It was the telephone that pushed me over the edge.
I was listening to insurance voice mail and trying not to miss the prompts, checking in one patient while checking out a second and scrolling through the schedule to make an appointment for a third, running a credit card payment through the machine, talking with a drug rep who had appeared at the window and a patient yelling about his bill. The doctor came around the corner with a question just as the second line began ringing and behind me, our nurse assistant sat pecking half heartedly at her keyboard and sighing loudly. When the third line lit up and began to ring steadily she made no move to answer it, instead asking for the third time that day how to get into the software. Out of hands and patience, I practically heard my last nerve snap like a dry twig and a murderous red haze began to cloud my vision. This, I said clearly and distinctly, is why people climb towers with long range rifles. Will you PLEASE that answer that telephone? The office manager rounded the corner, arms filled with charts and an expression of resigned dismay on her face as she took in the scene and then took a deep breath before dispatching the drug rep and the complaining patient, answering the telephone and the doctor's question and finally unceremoniously escorting the useless assistant away. I gathered my scattered wits and counted to twenty, longing for a mental health minute and making do with a failsafe scheme that would eliminate the assistant and all her progeny while not landing me in jail. My mind had turned into a frantic game of pinball complete with flashing neon lights and siren noises and I thought I might name it "Justifiable Homicide".
The moment passed, as such moments do, and I regrouped. The waiting room slowly cleared out as it got closer to noon and there were rumblings from the back office and the sounds of sobs. I collected my things and headed out the door for the refuge of lunch and a few quiet minutes to myself, feeling drama'd out and emotionally overdrawn. She was gone when I got back - sent home with instructions to clear her head, resolve her "issues" and come back on Monday, rested and ready to work. Perhaps this strategy will work, perhaps not. It feels as if the workplace has become the stage on which unstable employees play out their emotional lives and troubles, hoping for sympathy and salvation through others, feeling entitled by their very victim-ness. All will be forgiven and fixed if you have "issues" at home. At one college bookstore in New England I recall the manager had erected a small trash basket to the wall outside the door and labeled it "TRASH - PLEASE DEPOSIT YOUR DOMESTIC TROUBLES, SAD TALES, AND ALL THE REASONS YOU CANNOT DO YOUR JOB BEFORE ENTERING. EMPLOYEES ARE EXPECTED TO CRASH AND BURN ON THEIR OWN TIME".
I was listening to insurance voice mail and trying not to miss the prompts, checking in one patient while checking out a second and scrolling through the schedule to make an appointment for a third, running a credit card payment through the machine, talking with a drug rep who had appeared at the window and a patient yelling about his bill. The doctor came around the corner with a question just as the second line began ringing and behind me, our nurse assistant sat pecking half heartedly at her keyboard and sighing loudly. When the third line lit up and began to ring steadily she made no move to answer it, instead asking for the third time that day how to get into the software. Out of hands and patience, I practically heard my last nerve snap like a dry twig and a murderous red haze began to cloud my vision. This, I said clearly and distinctly, is why people climb towers with long range rifles. Will you PLEASE that answer that telephone? The office manager rounded the corner, arms filled with charts and an expression of resigned dismay on her face as she took in the scene and then took a deep breath before dispatching the drug rep and the complaining patient, answering the telephone and the doctor's question and finally unceremoniously escorting the useless assistant away. I gathered my scattered wits and counted to twenty, longing for a mental health minute and making do with a failsafe scheme that would eliminate the assistant and all her progeny while not landing me in jail. My mind had turned into a frantic game of pinball complete with flashing neon lights and siren noises and I thought I might name it "Justifiable Homicide".
The moment passed, as such moments do, and I regrouped. The waiting room slowly cleared out as it got closer to noon and there were rumblings from the back office and the sounds of sobs. I collected my things and headed out the door for the refuge of lunch and a few quiet minutes to myself, feeling drama'd out and emotionally overdrawn. She was gone when I got back - sent home with instructions to clear her head, resolve her "issues" and come back on Monday, rested and ready to work. Perhaps this strategy will work, perhaps not. It feels as if the workplace has become the stage on which unstable employees play out their emotional lives and troubles, hoping for sympathy and salvation through others, feeling entitled by their very victim-ness. All will be forgiven and fixed if you have "issues" at home. At one college bookstore in New England I recall the manager had erected a small trash basket to the wall outside the door and labeled it "TRASH - PLEASE DEPOSIT YOUR DOMESTIC TROUBLES, SAD TALES, AND ALL THE REASONS YOU CANNOT DO YOUR JOB BEFORE ENTERING. EMPLOYEES ARE EXPECTED TO CRASH AND BURN ON THEIR OWN TIME".
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