One day, a boy had to be hurried to the psychiatrist. The doctor’s office called and said there was a last minute cancellation, and my supervisor picked me to take him to the doctor’s office.
I was a little nervous. I had pestered this doctor with my questions, apparently to the breaking point. I was nearly 30 by then, I had two kids of my own, and I wanted clear answers. I don’t do well with platitudes. I guess it showed. At some point he decided he didn’t want to answer any more of my questions, especially when he found out I had a bachelor’s degree in sociology. So, this time, I walked in with one of the boys and I quietly found a seat. The boy was soon escorted to a room in the back where he would wait to see the doctor.
It was late in the day and the office was empty. I took a seat just below and to the right of the sliding glass window where the receptionist was. I was extra quiet. After a few minutes, I was out of sight and, as I soon found out, out of mind.
About 10 minutes later, I heard the doctor approach the receptionist area. The receptionist, I would learn, also did the doctor’s billing for Medi-Cal. Her name was Evelyn. I remember her name because, unbeknownst to the doctor, this is what I heard the doctor say to her, in no uncertain terms:
“God dammit Evelyn, how many times do I have to tell you?! I don’t get paid for this diagnosis!!”
Hmmm. As I was to learn in the next few years, the love of money really is the root of all evil after all.