Doc-In-A-Box

One year, shortly after my grandmother died, my mother and I took the train to Florida to visit my aunt and uncle. My mother, being who she is (stubborn, having little respect for doctors, and a smoker), had been fighting off a cough for a couple of months insisting that it was “nothing” and she’d “be fine.” My uncle, being who he was, took one look at my mother and insisted she get some sort of actual medical attention. Off they went to what is officially known in the U.S. as an “immediate care clinic” (aka: Doc-In-A-Box).

So my mom sits down in front of the five-foot nothing Vietnamese NP who does all the standard blood pressure taking, history taking, looking in the ears and nose, and then she listens to my mom’s cough. Her exact words after listening to the fluid in my mom’s lungs: “You’re not going to cure that with Robitussin.” Out my mom walked with a prescription for whacking great antibiotics and the standard adjuration to stop smoking.

I had occasion to make my own Doc-In-A-Box visit yesterday. TGF and I have been away from home visiting family and attending the St. James Court Art Show and whatever I’ve been incubating for the past month finally decided to show up in the form of sinus drainage and that horrible, horrible, horrible [multiply by infinity please] sore throat. Yes, it’s the Fall round of sinus infection (and possibly strep…the NP didn’t bother to test as the treatment is the same).

There’s just something jarring about getting medical care in the same building in which you can buy a frozen pizza and a head of lettuce. And you know what? I got the same medical care and prescription I could have gotten from my doctor at home in DC.

I’m not sure if this says more about me or about the medical system in the U.S. Either way, I’m not looking forward to getting on the plane all congested. We’ll see how that goes.