I hate the medical profession. Every fricking year, I go to my General Practitioner (Dr. Death) and she runs every lab test on Planet Earth. For the past three years, I have then gotten a message from her office (generally on a Friday afternoon so I have the weekend to fret) telling me she wants me to call and make an appointment because she is concerned about some of my test results. This usually results in my rearranging my work schedule, going back in, redoing lab tests, getting the same results, getting sent to specialists, rearranging my work schedule to get to the specialists, then having the specialists tell me there is nothing wrong with me.
Every frickin' year.
This year, I got a dirty specimen and now she has me going to a urologist who has ordered a CT scan, more lab work and expects to perform some diabolical procedure under local anesthetic in his office. I assume the procedure will take place in the same room in which he has the Viagra scale model of male genitalia. I ran an internet search of that particular procedure and read a ton of horror stories from women who will never be the same after that ordeal. He admits he doesn't expect to find anything. If he is looking for a prostate, he may be right.
I scheduled the CT scan last week (for today) and immediately let his office know they had to get the authorization code to the hospital. They didn't get around to it for 24 hours. Accordingly, the authorization code was not obtained and the CT scan had to be rescheduled (which involves taking more time off - and since I am self employed, when I don't work I don't get paid).
While I was still steaming, I got another call from the General Practitioner. The nurse announced that my liver enzymes are off the charts and the GP wants me to come in to discuss it.
"That is what she said, last year," I told the nurse. "I went to a liver specialist. He said I was fine."
"This year, the numbers are even higher," sez the nurse, "LOT's higher!." (Last year, she made it sound as if the numbers were so high it was a wonder I was still walking around upright.)
So I asked her to fax the lab results to the liver specialist, then called the liver specialist to ask him to look at them and see if I needed to come in. The liver specialist called later to see if I had copies of the lab results because the new girl accidentally reused the fax paper that the lab results were on and now they can't read them.
Grrr. Of course I don't have them!!
Got a second call from the General Practitioner. The nurse announced that my cholesterol is too high and the GP wants me to come in to discuss.
"High high is it?" I ask.
"228," responds the nurse.
"It is always 228," I tell her. "And when they do the whole fasting test, it always comes back that I have fabulous "good" cholesterol and am in good shape on that front."
"She still wants to see you," says the nurse.
I think the woman has a frickin crush on me.
"Did you get the culture back on that bad specimen?" I ask (the one that resulted in me having to get a frickin' CT scan, see a specialist who apparently specializes in men, and who may do a frickin' procedure on me in his office).
"Nope!" sez the nurse, "We didn't culture it." [and I am thinking - You didn't even culture the thing to see if I have a UTI or something?????? - you measure everything ELSE!! I'm getting a CT scan and a procedure for the love of god!]
Breathe, Penny. Breathe...
"Is the pap back?" I ask.
"Let's wait until the pap comes back and see if she wants to discuss that, too."
"Okay!" chirps the nurse.
Between you and me, I have no intention of going back in. If I find myself in agony, bleeding profusely or on fire, I will trot myself down to the emergency room and hang out with the indigents. It would take less of my time. If I wait until it is a true emergency, the insurance may even kick in.