Voice a complaint about the health system and without prompting you’re bound to get nods of agreement and a tale or two that is one better than the experience you just recounted. It seems like everyone has a story to add up to the conclusion that the system is broken.

Reflecting on more than  eight months of seeking to find answers to aches and pains, which has involved blood tests, x-rays, an ultra sound, physical therapy,  two MRIs , multiple prescriptions and a couple of surgeries, I can share the hopeless feeling of being lost at sea. Progress is measured in the tiniest of steps, such as being able to get a solid three hours of sleep. Meanwhile, steps back such as being unable to perform a simple exercise is mentally magnified to the point you imagine you’re headed for paralysis.

With its endless questionnaires even before talking with a doc, the initial reaction to the system is cold and impersonal.  You have the feeling it’s all fed into a computer - which of course it is-  run through some algorithm or immersed in artificial intelligence to come up with a diagnosis before it reaches a doctor. That can give a mindset the system is designed to be as efficient as possible, since we all have been told there’s an acute shortage of medical professionals, from nursing assistants to general practitioners and specialists of every kind. There’s little time for human interaction.

I found that to be a faulty conclusion on my first visit to the ambulatory surgical center at RI Hospital. For starters I was the second person in line at the registration desk, although I had passed a room filled with people who I was to later learn were waiting for a procedure. Would I be also be waiting and waiting?

When I arrived at the registration, I reached to get my drivers license and found it missing from my wallet. I knew from the instructions an ID was mandatory. Already I had stepped outside the boundaries. Would I have to call Carol to race back with my passport, or would the whole thing get put off indefinitely? The receptionists breezed over the omission asking me for my Social and home address. I was then directed to a second window that turned out to be the opposite side of the same office. There I answered questions about implants and prior medical procedures. There being no line, I asked my inquisitor if she knew the questions by heart. We made eye contact and we chatted a bit about Rhode Island and, of course, I had to ask if she had to cross the bridge to get to work. She continued with the questions but we had made a personal bridge.

Then came the unexpected. “Stick out your tongue,” she said.

“What?”

She repeated the request and moved closer to the glass separation to get a view of my mouth. Was she looking for coffee stains in violation of the pre-surgery fasting requirements?  I didn’t ask and she didn’t volunteer.

The final question, “would you mind if I took a photo to include with your medical record?”

That was fine with me. She arranged the computer so she could get the shot.

“Serious, or smiling?”

“I’ll smile,” I answered, “if you stick out your tongue.” She did.

The office burst into laugher. They got my smiley photo.

The incident put me in a good mood, which seemed contradictory to what I was about to go through.  It was not something I’d expected when so much of my time was focused on myself. I was wheeled to the next stop – a curtained cubical with a surgical bed - by a young man, a student at RIC. A nurse was at my side inserting and intravenous, another took my vitals. The lack of the westbound Washington Bridge was a great opener. We soon moved on to other topics, how we all seem to have a common friend – this is Rhode Island – and the Lego character hanging from a chain around her neck.

The charm, a tiny flashlight, had been made by her son.

My doc showed up, although I didn’t recognize him until he removed his cap and mask.

“You ready? “ I gave him a thumbs up. The nurse with the Lego charm wished me a speedy recovery. Less than an hour later, I was in recovery.

I can report my expectation of an instant rebound was misguided, but I can say my perception of a system driven by data and run by robots is faulty. Caregivers by nature are givers. Give them something in return – as simple as remembering their name – and you’ll find lots of heart to a system that often seems heartless.