Sometimes I feel like all I ever write about is going to the doctor. I think I could fill an entire book with essays on dental checkups.
Saw Eye Doctor today, and apparently this insurance kerfuffle is water under the bridge. Great. Maybe insurance isn’t the epitome of evil after all. Okay.
His office is in one of three Doctor’s Building(s) on the campus of a hospital that grows exponentially each time I visit (Brother, if you’re reading this you’d barely recognize the place). Everything is under perma-construction there (actually has there ever been a hospital not under perma-construction?). I think the hospital grew another parking garage and sprouted a Cancer Center while I was there.
I actually got a little lost trying to find the office (another side note: is there some kind of trend in architecture/construction where every doctor’s office building is just 492 miles of shittily-lit beige corridors? We can’t come up with something a little more inviting? This isn’t a place most people enjoy visiting. Come on). Thankfully, I found a point around which to orient myself:
This used to be the Coke machine where my Mom would purchase a soda for my brother if he behaved himself. I took this picture to send to him. Oh, memories.
Once I found the office (Brother, if you’re reading this: same eyeglasses on the wall! I would have taken a picture but there were 42 other people in the waiting room and I was self-conscious) and was seen to an exam room, a lady I’ll call Janine because that was her name started to go over my medical history.
The first thing she asks is if I have primary care physician. I tell her no. Okay, okay, I understand this is a thing that I should have. And that will be amended this summer, thanks to a friend who recommended hers to me (it was either that or eeny-meeny-miney-moe off of my insurance’s website. Until I can search by “not a douche” or “doesn’t make me feel like an idiot” I’ll take word-of-mouth recommendations for these things, thanks). Janine seemed confused and anxious that my answer was “no,” but she stopped wetting herself long enough to go through my medical history.
I’m not bragging – but hell, maybe once I actually see a doctor she’ll uncover dozens of problems I never knew I had – but I just don’t have much physically wrong with me. Even though I’d checked NO to 99.9% of the entries on the 83 page check-in form, Janine persisted. “Nothing? No trouble with your heart or breathing?” she asked.
What the fuck, Janine? Don’t you think I would have mentioned that? Yeah, I’m good. Except for that heart transplant last year. That was a thing that happened. Seriously, Janine. If you’re just looking for something to write on the form, wouldn’t you pick something a little less life-threatening?
“No skin problems?”
Again, Janine. No. I’m good.
“Nothing?” So incredulous. So much sadness in her eyes. I’ve hurt her. “No surgeries?”
Oh, well yeah. That’s the whole reason I’m here: a handful of eye surgeries when I was a toddler. A baby, really. We’re talking 30+ years ago. But she finally had a YES answer, and that really got Janine’s butter churnin’.
“Oh! Any other surgeries?” She’s practically licking her lips.
No. I mean, I had a hernia repaired when I was, like, 8 years old. But at this point I don’t want to give her anything else to get off on.
And Janine takes my file and scampers off in to the bowels of the office to paste my chart to the walls of her secret lair.