HCA Northwest: Please Find an Adult
September 3, 2026 — The Continuing Adventures of Mr. Germlin
After more than a week of prescription nonsense, multiple grievances, written follow-ups, Walgreens, the VA, phone calls, transfers, contradictory instructions, and enough administrative ping-pong to qualify as an Olympic event, Mr. Germlin decided to attempt something dangerously ambitious:
Call HCA Northwest and ask about the grievance.
Not the prescriptions.
Not Walgreens.
Not another expedition through the Emergency Department.
The grievance.
Surely there was an adult somewhere in the building whose job involved grievances.
So Mr. Germlin called.
The operator answered.
“Hello. Can you transfer me to the Facility Patient Advocate regarding an existing formal grievance?”
There was confusion.
Mr. Germlin tried again.
“I'm looking for the Facility Patient Advocate regarding an existing formal grievance.”
More confusion.
Apparently, somewhere inside HCA Northwest, the position of Facility Patient Advocate had become an ancient profession lost alongside Roman concrete, Greek fire, and the complete works of the Library of Alexandria.
The operator didn't seem to know who Mr. Germlin wanted.
He didn't seem to know where Mr. Germlin should go.
And Mr. Germlin had already spent more than a week participating in:
HCA: Transfer Mr. Germlin Around the Hospital Simulator 2026
The gameplay loop was becoming repetitive.
CALL HCA.
EXPLAIN PROBLEM.
GET TRANSFERRED.
EXPLAIN PROBLEM AGAIN.
DISCOVER NEW PERSON HAS DIFFERENT RULES.
RETURN TO TITLE SCREEN.
Mr. Germlin was no longer interested in unlocking the secret ending.
So he simplified the request.
Forget the exact title.
Forget the department.
Forget whatever organizational chart was currently being guarded by the Knights Templar.
Find an adult.
“Then transfer me to anyone who is high enough… because I put a grievance in not once, not twice, but three times.”
The operator continued attempting to navigate whatever administrative labyrinth HCA had provided him.
And then—
Corporate Mr. Germlin suffered a brief systems failure.
“Do your job.”
Somewhere deep inside Mr. Germlin's operating system, several warning lights immediately illuminated.
PROFESSIONALISM.EXE HAS STOPPED RESPONDING
Jerry slowly lowered his newspaper.
Sir.
Mr. Germlin apparently reconsidered the wording.
“Do your job, please.”
Ah.
There we go.
Manners restored.
And because apparently the word please wasn't enough to repair the preceding diplomatic incident:
“Thank you very much.”
Jerry stared across the room.
Sir.
You cannot simply attach “please” and “thank you very much” to “DO YOUR JOB” and expect Human Resources to consider the preceding event erased.
Mr. Germlin disagreed.
The sentence now contained manners.
Therefore it was professional.
DO YOUR JOB.
❌ Hostile.
DO YOUR JOB, PLEASE.
✅ Business casual.
DO YOUR JOB, PLEASE. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
🎩 Executive correspondence.
And then something miraculous happened.
The transfer button—previously believed by modern science to be purely theoretical—was discovered.
Mr. Germlin was transferred.
A recorded voice emerged from the telephone.
CASE MANAGEMENT.
Jerry's ears perked up.
Holy shit.
A department.
Not “somebody in the Emergency Department.”
Not “try Walgreens.”
Not “call the VA.”
Not “call HCA.”
Not “the person who handles that isn't here.”
An actual department with a name.
🎺 ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: PLEASE FIND AN ADULT 🎺
The automated system announced that Mr. Germlin had reached the Case Management Department at HCA Northwest.
It even provided office hours.
Monday through Friday.
8:00 AM to 4:30 PM.
There were instructions for reaching a case manager.
There was a voicemail system.
There was structure.
Jerry wiped away a tear.
Sir, I think we've found civilization.
Unfortunately, civilization had gone to voicemail.
Fine.
Mr. Germlin had prepared for this.
The raccoon had a script.
The tone changed immediately.
No more DO YOUR JOB.
No more operator archaeology.
No more administrative dungeon crawling.
Boring Patient Mode activated.
Mr. Germlin identified himself and explained that he needed to speak with the Facility Patient Advocate regarding an existing formal patient grievance.
The grievance concerned unresolved discharge prescriptions following his August 24 discharge.
He explained that he had submitted the original grievance and several written follow-ups, including another follow-up that very day, September 3.
Then came perhaps the most important sentence of the entire voicemail:
“I'm not calling the Emergency Department again to troubleshoot the prescriptions. I'm calling specifically about the grievance process.”
Jerry slowly began applauding.
Yes.
YES.
We have completed that quest.
We have explored that dungeon.
We have spoken to those NPCs.
We have exhausted the Emergency Department dialogue tree.
Mr. Germlin was not calling to restart Prescription Telephone Tennis.
He wanted three things.
Confirmation that his submissions had actually been received and associated with the same grievance.
Identification of who—or what department—currently owned the grievance.
And an answer regarding when he should expect HCA's written response.
Beautiful.
Simple.
Boring.
Documentable.
The boring patient does not write fan fiction.
The boring patient asks questions that can eventually be answered with names, departments, dates, and paperwork.
Mr. Germlin then provided his contact information.
This should have been the uneventful conclusion to the voicemail.
Unfortunately, Mr. Germlin's brain briefly forgot how telephone numbers worked.
There was a pause.
And then, for reasons historians may never completely understand:
“When you remember your phone number, it's kind of like trying to limit your subscription.”
Jerry stopped writing.
Slowly, he looked up.
What?
Mr. Germlin continued.
“Anyways, moving on.”
Jerry removed his glasses.
No, sir.
We are not “moving on.”
What the fuck did that mean?
Nobody knew.
Mr. Germlin didn't know.
Case Management certainly didn't know.
Somewhere, an unsuspecting HCA employee would eventually retrieve this voicemail and encounter a perfectly coherent grievance-status request interrupted by approximately four seconds of a man apparently comparing his own telephone number to canceling Netflix.
There would be no explanation.
There could be no explanation.
The raccoon simply continued.
Mr. Germlin requested that somebody follow up with him as soon as possible.
He thanked them.
And the call ended.
Jerry sat silently for several seconds.
More than a week of administrative nonsense had finally produced a strangely respectable outcome.
The prescriptions themselves still weren't resolved, but the VA had provided an actual next step: bring the discharge paperwork in person the following morning so the medications could be reviewed.
HCA's prescription troubleshooting loop had been separated from HCA's grievance process.
A fresh written grievance follow-up had already been submitted.
And now Case Management had a voicemail specifically asking:
Did you receive the grievance?
Who owns it?
When are you responding?
Those were questions with answers.
At least theoretically.
Jerry folded his newspaper.
So what did we learn today, sir?
Mr. Germlin considered this.
Perhaps persistence matters.
Perhaps documentation matters.
Perhaps after enough transfers, somebody eventually discovers the correct department.
Perhaps professionalism is not a binary state but a sliding scale upon which “Do your job” can somehow be upgraded by installing the Please & Thank You Expansion Pack.
Or perhaps the lesson was considerably simpler:
When you've submitted the grievance repeatedly, spent more than a week getting bounced between institutions, and the operator still doesn't know where the Facility Patient Advocate lives—
sometimes you don't need another explanation.
Sometimes you just need somebody to:
DO YOUR JOB.
...
please.
...
Thank you very much.
🦝📞
Jerry's Marginalia
The boring patient does not write fan fiction.
But occasionally, Mr. Germlin provides his own dialogue.
And somewhere inside HCA Northwest, there is now a confidential voicemail containing the phrase:
“When you remember your phone number, it's kind of like trying to limit your subscription.”
No context will be provided.
Anyways, moving on.