MINK stinks.

My stomach’s has been hurting for a while.  I finally went in to get an ultrasound — and I was pretty nervous about it, I must admit.  So it didn’t help that the place was as cold as Siberia and the ultrasound woman might have come from there too and had the customer service warmth of an ice pick.  The dirty gowns were left all over the place in the changing room and the linens hadn’t been picked up in a day. When I walked out of the dark changing closet, more dirty linens were strewn along the hallway in large bags.   I stumbled into the machine room, led by a woman who I couldn’t understand and whose patient manner made me feel I was a burden for her to deal with, a bummer in a pale pink armless gown.  She barked her directions and when I begged for a blanket, begrudgingly handed it to me — mad that I had beaten the system.   I was convinced she was a dominatrix in radiologist’s clothing.  I hated the whole experience.  

When I got out and went back to put on my street clothes, a poor half-naked, also nervous-looking guy was waiting for this turn.  I took a look at his white pasty legs, with the hair already perked up on them from the cold air, and warned, “Ask for a blanket,” before I got the hell out of there.  I vowed to write a letter to the doctor who owned it, but forgot my venom until the bill arrived tonight.  

Finally, I decided to let Dr. Mink know the place has gone downhill.  I’ll be curious if he has the courage or chops to write or call me back.  Somehow I doubt customer service is high on his radar.  But I’m willing to be proven wrong.  Wouldn’t that be nice to feel as if I matter?