Finding a physician in a new city is not an easy task. Especially when you are married to one. As an adult, I’ve never been a person who goes to the doctor for my annual check-up but instead on an as needed basis. I’ve been fortunate in the eighteen months+ that we’ve lived in this dump important/center of the universe/think Saul Steinberg’s famous New Yorker cover city of power brokers not to have fallen ill. But when itch came to lack of sleep for a few night’s running, I was inclined to make an appointment.
One UES doc, “in private practice,” which means he or she takes payment upon service (i bill my insurance, okay, i’m used to that, no different in la but we had the good fortune of being linked to the UCLA medical center who took insurance, can see me in late June.
And before I can schedule an appointment, I’m indulged with the rules of the office road:
Count on about an hour for your first appointment
Fee for first exam $800, doesn’t include any tests or additional fees.
Everything else gets added on.
Payment (as I mentioned above) is at time of service.
They will accept all major credit cards
furnish the patient with a super bill
patient may submit it to her insurance provider.
My head is a blur as I envision yet another sleepless night filled with itching and scratching my hands and feet.
“Would you like to schedule an appointment?” asked the scheduler.
Yes, I would like to schedule an appointment. Mid-August is the next mutually convenient date. The doc isn’t available until late June at which point I will be away and then she will be away. We settle on August 18, 2008.
In the meanwhile, I need a doctor. I’m itching and scratching and the cursory google search last night delivered lupus, a circulatory ailment like raynauds as possible explanations. My doctor husband thinks these are unlikely causes. The itching began, as far as I can recall, five days ago. Onset in the evening (at sunset, not when I climb into bed), no one else in our house is itching, no rash, no bumps, hands and feet primarily but just writing about it makes me itch. We haven’t switched detergents, no new creams or meds. Clearly, I’ve thought this through.
In response to my query if there might be a possibility that the physician would extend a physician’s courtesy to my husband who is a new recruit at a major medical center in this dump city?
“It’s a function of the doctor’s very busy schedule.”
Gee, I hadn’t thought of that. This experience comes on the heels of an unpleasant experience securing pediatricians for our school aged children. No one takes insurance, that’s a given. Fortunately, we have insurance and we have credit cards. In my experience, docs in this town, for the most part, don’t take new patients. They go for the newborns. Both kids have had their checkups, are in good health, whew, and the 14 yr old even had the benefit shock of a breast exam, sans explanation. We won’t be visiting that doctor again.
so that’s part of the back story. The bottom line is I’m not mad, I’m itching.
The doctor’s office will call me later today to inform me if the doctor can see me sooner or with a reference for someone else who might.
My lips begin to quiver, eyes well with tears as I look out onto the rain drops falling from a gray sky. Mud colored, red and gray brick buildings face toward me, closing me into this concrete jungle where one of the pediatrician’s office told me, “it’s all about who you know.”
Does anyone know someone who can relieve the itching?
of my own. Luckily, my seat mates quickly squashed that fear when, throughout the entire movie, I was told by them to hold their toy, their sippy cup and was asked “Hi?” as if it were a question that demanded a response. Yes, I had to sit next to three children, who seemed to be between the ages of three and five — the theater was packed. The movie was an hour and 40 minutes long. All three children had bladders that seemed to only hold ten minutes worth of liquids. Their attention spans were just as small. While watching Tina Fey try her hardest to create a human being of her very own, I was also treated to a car crash along the arm of my seat, courtesy of Jayden, the four-year-old sitting next to me. When his parents finally deemed him “unruly enough” to sit next to a stranger, they switched him out with his three-year-old sister, Destiny, who was quietly brushing her doll’s hair. I settled back into the movie, babies floated before the screen, there were laugh out loud montages of Amy Poehler having to swallow a giant pre-natal vitamin. After a little while, I realized I was being watched by Destiny. I tried to shake it off, but couldn’t. Finally, I turned and stared right back at her. “Isn’t my doll’s hair shiny,” she asked. (Might I remind you, we’re in a dark movie theater.) I made the HUGE mistake of answering her with, “yes, it is,” before turning away. This opened up the floodgates for conversation. “Want to see me dance?” Destiny asked me.
tourists don’t realize that as New Yorkers, we utilize every available inch of space — even in a museum. Right now the Iris and B. Gerald Cantor Roof Garden is holding an exhibition called 
“balloon dog.” Though we expected the roof to be packed, it was filled with a surprisingly mixed crowd of people: young and old, post-work, pre-dinner crowd. The art lovers, the downtownies, uptownies and even the borough people. It was really amusing to stand with a glass of wine in the setting sun, surrounded by a 360 degree view of Manhattan and a sea of people to watch. After an hour of taking in the views and conversations and lamenting on the future of a publishing house, my friend and I headed down to the 
tantrums set in, she told us, “if you don’t see this temple today, you won’t be able to ever see it again. It’s a temporary exhibition.” Even then, I was never one to miss an opportunity, so I reluctantly agreed. My sister agreed after being bribed with the promise of candy. That day, we spent an hour at the Temple of Dendur, my mom reading every card, fact and date out loud to us. She set the scene visually, making us imagine the Egyptians visiting the temple, and later, more mischievous visitors adding their graffiti in 1908 and again in 1921. Though I might not have enjoyed that first visit outwardly, I always remember it every time I visit the room today. And in case you didn’t pick up on that, the temple is still there, 16 years later. Which only proves that mothers can be very good in the art of lying to their children.
I initially came up with that idea last summer, while visiting the Vatican and seeing so many people being disappointed that the pope was not “at home,” but rather, at his seaside summer residence. There’s no sign that tells you if he’s in or not — somehow I had it in my head that it would be like visiting Santa Claus with a little clock sign up on his throne pointing to the time he’d be back. This is not the case, instead, you have to actually ask someone that works there. But it’s pretty much implied that during the summer months, no one is actually home in a city if they have the means not to be (pope included).
