Not exactly the conversation I just had:
"Oh, it's you! I recognize you! Why do I recognize you? And why do I recognize you and feel an instant revulsion?"
"Doctor, remember me? My mother was your patient!"
"Yes, that's why I remember you! Oh no! You're terrible!"
"I was sure your mother would be dead by now."
"Nope, she's not!"
"Well, as long as I'm not her doctor again--"
"They told me you're going to be her doctor again!"
"Does that window open? It doesn't? Oh no."
"She's doing really well."
"That's her, on the ventilator, with the PEG tube and the implanted defibrillator, right?"
"Yes, can't you see her spirit shining through?"
"We want to do everything we can to preserve her quality of life."
"And anything medical that comes up-- remember from last time-- we need unanimous consensus from all seven siblings, and we'll need you to make those calls. Here's the list again."
"We've also added two more names to the list. She made some good friends in the nursing home we want to keep updated on her condition."
"You're going to have to make these calls-- I really don't have the time. We will do everything we can for your mother, but she's the patient, not you and your six siblings, two nursing home friends, and the homeless guy you picked up on the way in."
"Oh, I can't. I have a job. And I have to go there now. Goodbye."
"Your mother is still in the hall, waiting for a room."
"Yeah, I'll be back tomorrow to find her. I'll get your cell number from the nurse's station and call you fourteen times in the middle of the night if I have any questions. Bye."
"Also, I'll need you to fax all of her results to these six numbers every day, and call to confirm the faxes went through."
"Who are these people?"
"Four of her doctors and two family friends who are good on the Internet. They'll be consulting on her care. But I can't talk anymore. I'm really leaving now."
"Oh, wait, first I'm going to accidentally unplug all of her wires. Alarms are ringing? Oops! Was that me? Gotta go!"