Unwritten Rules

“How are you?

It’s a rule.  Leave an empty stall between you and the next person in a public bathroom.  Don’t double dip the Ruffles.  You have thirty seconds to pick up food from the floor before it becomes contaminated (this is known as the “30-second rule” and is widely thought to have originated with college students).  Calories don’t count if you eat standing up, and eating directly out of the ice cream box while standing up actually results in negative calories. And, at all costs, don’t talk to other patients in the waiting room of the doctor's office.  In fact, don’t even look at them. Your eyes will burn and you will go blind. You might pick up the cold to end all colds. Everyone knows these things. No one has to tell you. They’re the rules.

So when I heard someone behind me ask how I was doing as I waited for the receptionist in the doctor’s office to finish her phone call (how does she type with nails that long?) so she could take my co-pay, I was certain I hadn’t heard correctly. Are you new? Don’t you know that you’re not supposed to talk to other people in a doctor’s office? My heart beat faster. She can’t possibly be talking to me.

“Are you doing okay today?

Crap. She is talking to me. She should be averting her eyes and pretending she doesn’t see me. Why isn’t she staring with fascination at the abstract painting of…something abstract…on the wall? I don’t understand.

I turned slowly towards the woman, glaring at the receptionist in the process, who was watching with undisguised curiosity as her fingers continued to fly over the keyboard (how does she do that?) and she held what appeared to be quite an animated phone conversation. Clearly, I was on my own here.

“Oh,” I replied, carefully arranging a puzzled look on my face, “Fine, thanks.”  Anyone with any sense would hear “I can’t imagine why you’re asking.  Be gone with you.” I wished I could add the visual effect of waving my fingers like I’m trying to brush her away, but it seemed an unnecessary embellishment to what should be a pretty obvious dismissal.

But I’d forgotten that this woman clearly didn’t know the unwritten rules and was, evidently, not the sharpest tool in the shed anyway. Or maybe she was just persistent. Either way, she was not to be deterred.

“Oh, okay." She was unconvinced. Her dark brown curls bounced as she cocked her head to the side and peered at me from behind her big, round glasses.  She seemed rather ordinary, normal even, so I didn’t know why her upbringing had not included an introduction to the unwritten rules. She must have been neglected as a child. Raised by a Honduran nanny, maybe.

The receptionist had now finished her phone call and glanced at the woman a little uneasily before taking my credit card. Do they train doctor’s receptionists on how to recognize crazy? Was this woman unstable? I remember practicing in school for emergencies with fire drills, tornado drills, even bomb threat drills, but I don’t think we had crazy drills. However, I breathed a sigh of relief that I could now turn away from Crazy Lady and back to the receptionist.  Surely this would make her take the hint.

Disappointed, Crazy Lady struggled to accept the inattention. “So, which doctor do you see?” Are you kidding me? What have I done to give you the impression that I want to chat? I signed my credit card slip and closed my eyes.  Maybe if I couldn’t see Crazy Lady, she wouldn’t be able to see me.  Or she would disappear by the time I opened my eyes.

“Who's your doctor?” she repeated.  My God, this woman just wouldn’t give up. Did she think I just hadn’t heard her the first time? Obviously, this was going to require a different approach.  I didn’t have time for etiquette lessons. I looked pointedly at the receptionist (possibly she keeps her nails this long in case she needs them as weapons against patients like Crazy Lady) and began to discuss how to get my lab results with the importance with which one might discuss the next presidential election. Or AIDS research. Or nuclear war.

This did not go over well with Crazy Lady. “Oh, I see, you don’t want to tell me.”  She stares down at the floor for a few seconds. NOW she gets a clue. But I’ve hurt her feelings in the process. Why is this bothering me? I didn’t do anything. Except upset what is probably a very nice lady who is more than a little bit crackers. That can’t be a good way to go. Bad karma. Crazy lady, probably already on the verge of a psychotic break, paused to consider her next question. 

The receptionist, with the speed usually found only in turtles, handed me the card with the lab's web site address. She was no doubt enjoying this exchange. Probably saw it two or three times a day. So how come she couldn’t jump in and save me? Did I mention that I don't understand?

Crazy Lady took one last shot. “So, are the doctors here better with men or women?” What? What kind of question is that? I just moved here and was only here long enough to get some blood taken. How would I know? Wait, maybe she’s not asking me. Of course.  She must be asking the increasingly amused receptionist. But no, I discovered, glancing over to my left, she was still looking at me.  I looked back at the receptionist, eye to eye, mentally arm wrestling for the responsibility of having to respond to Crazy Lady. She held my gaze, slowly pushing my imaginary arm down further. I lost.

I tucked my appointment card into my purse. “I imagine it depends on who you see” I suggested brightly, zipping my purse and throwing one last plea for help back at the receptionist. When did it get to be my responsibility to train others in the unwritten rules? Not my pig, not my farm. 

Crazy Lady, a little unsure as to what to do with this response, stood quietly, waiting for more.  I smiled tightly as I began to walk out of the office.  Her education was complete.