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2006-12-06 - 1:06 p.m. Risky Business or “If it involves a doctor grab your ass and run like hell!” Anyone who knows me is aware of my abiding dislike—and distrust—of the medical profession. My philosophy: If it’s broke, fix it yourself, sort of a “patient heal thy self” approach. And, by gawd, if it ain’t broke, stay the hell away from doctors and medical facilities. I’ve got a little problem with high cholesterol which requires I go in occasionally and have blood drawn. Although I’m petrified of needles, am overcome with the St. Vitus’s Dance and pass out every time the nurse fires up her jack hammer to ram the needle to the bone, I do keep a semi-regular appointment for blood tests. I was way beyond my due date for a blood draw, so Monday I made myself go and endure the intolerable cruelty. I’d like to say the following is a replay of an intelligent and enlightening conversation I had with my health care provider. However, since it was a conversation with the morons working in the American medical profession, it’s anything but intelligent or enlightening. I survived the intolerable cruelty only slightly damaged, and following the torture the nurse told me to go wait in the outer room. “Why?” “So you can see doctor.” “I only came for the test, I didn’t make a doctor’s appointment.” This unexpected development was all it took to alert my little hate-doctors demon. He was immediately suspicious and prepared himself for battle. “The doctor will want to see you.” I knew the doctor was not in the building yet, but I decided I would give it a few minutes. After 20 minutes—and still no doctor in the office—I got up, put my coat on and told the receptionist I was leaving. “Y’all can call me if you determine I’m dying of some freak disease.” Mid-afternoon Tuesday my secretary put a call-back memo on my desk. My doctor wanted me to call him. Ah shit, they had found a freak disease. I wasted no time calling back. The phone is picked up, but instead of a professional greeting, all I hear is laughing. Finally, the receptionist gets control of herself: “Doctor John Spark’s office.” I give her my name and she puts me on hold. My heart is racing. I stay on hold. I’ve got cancer. Still on hold. I’ll demand an appointment at Mayo Clinic. By the time the receptionist comes back on the line I have played through every terminal illness I can think of. “What’d you need?” What the hell? “You called me. What’d you want?” “I called you?” Oh, Christ! “Someone in your office did.” (To someone else in the office) “Did we call Jean?” Mumbling in the background, then she directs her conversation to me: “Oh yeah, your cholesterol is high.” “I know that. Why did you call?” The hate-doctor demon locks and loads. “You need to start medication to lower your cholesterol.” “I’m on cholesterol medication.” How many years in prison for felony assault? “Guess it’s not working.” “Nope, guess not.” Maybe I could get a plea bargain, do two to five and be out early for good behavior. Providing I didn’t encounter a medical professional while in the joint. After a discussion about a different medication—I told her I was currently on Zetia and then reminded her we had already tried both Lipator and Crestor and I suffered from cramped and pained muscles and could take neither—she said there was “other stuff.” “Where you want me to call in the script?” I told her Hy-Vee where they always call in my scripts, then I asked if she (or maybe the phantom who made the original call) would be calling me back to let me know the doctor had scripted out this “other stuff.” “Just go by Hy-Vee on your way home.” Click. Dial tone. At noon today (Wednesday) I went to the Hy-Vee pharmacy to pick up my “other stuff.” I fully intended to talk to the pharmacist to find out if this “other stuff” was going to have the same side effects as Lipator and Crestor, and, if so, I wasn’t going to take it. I really shouldn’t have wasted my time. Wasted my time worrying about the muscle pain side effects or wasted my time going to the pharmacy. No script had been called in. MD. Morons and dummies!!
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Lazy dog graphic used with permission from Fuzzy Faces and Dale Lewis