Okay, me first.
Today was a fairly decent day, much like Monday. I left the house alone. I ran errands. I made a circuit of five stores, spent about two hours, and then came home and slept off my exhaustion for three.
But let me tell you about my first stop on this grand tour.
I went to the post office to pick up some mailing boxes. The post office closes at 1:00 p.m. on Saturdays; I got there at about 12:40. There was a long line, and it got longer after me, nearly out the door. I feel fairly confident in saying that we all had other things to do besides stand there waiting, but big deal, right? You go to the post office any time between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day, and you wait in line, especially if you get there within a half hour of closing. It's just life. It's just how it is for everyone. If you're smart, you expect this and bring a book or something. If not, like me, you chastise yourself (and no one else) for forgetting, and then you stand there and kind of zone out until it's your turn to be served.
Now, because I was zoning out I am not sure exactly how this happened, but shortly after my arrival in line, voices at the counter were raised. Tallish, red-faced, middle-aged preppy guy told deferent but not obsequious postal worker in no uncertain terms, "I was just on the phone to a patient in critical condition at Emerson Hospital!"
"I got OFF that call so I could speak to you!"
("So what?" asked my true love when I told him this story later.
"Well, exactly," I replied.)
Apparently this person was a Doctor. Apparently the postal worker had deigned to serve someone else first because this person stayed on the phone when he got to the counter even though there was a huge line out the door.
When the postal worker turned his attention to Doctor Man's business, Doctor Man took his time. I stood there behind an elderly arthritic in my ill-fitting prosthetic leg socket for a good ten minutes before his business was concluded and the line crept forward, and then he was in such a hurry and so pressed for his precious, precious time that on his way out he stopped to shoot the sh*t with an almost identical buddy and/or colleague standing further back in line closer to the door.
I waited so long in line, on my feet, in my ill-fitting prosthetic socket, that by the time it was my turn to drag myself to the counter, my left hip was screaming in pain. And yet I somehow managed not to make an enormous bitch of myself, just as the elderly arthritic in front of me somehow managed not to be a complete jerk when it was his turn. I conducted my business cheerfully and efficiently and dragged myself out the door. The doors were locked by this time, incidentally, and yet there was still a line behind me of at least five customers.
Oh, and Doctor Man was still chatting with one of them, his pal.
Here's my rant.
Point 1: I have had an ostensibly terminal illness for nearly 30 years. I have had a cell phone for seven or eight. In all that coinciding time, I have never once found it necessary to multitask at someone else's expense. And I promise you, most days NO ONE is in a bigger hurry than I am to conclude tedious little chores and move on to something more interesting. For some reason.
Point 2: Each of my doctors has made more money this year than I have made in the last ten. When any of my doctors speaks with me on the phone, s/he'd f*cking well better not be buying stamps at the same time. Pay scale considerations aside, when I speak to a doctor on the telephone, we are discussing life-and-death stuff, my life and my death. I find it completely reasonable to expect that said doctor will therefore give me his or her undivided attention for the entire duration of the conversation, no matter how badly s/he needs to mail a package. If my doctor cannot find the time to give me his or her undivided attention every time s/he speaks to me, I suggest s/he find someone else to run to the post office. I have a sneaking suspicion s/he can afford to hire someone for just this purpose.
End rant. Your turn.