March 16, 2010
PART 1: Ticket Number 36
There is something wrong with me. It's taken six long months to figure that mystery out, but there is something wrong with me. My family and friends might tell you that they knew along something was wrong with me, but as far as this blog is concerned, I am referring to a medical problem. But I'll get into that in a minute...or I guess...in as long as it takes you to read. I'm certainly in no way imposing some sort of time limit on this. This isn't the SAT's. It's just my blog.
Yes. Sadly. There is something wrong with me. I knew that 6 months ago when the migraine I was suffering from didn't go away. I knew something was wrong with me when my vision blurred and I stuttered when I spoke.
What I didn't know was that it was going to take six months to figure out exactly what the something was. And sadly, as of today's date, March 16, 2010, I only know part of what is wrong with me. The other shoe hasn't dropped yet. It's the season finale of CSI: Miami and I won't know if Horatio is dead until next season. Gripping and dramatic for television, but when you're living the story in real life, it sucks. Sort of like David Caruso's voice in the above mentioned series. (Seriously Dave, did you and Christian Bale go to the same acting school? Gravelly doesn't say you're tough. It just means you need a lozenge)
So you probably have guessed my dilemma. Yep. You got it. I'm playing the waiting game. Which is not as fun as The Dating Game but not nearly as scary as The Crying Game. Although, if it is revealed, after all of this is over, that I have a penis and was secretly a man, honestly, I won't be that upset. Oh. My bad. *Crying Game SPOILER ALERT.*
So, it appears I am a victim of The American Health Care System right now. I am a victim of having no health insurance. And when you are in that position, you eventually find yourself in another position. One which involves you bending over while someone applies K-Y jelly to their gloved fingers.
When you have no health insurance, I have found, you are pretty much screwed.
Basically, you are assigned a doctor and you have no say in the matter. You have no choice in the matter. You are given no one's credentials. You're given a name and a number. You show up for an appointment. And you pray, the entire time, that your doctor is the pick of the litter. You pray that he looks like George Clooney, has a sense of humor, and will heal you with a touch of his hand. And you pray, over and over, that he or she, is good.
I'm not going to say that I was assigned a bad doctor, but if this guy was arrested some time down the road for illegal experiments on the homeless, let's just say I wouldn't be surprised.
I've always said, in regards to the medical profession, that when a class of 1200 graduates, someone graduates 1200th. And that moron, Number 1200, is out there practicing medicine. More than likely out of the trunk of his car in the parking lot of carnivals, but none-the-less practicing medicine.
I have no evidence that the doctor who was assigned to me graduated last in his class. I also have no evidence that he graduated at all. As far as I know, he draw a picture of a Skippy the Squirrel from the back of a matchbook, paid seventy-five dollars, and got a license in the mail six to eight weeks later.
My doctor, and I will now refer to him as Dr. Burns or Frank, from the television show M.A.S.H., is one the least compassionate people I have ever met in my life. His bed-side manner is horrible, if it exists at all. He is an escapee from DisneyWorld's Hall of Jerks, just going through the motions he was built to perform. I'm sure that if if I put the tip of a screwdriver under his chin, his face plate would pop right off and I could see a tired little squirrel limping along on a treadmill.
And I find myself asking, as I stare into Frank's blank, why-are-you-bothering-me? stare, "Where is the kindly doctor I have seen all my life? Where is Marcus Welby? Where is "Hawkeye" Pierce? Where is Dr. Greene from ER? Where is Jack from LOST?"
Okay. That last one was a bad example. Jack is still on the island...or not...who knows? Damn. There's one more question I'll have to wait to be answered.
I'd even put up with House's bullshit right now. Sure the guy is a dick, but he knows his stuff and always comes up with a diagnosis right before the last commercial in the last three minutes of the show.
The point is that we all have an image of what our doctor should look like...and act like. Sure it's unrealistic, but we're only human. And we're not always rational. Especially when we are sick. And when we're sick, we want someone to take care of us. If it's a cold or flu, we want mommy. I don't care how old you are, when you have a cold, you want it to be just like when you were five and mommy was taking care of you. Chicken and stars. Not just chicken soup. Chicken and stars with goldfish crackers. That's something only a mommy does. Because she cares. Mommy knows it's PUFFS for a runny nose and nothing else. She knows to bring you your favorite pillow or woobie...I mean blanket. Mommy made it all better when you were five. There's nothing wrong for wishing for that kind of compassion and concern and loving attention when you are sick as an adult.
Going on-line to craigslist.com to find a mommy is a completely different story however.
Sadly, when you are really sick and have to go to a doctor, the chances of getting that kind of attention are astronomical. You'd have a better chance of getting on American Idol and winning the show while only singing Vanilla Ice Songs.
My doctor is no doctor you would see on television, unless, that is, 20/20 was doing an investigative report on doctors who suck. Frank is a blank-faced, emotionless drone who is only seeing me because his name and my name were pulled out of the financial aid Bingo hopper. He doesn't know who I am. He doesn't care who I am.
The current Health Care System in this country has turned his office into a delicatessan and I'm the tall guy holding Ticket Number 36.
"NEXT! NUMBER 36!"
"Yep! That would be me," I'd shout, waving my ticket with the number 36 in bold, block letters, "That's me."
"So.What is it you want?," he asks in a tone that suggests I've either interrupted his nap or the money shot in the on-line porn he was watching.
"I'd like to know why I've had a headache for 6 months. I want to know why I'm losing the feeling in my hands and arms and why I can't turn my head. I'd like to know why I'm in constant pain. And while you're at it, I'd like a pound and a half of thinly sliced corned beef."
and that's Jody with a "y"