That time of year when the amateurs play monster. They glue on plastic fangs, dribble ketchup down their shirts, and call it “scary.” Meanwhile, I’m on hold with the hospital switchboard — that’s horror. True, American, existential horror. The kind that smells faintly of disinfectant and despair.
I got ambushed by this latest “medical situation,” which is how the doctors say, “You’re screwed, but we’ll need six meetings to confirm it.” So, being a reasonable man, I wanted to start treatment — maybe get a jump on the Grim Reaper before he finishes his coffee. But after years in the oncology underworld, I know better. Once you enter their realm, time ceases to exist. You are but a number on a clipboard, a file buried beneath a mountain of paperwork and printer errors.
Super Doc — my fearless guide through this bureaucratic wasteland — orders a PET scan. “This will determine the course of treatment,” she says, with all the confidence of the person who won’t have to make the phone calls. It’s the Big Test. The Decider. The sacred relic that tells us whether I’m going to war or just rehearsal dinner for Hell.
Ordered: eight days ago. Results: Ha!
I start calling. The hospital says it takes seven to ten days to “get the fax into the system.”
The fax.
In twenty-twenty-freaking-five. They’re diagnosing cancer with technology that couldn’t survive Y2K. Somewhere in a damp sub-basement, a fax machine hums like an ancient idol, demanding toner sacrifices and human patience.
I call the eye doctor. “We sent it,” they swear.
I call the hospital again — they respond like I’ve asked for state secrets. “We can neither confirm nor deny receipt of said fax,” they murmur, as if I’m in the CIA. Then they suggest I verify the fax number. The fax number. Because, naturally, I should have memorized the secret numeric code of the oncology labyrinth. At this point, my pulse is doing jazz solos. I can feel my Marine vocabulary — twenty-four years of industrial-grade profanity — clawing its way up my throat like a caged animal. I’m ready to call down the wrath of the English language itself.
Instead, I go to the hospital’s “patient advocacy” webpage, which is less “advocacy” and more “gaslighting with HTML.” I find the complaint form. It gives me 125 characters. That’s it. I couldn’t even write a proper threat in that space, let alone a complaint. “Dear Sir, Kindly…” — and I’m out of room. So I typed what I could: “This system was designed by demons who flunked customer service in Hell.” It fit. Barely.
And here I am. Waiting. Waiting for some anonymous clerk to feed my future into the fax god and press “send.” It’s terrifying, really — not the diagnosis, not the treatment. The waiting. The crawling, mind-numbing, soul-sucking waiting while your body runs its own internal countdown.
charlie — that’s what I’m calling the tumor — is in there, lounging around like a tenant who knows eviction takes months. And I’m outside, in the rain, arguing with a fax line. So yeah, happy Halloween. Dress up if you want. But if you really want to experience fear? Try getting medical paperwork processed in America. That’s the haunted house that never ends.
“Trick or treat, smell my feet,” I croak, because apparently Halloween now requires ritualized humiliation before the medical-industrial complex will lift a finger. Give me a PET scan, that would be neat — not for candy, mind you, but to evict the freeloading tumor I’ve nicknamed charlie. I don’t want fairy lights and fake cobwebs; I want fluorescent lights, paperwork, and someone with a badge to press ‘confirm.’ Mercy, in this town, comes stamped and filed. So hand over an appointment like you hand out candy — quick, automatic, and with no small talk — or at least teach your fax machine to fear me.
Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler
I could hear the old dial-up modem sound while reading your fax comments. Remember that? Just wondering...are you using VA or BS&W?
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