Artwork by Natalie Dee.

It is probably just as well I did not have children.

Clinic Sunday

I hate being sick, and I usually deny it until feverish delirium sets in or I cannot travel beyond a 18" radius of the toilet. About half-way during "There Will Be Blood", I started shivering from the cold and as the credits were rolling, my friend looks at me askance and asserts that it isn't cold in the theatre. I figured all I needed was a restorative steaming and spicy bowl of pho, but but the time I got home and dug out my old-fashioned mercury filled thermometer, I had a 102.5 temperature. Anyway, I dragged my feverish ass to the urgent clinic this morning and got sent home with a heavy duty antibiotic. I was even offered cough syrup with coedine--which for some reason I declined. Now if there's such a thing as cough syrup with percocet...

Anyway, the real purpose here is to vent my frustrating encounter with my employer and health insurance provider. I arrive with a fever, horrible headache and ear aches, disturbing cough, and my throat so raw and tight I can barely speak above a whisper. It is a Sunday morning, and it is quite clear why I'm there. The nurse who checks me in does the requisite blood pressure, weight check, pulse and taking of the temperature. She then starts asking me when was the last time I had a pap smear and mammogram. Now, my employer and health care provider as spent over a BILLION dollars on an electronic medical record system, which I use myself on a daily basis to reference patient charts (I'm forbidden to access my own). But I knew that all this nurse had to do was hit a button and she could clearly see that I had a pap smear less than 3 months ago, and that I'm overdue for a mammogram. So I get a mini-lecture on the importance of mammography--how early detection can SAVE LIVES! Really? I'd never heard that! She seemed reassured that I do routine self-exams and am scheduled for a mammogram soon. All of this while I'm staring at her glassy-eyed and hacking up orange phlegm. She then notices my neck scar and asks about my thyroid. After I mention that she should be able to find my latest TSH levels under the flowsheet section of my chart, a light goes on in her head and she figures out I must be familiar with the system. What do I do? Well, I'm a social worker in palliative care. "I LOVE SOCIAL WORKERS" she gushes and goes on and on about how angelic we are to so unselfishly devote ourselves to the betterment of ALL MANKIND. All of this before I've been able to see the freakin' doctor--the one with the DRUGS. I don't remember if I said anything about the fact I'm an anti-social social worker or not, but she finally hustled out of there and finally saw the doctor, for whom I had to describe my symptoms and their onset for the THIRD damn time since I'd walked in the building.

So I'm sorry this is the first post after a rather long haitus, but I needed to post something new, and this is as good as it gets today.

Oh, and by the way--Daniel Day Lewis is beautiful and amazing.