The past week has been a rough one for this old bird. Not only did I come down with a strange case of what appears to be whooping cough, but I also had the misfortune of having to visit McKinley.

For those of you who haven’t realized it yet, McKinley is the Tiffani Amber Thiessen of hospitals. Sure it looks nice on the outside, but if you look a little closer you realize that it is cross-eyed and slightly deformed. And, oh yeah, it’s the center of hell.

The first thing you might notice about McKinley is its parking lot. And by parking lot I mean the 20 odd meters that line the building. Now what, you might ask, does one do if all the meters are taken – as they generally are, since apparently more than 20 people on this campus get sick at the same time? Hmm. Now I don’t major in math, but that seems like a dilemma that Dumbledore should have prepared for when planning the student hospital.

If you are fortunate enough to park your car, you then amble into the waiting room where you wait, and wait, generally until you die. For instance, last winter, after haphazardly diagnosing myself with some kind of tumor, I decided to get a second opinion. In triage, Radar made me fill out a form delineating my symptoms. Being an Honest Sue, even when I have diarrhea, I truthfully listed my ailments. Unfortunately, other students apparently exaggerated their symptoms, as Ms. Juicy Land who was casually flipping through a Mademoiselle and was seen before yours truly (even though I was curled up on the floor watching First Kid and silently sobbing).

After finally being seen by a nurse whose lipstick stained teeth had seen better days, I was sent home with penicillin and a note for class. Wow, thanks. But since it is now six o’ clock, I am pretty much done with class anyway. Which presents yet another problem with the old hospital: half of the kids in there just want a note to get out of their leisure studies discussion, and hence the real sick people are kept waiting because someone went to an “awesome mixer” and “totally had sex all night, man.”

Still, one does not know the horrors of McKinley until visiting the Women’s Health area. First of all, if you need to see someone right away and don’t have an appointment, you have to walk in before 2:30 p.m. Wow, it’s a good thing students are all out of class by that time. I mean, who are we to work these gynecologists and their nurses past their teatime?

If you are lucky enough to be seen, you are then commanded to fill out a four-page form with questions ranging from “When did you lose your virginity?” to “Do weight issues keep you from studying?” or “Did your great-grandpa have arthritis?” Even if you filled these forms out two months ago, they still need to be “updated.” Because, who knows, maybe your second cousin in Turkey got diagnosed with gout. I mean, that could really affect your refill of the Pill.

After this fiasco, you are taken by a surly nurse into a room reminiscent of the hospital room in The Outsiders. Here, you will most likely be commanded to do a pregnancy test. Oh, you’re only in here for cramps? You just have headaches? You have a heavy period? Hmm, sounds like you might be with child, you dirty girl. Pee in this little cup while I ignore you for the next 30 minutes.

As it is, McKinley needs some help. I mean, unless they get commissions for every pregnancy test they hand out, they should probably reevaluate their bedside manner. Even Frank Burns would be ashamed by the tudes of some of these caregivers.

And, oh yeah. The baby is due in October. Send your congratulations to the proud father, Jon Monteith!