CANTANKEROUSLY YOURS

by Wendell Abern

The Benny Hill Hospital Franchise

Dear Healthcare Reformers and Worriers,Wendell Abern can be reached at dendyabern@comcast.net.

      About five years ago, my wife spent a week at a hospital so filled with hapless bumblers, I dubbed it The Benny Hill Hospital.

      It seems that Benny Hill Enterprises is now franchising its expertise.  Since my wife’s stay, I have discovered all kinds of hospitals, clinics and healthcare facilities employing Benny Hill techniques.

      The latest happens to be the clinic where most of our doctors

practice.  

      Last month, after trying to reach several doctors, I called the clinic’s office and asked to speak to the administrator, a person I will call Freddy Fumbles.

      “Fumbles here.  May I help you?”

      “Yes, I would like to report one of your assistant nurses for violating clinic policy.”

      “Goodness.  What did she do?”  

      “She answered the phone.”

      “Excuse me?” 

        “She answered the phone.  Clearly, a criminal offense at your clinic.”

      “Sir, I – “

      “But she may be new, so please don’t be too hard on her.”

      “Sir, we do not have a policy – “

      “In her defense, she did put me on hold for seventeen minutes.  So please give her credit for that.”

      “Good-bye, sir.”

      Two weeks ago, after once again trying to reach several doctors, I called the Gynecology Department.

      “Gynecology, this is Martha, how can I help you?”

      “Martha, I promise not to report you for answering the phone.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “I’m calling to find out about this PMS thing.”

      “For your wife?”

      “No, for me.  See, every time I call the clinic, someone puts me on hold and the next thing I know, I’m listening to a recorded announcement about your gynecology department, and ways to handle PMS.”

      “Sir, I’m busy –“

      “Look, I’m really worried about my PMS problems.  I mean, I ate an entire three-pound salami yesterday.”

      “Good-bye, sir.” 

      And then there’s the new Benny Hill Hospital.  Before Benny and his minions took over, I spent some time in it myself.  Superb experience.  Run so impeccably, I sent a letter to the chief administrator telling him what a fine staff of nurses and technicians he had.

      He never responded.

      Last week, my wife spent 26 hours in this new Benny Hill version. 

      She entered at one P.M. on the first day.  They brought her lunch, which she was eating when the technician from the lab showed up.

      “Hey, you’re not supposed to eat that!” he said.  “You’re scheduled for an ultra sound!  You can’t eat before you have an ultra sound!”

      “No one told me.  And apparently, no one told the kitchen.”

      “Well, now we’re going to have to wait another four hours.”

      We waited another four hours.  They came with a wheelchair, and as they wheeled my wife out of her room, she shouted, “Don’t let the kitchen forget to bring me dinner.”

       I called the kitchen.  They told me my wife wasn’t supposed to have any food because she was having an ultra sound.

        “No, see, that was this afternoon,” I said as patiently as possible.  “She shouldn’t have had any food this afternoon.  But she’s having the ultra sound now, so she will want dinner.”

      “No one told us.”

      The ultra sound took less than a half-hour.  My wife was back in her room by six o-clock.  After much badgering, they brought my wife’s dinner at 7:40. 

      The ultra sound revealed some cysts in my wife’s liver, so the doctor scheduled a CT scan for the next afternoon, with orders she was to

have nothing to eat or drink beforehand.

      I was there the next morning when the kitchen brought breakfast. “She’s not supposed to eat until after her CT scan!” I shouted.

      “Oh.  No one told us.”

      I suddenly realized I hadn’t really learned how to communicate in Benny Hill language.  Testing the waters, I said, “But make sure she gets her lunch on time.”

      They didn’t bring her any.  It worked!

      I had it!  I now had a glimmer of how Benny Hillspeak works!   

      Someone says “do,” you don’t.  Someone says, “don’t,” you do.  And if you get something wrong, you just say, “No one told me!”  How easy is that? 

      My wife’s CT scan revealed an irregularity in the liver; she was also diagnosed with diabetes.  The doctor scheduled a liver biopsy the next

day, and ordered a special diet with insulin pills.

   The next day at noon, nurses gave my wife insulin and heparin, a blood thinner.  When she went down to the lab to have the biopsy, the doctor asked her if heparin had been given to her.

      “Yes,” she said.  “An hour or so ago.”

      “What!  Why?  You can’t have heparin!  That’s a blood thinner, for God’s sake!  I can’t give you a biopsy now.”

      They wheeled my wife back upstairs at two, where I was waiting impatiently to take her home.  We had to wait another day.

      After the biopsy the next day, my wife said, “We should be out of here by six.”

      However, we were at a Benny Hill franchise.  I was taking no chances.

      At five o’clock, I marched out to the nurses’ desk and said, “Okay,

who do I have to sleep with in order to get out of here at six o’clock?”

      Threatened by the mere thought of this prospect, the nurses galvanized into frenzied action, calling doctors, phoning the lab, sending nurses’ assistants scurrying into the nether regions of the floor, popping into the room with papers to sign, unfastening Carol’s IV, showing up with a wheelchair, and zipping us out of there by 6:20.  I haven’t seen any woman move that fast since I tried to kiss Audrey Stern after our first date.

      We have been home now for five days.  On the second day, I called the hospital administrator to tell him how unhappy I was with everything. 

      No one answered.  Benny Hill would be proud.

      Cantankerously Yours,

      Wendell Abern