I have spent a lot of time in doctors' offices over the last two years. I have had the opportunity to compare the digs at the rural Mt. Ascutney Physicians' Practice, the sprawling and spacious Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center, the 11th floor views of the Charles River and Cambridge at Massachusetts Eye and Ear, and the no nonsense offices of the Cancer Center at Massachusetts General Hospital. While most doctors are extremely punctual, my oncologist at MGH is dismally backed up every time I see her. After I had waited a half hour at my last appointment I began to write a sketch of the examining room, out of sheer boredom. Here it is - a peek behind the scenes at the Head and Neck Cancer Center on the 7th floor of the Yawkey Building, 55 Fruit Street, Boston, MA.
The floor is speckled linoleum, half green and half cream. The exam chair in the middle of the room is dull grey, its cushions more like a bucket seat in a mid-priced car than the recliner it mimics. Its base is shiny and cold; its posture is not inviting. Also in the room is a sink, a step-on scale, a metal lidded trash can and a set of cupboards labeled, Dressing, Diagnostic Supplies, Gloves/Chux, Tracheostomy Supplies, IV Supplies, Non-Sterile Gloves, Chemo-spill Kit, Emesis bags, Slippers - M and XL, Exam Table Paper, Sani-cloth Wipes.
The ceiling is made of dropped tiles and flourescent rectangles. There is a metal track for the privacy curtain which is currently pushed up against the wall. Square gray air vents sport neon orange stickers telling the date they were last cleaned. The cupboards look like chipboard - like a cheap kitchen. The counter top is gray like the chair, the sink is stainless steel.
On the wall there is a light box for viewing x-rays, a hanging blood pressure cuff, eye and ear scopes and a small sign reading, "Emergency Trach is located on inside door of dressing supply cabinet or in code cart." In case you need one. A clear plastic rack over the sink holds three boxes of latex gloves- blue on top and bottom and white in the middle. There are brand names all over the room, the same ones I remember from other offices: Kinberley-Clark, Maxant, Steris, Welch Allyn.
By far the most eye-catching feature of the room are the laminated posters on the walls. They are part of a series entitled "Making Science Personal - Head and Neck Cancer." That's pretty personal for me. One shows a drawing originally rendered in colored pencil of the Pharyngeosophageol Junction, which looks like a tiny pink, striated uterus surrounded by lots of muscles and two silvery fish balanced on top of a long pink muscled tube that resembles a PVC pipe. It is much larger than life. Sharing the same wall are several cutaway head and neck posters, all in disturbingly bright colors. There is a lot of peach, accented with bright blue and red. They are hard to focus on, but hard to look away from.
Taped on the wall also is an 8x12 calendar printed on a plain piece of white copier paper. A box in the lower right hand corner lists "Holidays celebrated by Massachusetts General Hospital," plus several emergency phone numbers. I can't help but wonder how the hospital celebrates. The calendar hangs slightly crooked - suspended by a crinkled piece of scotch tape. A nurse I have not seen yet sticks his head in the doorway and asks casually if I'd like a flu shot while I wait. It feels like a consolation prize, an attempt to placate me. "Can I get you a shot while you wait?" I never get flu shots, but I think, "Why not?."
The floor is speckled linoleum, half green and half cream. The exam chair in the middle of the room is dull grey, its cushions more like a bucket seat in a mid-priced car than the recliner it mimics. Its base is shiny and cold; its posture is not inviting. Also in the room is a sink, a step-on scale, a metal lidded trash can and a set of cupboards labeled, Dressing, Diagnostic Supplies, Gloves/Chux, Tracheostomy Supplies, IV Supplies, Non-Sterile Gloves, Chemo-spill Kit, Emesis bags, Slippers - M and XL, Exam Table Paper, Sani-cloth Wipes.
The ceiling is made of dropped tiles and flourescent rectangles. There is a metal track for the privacy curtain which is currently pushed up against the wall. Square gray air vents sport neon orange stickers telling the date they were last cleaned. The cupboards look like chipboard - like a cheap kitchen. The counter top is gray like the chair, the sink is stainless steel.
On the wall there is a light box for viewing x-rays, a hanging blood pressure cuff, eye and ear scopes and a small sign reading, "Emergency Trach is located on inside door of dressing supply cabinet or in code cart." In case you need one. A clear plastic rack over the sink holds three boxes of latex gloves- blue on top and bottom and white in the middle. There are brand names all over the room, the same ones I remember from other offices: Kinberley-Clark, Maxant, Steris, Welch Allyn.
By far the most eye-catching feature of the room are the laminated posters on the walls. They are part of a series entitled "Making Science Personal - Head and Neck Cancer." That's pretty personal for me. One shows a drawing originally rendered in colored pencil of the Pharyngeosophageol Junction, which looks like a tiny pink, striated uterus surrounded by lots of muscles and two silvery fish balanced on top of a long pink muscled tube that resembles a PVC pipe. It is much larger than life. Sharing the same wall are several cutaway head and neck posters, all in disturbingly bright colors. There is a lot of peach, accented with bright blue and red. They are hard to focus on, but hard to look away from.
Taped on the wall also is an 8x12 calendar printed on a plain piece of white copier paper. A box in the lower right hand corner lists "Holidays celebrated by Massachusetts General Hospital," plus several emergency phone numbers. I can't help but wonder how the hospital celebrates. The calendar hangs slightly crooked - suspended by a crinkled piece of scotch tape. A nurse I have not seen yet sticks his head in the doorway and asks casually if I'd like a flu shot while I wait. It feels like a consolation prize, an attempt to placate me. "Can I get you a shot while you wait?" I never get flu shots, but I think, "Why not?."
