|
|
Situation Report (April 8, 2002)Dear Sons, Daughters, Pseudo-Daughters, Cousins, Friends, Romans, and Countrymen: It has always been my intent to grow old gracefully. Reading glasses, wrinkles, graying hair, "liver spots," creaking joints, and Viagra just seem like the steps in becoming a "seasoned citizen." Then, up from the abyss pops some out-of-work prankster like Loki, Til Eulenspiegl, or Kokopeli. BIFF! BAM! ALAKAZAM! Suddenly I'm a bleeding heart liberal screaming for the "Patient's Bill Of Rights." It started a couple of months ago with a sore hip. No biggie. It's happened before. Only as time went on, the pain started bouncing up and down between my left hip and my left foot. Then my left leg got weaker and weaker. As a fully vested retiree of a company that I never worked for (Agilent Technologies) I am granted the joy of seeking out new medical connections every time some Junior Assistant Kleagle in Retiree's Benefits fails to get his kickback from his "HMO of the Week." Beginning January 1, 2002 I ceased to be insured by LifeGuard and became a ward of First Health. (Sally remains on LifeGuard because the Hewlett-Packard Kleagle got her payola.) Uff dah! On the last day of open enrollment in November, First Health still had NO idea of who their preferred providers were going to be in the Sacramento area. Finally, as the pain was becoming a real challenge, a day's research disclosed that my 2001 doctor could still be my 2002 doctor. I called for an appointment. "Have you quit breathing yet?" "No." "OK, we can get you in next Thursday, March 21st. (Not bad for California, only a six day wait.) When I called, I was only having pain. By the 21st, there was serious weakness with lots of limping and a few falls. "Oh! You have a swollen calf." "N-S Sherlock!" "We should get the inflammation down. Here's a 16 day supply of VIOXX. Call afterward if it's still a problem." On March 27th I decided to try a pity-party. "OK, we can squeeze you in tomorrow afternoon at 4:30." "Howzbout something diagnostic?" saith I. Quothe the Doctor, "MRI." "Of course, there will be a wait." Not bad. In at 7:00 a.m. on April 2nd. Due to the high cost of records keeping, the films now go home with the patient. I asked if I should take them in to my doctor's. "No, we'll fax the radiologist's report to your doctor and he will call you." Oops, the fax forgot to send itself. Friday, April 5th, I spend a couple of hours coordinating the information transfer between two organizations which claim to be professional. Finally, "No problem found." "Mais non, Madame! I'm really in trouble and WebMD says that if I don't get something done PDQ, my left leg will possess only a decorative function. Howzbout a heroic injection of cortisone?" "Great idea!" That's done over in "imaging" at the hospital. I'll call and get you an appointment." That was last Friday. Today is Monday. She just called back. My "epidural" appointment is for April 16th, a mere 8 days away. And they give me a fifty percent chance that it will do any good. Gee, only 8 more days to a fifty percent chance of getting a night's sleep. Merde! But I got over a bit of my frustration by taking matters into my own hands and requesting a referral to a neurologist. Three more weeks to get to see him. Double merde! So, as I type these words I sit in "Pink Floyd," Sally's fold-up wheelchair. A fine device. Except that it's pink. Real men don't ride pink. Better than her other chair "Barney" I suppose. Real men don't ride purple, either. Maybe I can fudge a bit and tell people the Floyd is really "faded salmon." In the meantime, I'm getting the hang of living life in the short lane. Certainly makes one plan one's activities. Here's lookin' up atcha! Kent Simcoe *********************** The message above is intended to inform and amuse. IT IS NOT A PITY APPEAL. However, if any portion of the story strikes a resonant chord, please feel free to grab a bunch of Voodoo dolls and make a novena on our behalf. |