But there are those of us who live dangerously, and there you
are, at about 6 p.m., your dinner on the tray before you, and
your favorite doctor is suddenly there to chat for a bit about
your health. In your hand is the bottle, from which you have
poured a little libation. You look him in the eye: "Doc, could I
give you a bit of this? It's a little Medoc sent over by my
wife."
The doctor is in visible pain. He can be the Awful Avenger
("Mr. Buckley, we do not permit alcohol here") or, at the other
end, the Great Mediator ("It's not on the hospital menu, of
course, but" -- maybe a little wink here -- "we can't control
everything a patient does").
But you worry that you are embarrassing an official
representative of the hospital by requiring him to seek a balance
between his roles as institutional enforcer and as genial
caretaker of the health and comfort of his patient. The middle
road is to decline the proffered glass with a look on his face
that is neither reproachful nor indulgent. It is a look that says
to you: "Please do not continue on this subject. Let's get back
to your pneumonia."
(3) Scheduling. Even hospitals that manifestly care to be
reasonable manage to be unreasonable four or five times a day.
The principal offense, of course, has to do with scheduling. If
you are bent on discovering why it is necessary to be awakened at
6 a.m. when breakfast is not served until 8, the wisest thing to
do is: abandon intellectual curiosity. Say nothing. Submit. And,
at dinner time, toast silently all those nice people who care
about your health, with a glass of your Medoc.