It’s like I’m on the set of a police series. Is it CSI or SVU? I’ve never been good with acronyms. Two cops escort me while an attendant pushes my squeaking wheelchair through the gloomy hallways of Wyckoff Medical Center’s ER. A drunkard soliloquizes in Polish, a crumpled woman has a coughing fit, and a patient in pajamas stares into space and smiles.