Tag Archives: medical care

City of angels (loogies included)

Signs posted on pariah rooms mean people have to dress in swaddling clothes to enter. Unless you're a pariah who lives there, that is.

By Laura Grimes

To Everyone Who Isn’t Oscar/Dennis:

My son is a champ.

The big, strapping lad was reduced to a wuss, a weakling no match for a kitten. He was so scary sick that he landed in the hospital.

To that, all I got to say is my kid is one tough cookie and the best possible patient. I am so glad I get to write that. I am cautiously optimistic that he’s on the upswing.

Faithful readers might remember this recent post about Oscar/Dennis’s unadventure to the doctor’s office and Mrs. Scatter’s advocating for home visits by doctors. His visit was unfortunately long and bitterly hard on him, and compromised his already weak system. If medical care is meant to serve the patients, the doctor-centric geographic design isn’t always a good one.

Oscar/Dennis neatly solved that. Now that he’s in the hospital, it’s all about him. Everyone and everything come to him.


Hospitals are amazing little cities. No car required. No need to go anywhere (though, if it becomes necessary, the taxi service costs a bundle). They have excellent accommodations with 24/7 room service, valets, bathrooms and showers, state-of-the-art equipment, gift shopping, a florist and security services.

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Is there a doctor in the house?

I'd rather be home any day than in this germy place./Wikimedia Commons

By Laura Grimes

It’s time to re-institute home visits by doctors.

I want to hear the doorbell ring and see the black bag. With a sweep of my motherly arm I would graciously show the caring soul to the outdated plaid couch, where Oscar/Dennis would be slouched back in a daze, his slumber roused by the sound of the bell. Oscar/Dennis would flicker open his eyes a slit but he wouldn’t move. His gray hoodie that hadn’t been changed for a few days would be pulled up over his ears, and the red fuzzy blanket would be flung over his long body that stretches from one sofa arm to the other. A couple of pillows would prop up his head. The white She Cat would be curled up on his legs in a lowercase e.

Even though it would be noon, the room would be dark. The blinds would not have been pulled, but there would be a small welcoming fire. A tall water bottle, a couple of untouched Ritz crackers and a tub with a half-inch of vomit would be on the coffee table.

Continue reading Is there a doctor in the house?