My doctor’s office is a gloomy place. The walls are a depressing institutional green, and the one facing the entrance features the standard Norman Rockwell painting of a country physician. The frame is chipped, and the faded print has a layer of dust on it. The furniture looks like garage sale rejects, with torn vinyl and loose legs, and it’s not even as comfortable as a park bench. The magazines, Readers Digest and Newsweek, are out of date and so badly worn that reading them is nearly impossible. There used to be a pot of live flowers near the door, but it’s gone now. All that remains is an ugly water stain that has left a smelly, moldy ring in the corner. Adding the final touch is the usual, large group of sick people, coughing and moaning. The whole place makes a patient wonder if being ill at home isn’t better than being there.