Commuterrant

Medical Vortex of Insanity

Lately, my brain has had some space to remember to do many forgotten things. Like get a mammogram, which I was supposed to do in October. My doctor’s office had told me I could simply call the radiology provider and make an appointment. I called the radiology office in April and they said, “We’re booking for August.” Since I had recently found a lump, and also had a change in my family history, I wanted an appointment sooner. I told them this. However, the lump is not a big concern, as I’ve had these before and they’re usually nothing. They said, “You need to call your doctor and get a prescription.”

I called my doctor and explained the situation. “Yes, we’ll fax them something,” they said.

I called the radiology office back later. “We don’t have anything from your doctor…” I was getting increasingly frustrated and decided to try the “remain silent” tactic. I said nothing.

“Oh wait; there’s something coming through the fax now.” She put me on hold, and came back 14 hours later. “Yes, we have the prescription. We can give you an appointment in August.”

“Wait,” I said. “I was told that before, and thought I could get something sooner if I got a prescription.”

“No, we’re booking for August.”

“So why did I have to call my doctor?”

“We’re booking for August.”

"What's your favorite color?"

"We're booking for August."

I explained that I had been getting regular mammograms for years, that I had found a lump and had had a change in family history.

“Did you tell your doctor you have a lump? It doesn’t say that on the prescription. Your doctor will want you to come in so she can see you first.”

It must have slipped my mind to mention the lump to the doctor’s office, as I was so caught up in detailing my frustrations. I called the doctor’s office back and provided scintillating details about the lump. They asked me to come in that day.

My doctor saw me, and wrote a new prescription for a mammogram and ultrasound. I went downstairs to the radiology office. The woman behind the counter looked at the prescription and said, “We’re booking for August.”

What?

I said, “I came in to see my doctor so I could get something sooner! Why did I come in for this?” Suddenly, fourteen employees and technicians converged upon the front desk, as if they knew I was coming, remembering the raving madwoman who had called that morning. “No, no…” they all chanted. “August, August…we’re booking for August.” I had just wasted three hours of my and my doctor’s time. Why hadn’t they just told me: “No matter what you do, you will not get an appointment before August. Do not bother getting a prescription. Do not bother coming in. We’re booking for August…”

I was almost in tears. One woman said, “Let me see if we can get you in sooner…my schedule is in the back.” I followed her and we looked at a different, more special schedule. She said, “I can see you June 1st.” Unfortunately, I’m starting a new job that week and cannot be taking off for doctor’s appointments. I started to feel like I was being difficult, and resigned myself to an August appointment. I explained the about the new job and said, “I’ll just come in August,” and she said, “But we wouldn’t want you to wait that long.” I left.

You wouldn’t want me to wait. You sure have a funny way of showing it. Early detection and regular self-exams are critical. Know your body. But don’t try to get an appointment for a mammogram within the next four months. You’re shit out of luck.

Will Commute for Blog, Part 2

I landed a new job, thank goodness. Even better, I will still have the pleasure of commuting to work - but no more Green Line! I'll be taking the Red Line, just five short stops to Kendall Square. I'm sure I'll still have plenty of T-insanity to blog about, although I will miss the particular brand of insanity that only the Green Line can offer.

Until May 30, I am considering myself retired, as I left the old job last Friday. Retirement is not all it's cracked up to be. I have started having conversations with the dog, and am spending way too much money.

Au Bon Come-On

One day last week, I went to Au Bon Pain with a couple of colleagues. It being a beautiful Spring day, I was wearing a bright orange shirt from the Gap, circa 2004.

While waiting for my sandwich, a woman behind me, also waiting, strolled to and fro while singing opera. And boy, was she was singing. Her voice, while subdued appropriately for a lunch hour sandwich pick-up, had this resonant, rich, professional-opera-singer tone. She was singing snippets of Verdi's greatest hits. In Au Bon Pain.

Suddenly and apropos of nothing, she said to me, "I love your shirt; it's so pretty. You look like sherbet."

While I appreciated the fact that she pronounced sherbet correctly, it frightened me to be compared to an icy, sweet desert treat by a total stranger, and one singing opera at that. If she had said, "your shirt looks like sherbet" vs. "you look like sherbet," that may have ameliorated my concerns. But her tone was frightening; she sounded hungry.