Michael R Shapiro clearly lacks confidence in his medical skills; self-doubt that reveals the kind of malpractice that passes for standard healthcare in this great country: most doctors placing finances far above helping people in pain.
I came in with a broken wrist, assigned to Shapiro by my primary care physician. It seemed ideal: he was within walking distance, and since I can't bike or drive with my pained wrist, I was thrilled to be so near.
When I got there, I was greeted by a friendly office manager, who asked me to fill out their forms. A silent wonder: Is she the same soul who sounded so mean the night before when she called to confirm the day's appointment and to list demands of what to bring? So glad she's different in person.
The list of forms includes one that always raises a cringe: the arbitration clause. I have adopted the practice of ignoring it; but to make sure they understand why the signature line is blank, I write something like: "I trust, but prefer not to sign." All doctors had accepted my preference, only one manager calling back, but not forcing the matter.
I set the clipboard with forms on the counter and returned to my seat.
Soon I heard my name called. It was the friendly office manager. You need to sign this, she said, presenting the clipboard with the arbitration clause on top. I looked at it. I don't understand, I said. Other doctors don't make me sign.
If you want to be seen, you have to sign.
Okay, I said, flaring a bit, but I'll also write: "Signed under duress." Thus I scribbled, with my angry signature beneath.
The friendly office manager said: I'll bring you a new form. If you want to be seen, you have to sign.
I don't understand, I said. I have the right to refuse.
And we have the right to refuse to see you, the friendly office manager said. If you don't sign, you have the right to go elsewhere.
Swirling thoughts, too quick to capture: Such sublime confidence in the righteousness of her cause: and me with a two-day broken wrist, on a Friday around 10:30 a.m., half-sensing I won't be able to get it cast before Monday if I continue the Great Refusal. Knowing too that the mysterious pain in my thumb is increasing, and wondering how long I can bear it.
Our eyes met, the friendly manager's and mine, her sublime confidence radiating, leaping into my brain where I imagined her telling colleagues and friends how she masters such moments: "And we have the right to refuse to see you. If you don't sign, you have the right to go elsewhere."
After an intense second of eyeing each other: "I guess I'll go elsewhere," I said.
As I retrieved my stuff from the waiting room chair, one man asked which doctor I'd been scheduled to see. Shapiro, I said. He's not that good, the man said, suggesting I was lucky to escape him.
Maybe; but in June 2008 when I broke my left femur and was saved by indigent laws -- laws declaring that poverty shall not be cause for denial of treatment -- Shapiro was somehow the on-call surgeon. I seem to have come out okay, though Shapiro's luck wasn't so good: I couldn't pay his $4,000 bill. Whereon he unleashed the debt-collectors, a dismal if futile demand. That torment aside, I sometimes have pains when hauling my bike up the stairs to my second-floor apartment, or when sitting or sleeping in a wrong position, but I'm assuming few surgeons could have done better. Sometimes, however, when the rod seems to poke my hip area, I wonder if it's an inch or half-inch too long.
(These notes sparked by office visit Friday morning, January 22, 2016, typed with one hand, one fingerstroke at a time, fixing many typos, taking over two-and-a-half hours, so Gentle Readers can be sure I wanted a chance to be heard. My wrist, with intensifying thumb-joint [arthritic?] pains, won't be cast before late-morning Wednesday, January 27. Thanks for caring, Shapiro -- forever a part of me, forever a mix of disgust and gratitude.) read more