"I have no problem with fresh oranges"

After a night of worsening symptoms, including a raspy voice that could barely form words, I arose Sunday morning to seek help. Turning on the computer around six, before the day had become light, I found a location nearby that I could drive to. My condition didn’t warrant the emergency room, but I also didn’t want to wait until Monday—when I could try to see my regular doctor. So I settled on one of the “urgent care” facilities, thinking that I might get the antibiotics I needed to start healing this thing. Normally averse to these kinds of measures, I decided it best not to wait it out—as the symptoms might lead to something worse and potentially more difficult to cure.

I pointed the little two-seater car into the dense and chilly morning, the wipers working to clear the moisture and occasional drizzle off the glass. It was a little after seven, and I’d resolved to be the very first one at this care facility, so as to eliminate any kind of waiting—something that I absolutely hate. They opened at eight, and I drove up to the deserted place as the employees were arriving from their recent sleep, their Sunday mornings taken up with the care of sick people. The place looked less than inviting-- pretty dismal, actually. Across the street was a chicken joint, a little further up a quick-lube place, then a dealership that offered used Ford automobiles. Immediately surrounding the little medical building was a mishmash of different buildings, jumbled together at odd angles—their purpose a mystery. No signs out front indicated if they’d once been used for a commercial purpose or if they now in fact entertained customers seeking their services. One squat place was painted in a thick red, white, and blue motif. Next to this small building was parked a late-model Pontiac, nose against a drab grey wall. Presently a red pickup drove up, a woman got out, started the Pontiac, and the two vehicles drove off together.
The staff trickled into the back door, then a woman got out of her car and headed up front to the patient entrance. I hopped out immediately and waited out there by the door; the hour was just a few minutes after eight and I was not going to blow my lead at this point. My timing was good; as soon as the sullen receptionist opened the door and wordlessly allowed us to enter, more patients arrived. During my wait, a good many sick people arrived, waiting there in the reception area with a nice television broadcasting probably the most uninteresting program possible. It was possibly a show on time-share opportunities in exotic places, where you could get away from this place and have some digs all your own in Miami Beach or some such place. It was about ten minutes past eight, the day’s light was trying to penetrate the thick morning, and our little crew was gathering there on Ritchie Highway in the town of Glen Burnie.

It was clear they wanted to be paid at this place. Signs indicated that I would be forking over $135 as a new patient, and only a hundred bucks if I’d been to see them in the past three months. If it had been longer than three months, we were back to the original $135 fee. This was a bit more than my doctor’s office would charge, but I was being seen more quickly, so I felt that I was not too badly off. It was a business, after all—not an emergency room, where they are required to treat all comers, regardless of ability to pay. Besides, even if I’d gone to an ER, it is likely I would have never been seen; the others coming to that place would probably be far worse-off than I, suffering wounds and lacerations and the like. I would have constantly been pushed to the back of the line as another bandaged or limping customer walked through the door. All I had was a sore throat and an increasingly hard time speaking.

I filled out their paperwork, writing my address and personal information no fewer than three times on different forms. I guess the $135 fee doesn’t include much in the way of clerical work, as they require the patients to do this for them. I filled in the forms in my incomprehensible scrawl, showed the woman there my license to help clarify matters, and handed over my credit card. It wasn’t too much longer before I was called to see the doctor. I was—in fact—the very first patient. A young woman took my vital signs, wrote down the information and had me wait on the examination bed for the physician. He came in, listened to what was the matter, checked in my ears and throat, and told me he was prescribing antibiotics and did I have any questions? I wondered about his instructions not to drink juice—since I’d been drinking a lot of it. I thought it was actually good for me. I’d quaffed a whole bottle of Welch’s grape juice, for that matter.
He told me that he was worried about the sugar in the juice creating an environment for bacteria, for things to grow back there in my throat. I nodded, not having had anyone say anything like this before. I was getting my pills, and that was the main thing. I would follow his instructions about the juice and milk products, since it sounded like they had a ring of truth. Fresh oranges, I asked?
“I have no problem with fresh oranges,” he said.

At the Walgreen’s just a short drive down Ritchie Highway, I stopped to fill my prescription. There was not much activity in the big store, this being still early on Sunday morning, but the woman told me it would take maybe forty-five minutes to get me my medicine. I decided to stick it out, although it would have probably made more sense to go home and visit the local Rite-Aid. I picked up a few items in the large store, wandered through the marked-down Christmas items, the different products looking like they’d been thrown every which way in order to get at the best ones. A woman was there with her shopping cart, picking over the very last leavings—marked down a whopping seventy-five percent.

Back home I ate some marked-down oranges—six for ninety-nine cents—and watched endless episodes of the wickedly funny animated series Futurama. They were playing them back-to-back, a benefit of my cable tv service. When I later consulted the television guide, there was a block of about eight episodes strung together. After three of them I’d had enough. They’re good, but still. For Monday I resolved to do nothing. I didn’t want to risk being sick next weekend, when I would have yet another market to deal with. For the time being I’ll take my antibiotics and try to relax. I’ll also eat plenty of oranges.