Yesterday, Monday, I took my father to visit his doctor, our old friend and occasional guest in these parts, Dr. John Schumann, senior medical director of the whole damn shebang at Oak Street Health, for his 6-month checkup.
“Does the doctor know we’re coming?” my father asked, as we pulled into the parking lot.
“Yeah. They scheduled the appointment.”
“Who did? You did or they did?”
“They did.”
“What do you mean ‘they did’?”
“They called and said it was time for your checkup.”
“Why did they call you?”
“Who else are they going to call?”
“Yeah, but they called you — why?”
“To tell me it was time for your checkup.”
“My checkup?”
“Your checkup.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are we here?”
“For a checkup.”
“Oh, you mean —”
“Yeah, a checkup.”
“So they just want to check?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d they call you?”
“Again, because I take care of these things.”
“Did they have your number?”
“No. They made wild stabs on their phone’s keypad and got lucky — of course they have my number. I’m the person they call when it comes to you.”
“It’s funny they called you.”
“Not really that funny.”
“So do they know we’re here?”
“As soon as we walk in to the office they will, which, at this rate, may never happen.
We enter.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Friedman of the Plains to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.