After my many
encounters with the medical profession over the last couple of years, a medical
appointment makes me nervous. Today I had a 1:15 appointment for a follow-up
with the nephrologist. I knew ahead of time that the blood work looked good,
and I expected her to dismiss me—quickly.
Still, I never
settled down to any serious work all morning. I did odds and ends and spent too
much time on Facebook; I indulged in a luxurious reading of the newest issue of
Southern Living and found several
recipes I want to try—sautéed radishes with bacon and cilantro, for Christian
who loves radishes; I deconstructed some
boxes—I do wish Amazon would be more environmentally conscious with their
packaging. I ignored the unfinished food blog I drafted yesterday and the last
remaining bit of research material on the Alamo that called for one more
search. I was a dilletante.
Christian went
with me to the doctor’s office, and we arrived on time. I was seen quickly by
the nurse who took my blood pressure and weight and all that and assured me the
doctor would be right in, closed the door and left me in a sterile exam room.
No wifi, so I couldn’t even read emails or call up a book on my Kindle account.
I sat, alone with my thoughts, which grew grimmer by the minute. Out of
desperation, I scrolled through the pictures on my phone and did a bunch of
housecleaning—which later made Christian laugh.
Finally after an
hour, I ventured out to inquire and was told they were waiting for lab results.
A mix-up I was sure I had straightened out the day before and had left a
message to check on this morning—all, apparently, to no avail. I decided to sit
in the waiting room with Christian rather than alone in that blank room. After
a few minutes I volunteered that I had the lab results on my computer at home—how
about if I went home and called them in? I mean, this was getting ridiculous!
Finally, the
doctor got the results, talked with me, apologized profusely, said everything looked
fine—better even than the last visit, and she’d see me in six months. I was
aghast. “You mean I have to do this again?” She was a bit stiff when she said, “You
don’t have to. It’s up to you. You can follow up with your primary care
physician if you want.”
I’m not sure what
I want. But I do know that I came home, tried to nap and was too upset to
sleep, and have now wasted the rest of the day. Writing this blog is the only
constructive thing I’ve done all day.
I grew up in a
medical family and have been on the edge of the medical community all my life.
My father and my ex-husband were osteopathic physicians; my brother, nephew,
his wife, and a niece are physicians today. At fourteen I want to work in the
administrative offices of a hospital; between college and grad school, I was a pathology
secretary. It’s not that foreign a world to me, nor one that intimidates me. I know
that incidents like today shouldn’t happen, that medical practices can be run
more efficiently. I’m not casting blame here on either the primary care office,
where the blood work was done, or the specialist’s office. But I am saying
doctors need to pay more attention to the public relations side of their
practices.
I am becoming a
patient advocate, and first of all I’m advocating for me. Today reinforced my
refusal to be caught up in the medical machine. We definitely need an overhaul
of our patient care system—insurance yes, but patient care almost more
importantly.
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