suddenly and out walked an angel-like blonde woman wearing a smock so white it deserved to be in a Persil commercial.
We stared at each other for a second, then the angel said in a polite but firm tone, 'Hello? I'm afraid I don't know who you are.'
'Steve Barley. I've an appointment at 10:30.'
'Strange, I'm not aware of you. Let me check my schedule.' She stepped behind the laptop, moved and clicked the mouse several times, then said, 'No. Are you sure your appointment is here?'
'This is Bevell Road isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'Well I was referred here for my back problem by my GP.'
The polite tone vanished but the firm note remained as she said, 'Oh, a referral. This is a private clinic. You'll be wanting the NHS surgery over the road.' She looked me directly in the eye and added pointedly, 'It's impossible to miss.'
She was right. There was an NHS surgery over the road. I couldn't stoop any lower as I walked up to the patched stucco'ed concrete building with its peeling blue and white sign. Blu-tac'ed to the inside of one of the 1970s metal framed single glazed windows was a torn piece of paper. Its faded arrow and the words "Chiropractor - this way" led me down a side passage to a door appropriately positioned for back problems. On entering, another sign directed me along a corridor smelling of damp and eau-de-disinfectant to Waiting Room Two, which had a sign saying it was shared with the Foot Surgery.
No designer furniture here. Cost cutting had replaced the reception desk with crude A4 printouts telling me that all patients must remain seated until fetched. A biker's helmet and black leather jacket on one chair were the only indication the room was in use. Aging medical posters and brochures covered the pale green walls telling me everything I needed to know about bunions, stress fractures, and fallen arches. With names like that, they could have shared the premises with architects as well as foot doctors.
Ten minutes of finger tapping and ten more minutes of toe tapping later, I ran out patience, not to mention things to count on, and was about to bang on the only door marked "In Use" when it opened and out came a leather-trousered male biker with a limp.
Scooping his gear off the chair, Mr Biker was about to leave when I pointed at the sign saying "Waiting Room - Chiropractor/Foot Surgery" and said, 'I am doing the right thing aren't I? Waiting here to be fetched?'
Mr Biker nodded and limped off, presumably for a not so easy ride home.
By the time the "In Use" door lived up to its name and opened, it was ten minutes to eleven. A man in a green smock - that looked as if it had been in far too many Persil commercials - emerged carrying a briefcase and turned the sign to read "Not in use."
'Excuse me,' I said. 'I'm here about my bad back.'
'Well, good luck with it,' said green smock man and started to leave.
I rose from my seat a little too quickly, wincing at a stabbing pain in my lower spine. 'Wait!' I said with a note of panic. 'I went to the wrong place but I'm here now. Aren't you going to examine me?'
Green smock man smiled and said, 'I'm a chiropodist. Unless you're here on foot business, I'm afraid I wouldn't be much use.'
'But I'm supposed to see a chiropractor not a chiropodist. There must be some mix-up on the names.'
Green smock man shook his head. 'The chiropractors don't do Wednesdays. Are you sure you don't want the Osteopathy department at the other end of the building.' He pointed. 'You can get to it down that corridor there.'
At this stage, seeing anyone was better than nothing, so I said, 'Thanks' and snaked in the direction he'd indicated as fast as my bad back-induced lopsided gait allowed. After several doors and signs, I arrived in Waiting Room Three. Several patients - I could tell they were patients because they had that bored, glazed look that spoke of long delays and unresolved health problems - occupied the handful of chairs. Safely protected from them behind a hatched counter was a severe looking receptionist.
I leaned on the counter to ease my aching spine. 'Steve Barley. Please tell me I'm in the right place.'
The receptionist checked her paperwork. 'You were due half an hour ago,' she said. 'I remember calling you myself and specifically telling you to come in at 10:30 to give you time to fill out the paperwork, but I'm afraid it's far too late for that now.'
I was aghast. The very admin person who was the cause of sending me to the wrong surgery in the first place was now threatening to cancel my appointment. Not only that, but my back was killing me from all the unnecessary to'ing an fro'ing she'd made me do.
'You can't do that,' I said indignantly. 'I was here on time. You gave me the wrong details.' I waved the post-it note on which I'd noted down the address. 'The private clinic over the road sent me to the chiropodist, and he sent me here. The whole thing's been a shambles!'
'Can I see that note, please?' said the receptionist. I handed it to her. In my own handwriting, it clearly said 185 Bevell Road. 'Mmm. That's the wrong address all right,' she said. 'But I'm afraid it's still too late to get you to fill in the paperwork about your condition...'
I was about to launch into a tirade telling her how appalled I was at her inefficiency, and how dare she do this to me and how she was the one at fault, when she floored me by saying, '...so you'll have go straight in to see the Osteopath.'
I gaped, 'I...I get to go straight in? As in, right now?'
'Yes,' said the receptionist. She pointed to a door on my right.
'Er, thank you.'
The osteopath was a woman half my age called Susie. She examined my spine and general posture with a thoroughness as diligent as her manner was friendly. She told me my back problem wasn't chronic, answered all my questions, showed me what exercises would help and booked me in for further treatment. I was in there for a total of forty minutes and everyone was smiling, including the receptionist, when I left.
It was only on the way home, when I replayed in my mind the original conversation I'd had with the receptionist on the phone, that I realised I may have played no small part in the mix up. She'd rung me when I was busy baking and I vaguely remember she did say something about seeing an osteopath. To be honest, I was up to my ears in flour at the time so all I registered was Bevell Road and 10:30. She asked if I knew where it was and I'd answered 'Yes' thinking I could look it up on the internet later - which I did. Only I jotted down the first address that came up in my search for "chiropractor bevel road letchworth" which was "185 Bevell Road".
How was I to know Bevell Road was health care central?
There are several morals to this story. If private clinic lady is reading this - nice smock, shame about the attitude. If Mr Chiropodist is reading this - terrible smock, great attitude. I recommend you two get together and learn from each other.
And to the NHS staff in the Osteopathy department - fabulous attitude and wonderful treatment of a person, me, who was being a right pain in the back!
All I can say is, 'Sorry.'
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