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“Thank you ma’am,” the uniformed young man nodded at my military ID. The Naval Health Clinic was a ghost town. I spied only one other patient, a young OCS trainee in khakis waiting at the pharmacy.
Down the empty hall, I presented my ID at the patient check-in desk, glad to see the receptionist who always reminds me that kindness makes the world a better place.
“Uh-oh, two minutes late for my appointment,” I admitted.
“Oh, that’s fine, my dear,” she replied with a thick Rhode Island accent.
I hustled past deserted Immunizations to Family Medicine. Two young men in uniform sat behind an enormous U-shaped desk between two large waiting areas, each with a door leading to examining rooms and staff offices. Other than the three of us, there wasn’t a soul to be seen.
I’d just taken my seat when a corpsman in fatigues called my name, leading me through the door and past empty examining rooms and offices. She took my blood pressure and asked the usual questions. Full name and birthdate. Problem being seen for: high blood pressure. Height, five-foot-four. Weight … no need to bore anyone with more details.
“The doctor will see you shortly,” she said before closing the exam room door. Almost instantly there was a knock.
“Come in!” I yelped, fumbling for the blood pressure log and list of four health concerns I’d brought with me. Although I’d been coming to this Naval Health Clinic since my family moved here in 2013, I’d only seen this provider once, after she was assigned to me in 2025. My doctor had changed so many times over the years as providers came and went, I’d stopped memorizing their names.
“Good morning, Mrs. Molinari. Do you take any medications?” she asked with minimal eye contact. She had no records except a one-page form and my blood pressure log. She scribbled on the form, then took a quick listen to my heart and thumped a few times on my torso. Apparently, everything was fine, because it was over in a flash.
“The diastolic number is still too high, so I recommend a combination medication,” she said without looking up from her paper. Her instructions were so rapid-fire, I had trouble processing what she was saying before she moved on. I tried to ask questions, but she interjected, repeating rote what she’d previously said as if in a rush.
“Can I ask about my,” I started, wanting her take on the nagging shoulder pain I’d had for almost three years, but she interrupted and handed me the form on which she’d been scribbling. I knew she wouldn’t allow me to go over my four health concerns. I’d need to call for another appointment, and even then, I’d have to wait another month because the schedule was so backed up.
But one issue was too important. “My hands have been shaking a lot lately,” I blurted, and the doctor turned to look at me. I held my trembling hands out for her to see.
“Yes, I see. That’s neurology. I’ll authorize a referral,” she said, and scribbled again. No time for questions, no time for answers. She handed me the paper and I was on my way.
While grumbling in the pharmacy waiting area about why I was rushed through my appointment in a virtually empty health clinic, I noticed an Interactive Customer Evaluation comment QR code at the bottom of the doctor’s paper, which I’d never submitted before. I opened the link on my phone and began typing.
The comment space allowed for up to 4,000 characters, so I relayed the whole story about my five-minute appointment in a clinic with very few patients. I described how my doctor seemed rushed and unwilling to allow adequate time for patient questions and concerns.
When finished, I clicked “Submit.”
“Improper Submission!” the screen read. “You are receiving this error because the form you submitted was timed out. Please go to ICE and enter your suggestion again. We apologize for the inconvenience …” I should’ve known. They have no time for my questions or concerns, and clearly they have no time for my complaint, either.
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
