At 75, I Was Invited to a Triage

At 75, I thought I had a reasonably good command of the English language.

Then I went to the emergency room.

Apparently, hospitals have stopped using English.

Going to the ER used to be simple. You walked in and said, “I’m sick.”

Someone looked at you and said, “Okay. Sit down.”

Not anymore.

Today, before anyone determines whether you’re actually going to live, you first have to prove who you are, where you live, who your doctor is, what medications you take, what you’re allergic to, who should be called if you die and whether you have any idea why you came there in the first place.

Then they hand you an electronic pad.

“Sign here.”

I signed.

“Here.”

I signed again.

“Initial here.”

Then another signature.

After signing enough documents to buy a house, refinance it and leave it to my children, I was beginning to develop carpal tunnel syndrome.

I finally asked what I had agreed to.

Apparently, everything.

Treatment. Privacy. Release of information.

And HIPAA.

HIPAA protects your medical privacy, which is reassuring. Apparently, before HIPAA, hospital employees just wandered around telling people:

“Hey, did you hear what Voll has?”

Now they can’t tell anyone anything.

Occasionally, including you.

I picture a courtroom.

“Mr. Voll, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“Your Honor, due to HIPAA regulations, we’re unable to tell the defendant what he’s charged with.”

“Excellent. Proceed.”

Eventually, a nurse appeared.

“Mr. Voll, we’re ready for your triage.”

My what?

At 75, I thought I’d heard just about everything.

Apparently not.

I looked around.

There was a nurse.

There was me.

I wasn’t sure who the third person was supposed to be.

Then I realized she’d said triage.

Not threesome.

That was disappointing.

Apparently, triage is where they decide how quickly you need medical attention.

Blood pressure. Temperature. Pulse. Oxygen.

Then came the big question.

“On a scale of one to ten, how severe is your pain?”

I’ve never understood that question.

What exactly is a ten?

Kidney stone?

Shark attack?

Notre Dame losing to USC?

Give me some parameters.

Eventually, the doctor came in.

That’s when I discovered there’s another language you need to learn before going to the hospital:

Abbreviations.

MRI. PSA. IBS. ICU.

I decided to translate them myself.

MRI — Might Reveal Injury

PSA — Prostate Says Attention

IBS — I Better Sprint

And my personal favorite:

ICU — I See You

That one seems unnecessarily obvious.

If I’m lying in intensive care and the nurse walks into the room, I already know she sees me.

Then the doctor started speaking fluent Hospital.

“Your CBC looks okay, but I’d like a CMP, maybe a CT, and then we’ll have you follow up with your PCP.”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“Absolutely.”

I had absolutely no idea what he’d just said.

But at 75, I’ve learned something important.

If a doctor uses more than three abbreviations in one sentence, just nod.

Eventually, I made it out of the ER.

I survived Registration.

I survived HIPAA.

I survived the pain scale.

I even survived the alphabet.

And I learned one very important lesson about modern medicine:

The next time a nurse tells me she’s ready for my triage—

I’m going to listen very carefully before getting too excited.