The Future of America--Found in a Hospital Trip

I found the future of America. I really like it. So will you.

I found it in a hospital. I got a heart scare a couple of weeks ago and went to check it out.

The company in charge of sending phone calls for the ' reminder' got it wrong, so I nearly didn't have the appointment I was supposed to have. Everyone rolled with it; they weren't surprised. "How are you?" asked Sarah (all names have been changed) the med-tech assigned to give me an EKG. "I'm a bit confused, but otherwise okay," I replied.

She turned toward me as she led me backstage. "Welcome to my world," she trolled.

She was thorough but friendly. She asked me about my original surgery. I had forgotten the name of the surgeon, but between the two of us, we deciphered it as McAlester. I remembered that he said he was a Navy surgeon. "He must have been in residence that day," Sarah said. "We have to do that, you know."

But she stared off a second in admiration. "Dr. McAlester," she said, in half-wonder. "He had magic hands. He saved a lot of lives."

Like mine, that day. He said I was 99% plugged at the junction of my two main arteries. "You had weeks, if not days, left," he told me at the debriefing a couple of weeks later. Beth said he had retired. I know he won't see this, but I wish him well.

Sarah delivered me into the competent hands of Yousef, a native of Morocco and a practicing Muslim. He prepped me for the 'stress test,' which was done chemically this time, without a treadmill, so as not to have my breathing labored by my anti-virus mask.

"I'm from Marrakech," he said. "A beautiful city. You should go. Marrakech and Rabat." I made a note to add them to a bucket list that's only growing, since the EU won't let me visit now. But he was very friendly, and eager to discuss the similarities between Islam and Christianity, perhaps because his wife is Christian. Muslims don't trash Jesus; he's an important part of the big picture. "It's all much the same," he said. I agreed, and offered that crazies in both religions give them a bad name.

He guided me through the entire process, though he didn't need to do so. "I'll make you a fresh pot of coffee," he said. "You'll probably get a headache from the drugs because of the expansion of the arteries. The only way to relieve it is with caffeine." He kindly did so, bringing me a filled styrofoam cup and six graham crackers. After three hours of all this, they hit the spot.

Others had come and go. Beatrice, a Black nurse practitioner, chatted with me through our masks for a while on how ridiculous everybody who wouldn't wear a mask was being. "It's so simple," she said. "We could get this down to a decent level."

The doctor, a diminutive lady--we'll call her Dr. H--a trusted colleague of my main cardiac physician who had been in turn a trusted colleague of Dr. McAlester, stopped by for just a moment. She was obviously quite busy, and disrupted a bit from the change in my schedule. She had planned this testing much earlier in the day. Her name is long and South Asian--Indian or Bangladeshi or Sri Lankan or Pakistani--and quite difficult to spell. But she's easy to take. Her manner is nothing but helpful. She did say hello and checked in to see if the process was moving along.

Very briefly, Carrie, another nurse's practitioner, a blond woman who couldn't have been 35, came in to put a stethoscope on me. She stood out from the others, though, because she was the only white person in the group besides Sarah.

I couldn't help but marvel at that. This is the America that's to come, I told myself as I drove home. And not only is there nothing to fear, there's every reason to celebrate and embrace it. These are all Americans, some from other lands, but glad to be here. And they want to help. Not a pretentious bone in any of their bodies, either. It felt good to be amongst them.

But 45 wants to limit their access, all filled with himself and some long-forgotten attitude about America First. These people put America first, not him. They make sure sick people get taken care of. They have to put it on the line for all of us daily. They make me proud to live in this country. He sure doesn't.

Yousef took me to a contraption which revolves around me, taking pictures, he said, after the stress. Then I was slid into a hyperbaric chamber--just for a minute, he said. And it was, in fact, just for a minute, about which I was happy because things like that give me the creeps. Then he withdrew me, took some more pictures, and re-inserted me inside the chamber. This time he did not tell me how long I'd be in there, but somehow I knew it would only be for another minute. And it was. I trusted him, believed in him, found no reason to doubt him.

Yousef took me to the lobby. Again, he didn't have to; I could have found it myself. "Good to talk to you," he said. "Yes," I said. "I hope we have the chance to talk again." We probably won't, of course. There would be no reason, outside of another, unwanted visit, to interact again in any other way. But you never know; we could run into each other at Whole Foods or something.

I hoped so. He was different than I, and I different than him. Yet, we had enough in common to become friends: we showed interest in exploring each other's religions, we were in this excellent health care facility, we were both Americans.

Well, maybe not: Maybe he wasn't a citizen yet. I didn't ask. But it didn't matter. I knew he loved it here, knew because he so willingly interacted with me, someone he might not ever see again. He was as American as I was, here all of four years. He knew I wanted to understand better, so he opened up willingly, quickly, as if he was parched for it.

We need to get rid of the one who tries to make us afraid of that. It's ridiculous. It's unnecessary. It hurts this country.

I held my hands prayerfully as I stepped away, and bowed my head slightly. "Namaste," I said as I left, a respectful greeting on the Indian subcontinent. "Adios" didn't seem appropriate; it felt a bit too flip, like maybe this was a Western and I was John Wayne.

I wanted to say something more than just 'so long,' though. It was a gesture of a deeper thanks that I hope he absorbed. Then, as I always do, I said, "Be well," as I pointed at him, something I do when an interaction is more than casual.

He might easily forget me by today. There are always more to treat. But I'm not likely to forget him, or them. The visit had tired me out, but I also felt better in a way.

The call came back two days later: I'm all right after all. That is, if I keep taking good care of myself. Kind of like the country, about to pass another birthday.

Be well. Be careful. Wear a mask. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.


Mister Mark