Late one Friday afternoon in early January I was standing in line for the pharmacy at Stroger County Hospital when the man in front of me turned and asked if I’d heard what the pharmacy tech at the window had just said, that prescriptions couldn’t be picked up until Sunday. The man, who was Hispanic and in his 60s, looked alarmed and in slightly stiff English explained that his doctor had told him he had an infection deep in his ear, that he was lucky it hadn’t reached his brain, that it was important to start taking his medicine that night. The man was silent, then said softly, “I am too young to die.”
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The patient ahead of the man left the drop-off window, and he stepped up. The pharmacy tech took his prescription and started processing it.
“But the doctor said I need to take it right away.”
After he was gone I set my bag down so I could put on my sweater and coat and saw two women standing behind a counter. I asked them if there was an ombudsman or someone who filled that role in the hospital. They asked why I wanted to know. I told them what I’d just seen. Their eyes locked briefly, and they nodded. “Patient’s advocate,” one of them said. “Just to the right, then to the left.”
“The pharmacists are the ones in the back,” she went on, then asked if the patient was an emergency-room case.
I thanked her and left.
