Getting disability by threatening a bullet in the head

“Tell Dr. Rosedale next time I see him walkin’ cross the parkin’ lot, he’s gonna get a bullet in his damn head,” said a voice on the phone at the medical clinic in Oakland, California.

The medical assistant taking the call panicked. ”Who is this? What are you saying?” she said. She spun around in her chair to look for a supervisor or anyone who could take over.

“Never mind who it is! Shit, just tell ‘him he done somebody wrong.”  The voiced hung up.

His search for Enlightenment over, Brad believed his spiritual awakening made his life’s mission secure. All he had to do was go to work and do his job, and it would make a positive impact on everybody he met. Now, his plans were getting a shake-up.  That evening he received a call.

“Brad this is Rick Short, we need to talk.” Rick was the regional medical director of 25 clinics around Northern California.  “Somebody called today and threatened to shoot you in the head.  I need you to meet me in the clinic so we can figure this out. What’s your schedule?”

Brad’s brain froze as if it was anticipating the bullet. He tried to think. “Nothing was unusual at the clinic today…but I did have a problem with a patient last week.”

“What was the problem? Do you remember the name?”

“The guy started banging a wastebasket against the wall, screaming that he was in too much pain to go to work.  I was able to duck around him and get through the door without getting hit. I can find his name if I look through the charts from that day.”

“I don’t think that’s your guy,” said that Director.  “If he acted out like that, he wouldn’t call a week later with a death threat. That gentleman probably just went to another doctor. “ Brad grimaced at the use of gentleman, but he knew Rick had to play the role of director.  “Meet me in Oakland first thing in the morning, at 7 am?”

“I’ll be there,” said Brad.  He hung up, and walked around his apartment, swinging his arms like he was warming up for a gymnastics event. A death threat! Somebody wanted to shoot him. Could be a patient who didn’t get the kind of disability rating he felt he deserved. A hard drink would take the edge off, but he found a movie instead and managed to keep his mind off the death threat.

The next morning, he parked in front of a restaurant two blocks from the clinic, rolled the window down so he could listen to the street noise, and scanned the area. There was a smell of fresh donuts, and the sound of passing cars made a steady rhythm.

Brad worked the trash can scene over in his mind and tried to connect the dots. For a doctor, few things held more potential danger than stopping a patient’s disability payments. Cases of “going postal” when disgruntled employees showed up at work with a gun, were well known. At least he had been warned. Thinking twice about getting out of his car to walk to the clinic, he called on his cell phone.

“Good morning, Dr. Rosedale here, is Dr. Short there?”

“Hey Brad, where are ya?” came Rick’s reply moments later.

“I’m in my car in front of the Black Bear Diner.”

“Hang on, I’ll send security right over.”

In minutes, a guy in a uniform came running over, and Brad opened his door.

“Wait, doctor! Please stay in your car!” The guard was almost as big as that trash can banger, Afro-American, and with a sense of humor.

“We gotta take this shit seriously in Oakland, doc. Go ahead and drive me around to the clinic,” he said. “This makes my day, helping out a doctor who got a death threat! This shit is excitin,’ I’m all over it. I’m Jerry, by the way.” The guard was heavily muscled and flashed a gold tooth when he grinned.

Brad followed the protocol. Jerry’s enthusiasm made him relax a little. “I’m glad you’re here, officer. I don’t want to go down from a bullet.”

He met with Rick, and they went through a pile of charts and found a suspect. Then Rick blamed it on Brad. “You can’t argue with an injured worker. They have rights, and you don’t. You’re not the judge and the jury, you’re just a doctor. If there’s anything I’ve learned in playing this game, it’s that it’s not worth your safety to impose what you think is justice on somebody. Just do your job, doctor.”

Brad burned. What the hell? he thought. It wasn’t even worth a reply. “I’m going to see my patients,” he said. Then he turned his back and walked out, leaving Rick to crawl back into whatever hole he had come out of.

For the next two weeks, he arrived in the parking lot and waited for Jerry to escort him into the clinic.  No action was taken to find the suspect. The doctor who was trying to do the right thing gave in to the pressure and lowered the bar on giving out disability benefits. Angry patients could get what they wanted.

Brad Rosedale M.D. was getting introduced to the corrupt nature of healthcare in America.