another Chewy Tale – The beyotch is back
“The bitch is back.”
This is what I imagine they are all thinking as I stroll into the Dr.’s office this morning, aka Chewy and associates. Since, truly, I feel that Chewbacca is running the place now. Of course I realize I can be difficult, but it is visits like these which make me act, well, bitchy.
First and foremost, I had already made it quite clear when I called and made the appointment why I was coming. I am sick. Very sick with GI symptoms which has me suspecting I could possibly have C. Diff. Sadly, this is not uncommon following hospitalization with the use of antibiotics during surgery. Now mind you, I have just returned to work so the last thing I need is another health set-back! For four days I have been in agony, existing on water and rice. My gut is literally wrenching. I need help.
Chewy, apparently, is either not aware of why I am there or does not care, because after she growls and gives her usual “Get on the scale command,” she moves on with a lecture about how I didn’t back get to her personally after she’d called me about my abnormal results back in March. Seriously?!? Now, I was pissed enough she was the one to call (my other Dr.’s call me personally). Also, why would I get back to her? She’s not the Dr., she is not the P.A. She is the medical assistant and she is annoying (not to mention hairy, but whatever, we’ll just stick to annoying today).
I said, “Listen, I called this office to notify you all that I had found my own OB/GYN (not the guy in East Bumfuck they wanted me to see) and asked that they fax the initial abnormal report to him. She retorts, “Well they didn’t tell me.” Ok, so why is this my fault? Have your people, talk to your people. I tell her, it’s all set. No worries, I don’t even have a uterus anymore. However, just another fyi, I did also call again to advise the office of my surgery because I am cool like that.
Chewy is still not appeased, “This is not acceptable. The hospital is supposed to send us the report.” Welcome to my world Chewy!!! SO many things are unacceptable.
Fortunately, I am too sick today to go out on full rant, but I figured while Chewy is in the mood to right the wrongs, we can get some things corrected in my record at THIS Dr.’s office. So I pull out my last Dr. report which was mailed to me, and ask her, “You’re in charge of putting things in my record here right?” She nods. Ok, so I explain that I the last time I was here I noticed they had me listed as a smoker and I haven’t smoked since exactly 11:59PM New Year’s Eve 2005. Furthermore, I had asked that they correct it then which they assured me they would. Buuut, when I got my report in the mail, what does it say? SMOKER!
So I tell Chewy THIS is unacceptable, “You can call me well-nourished, you can call me fat as fuck, but don’t call me a smoker. I am a former smoker!” She storms out, telling me the Dr will be in shortly. As I am waiting, I sit down at the computer and start checking my vitals she had entered in for today. My blood pressure is 135. Freakin’ Chewy! I have been running 111-120.
Finally the Dr. comes in. Smiling. Love her! She is darling. But this is one is priceless. She asks me, “Are we here today to discuss your weight?” LOL! I immediately tell her, “No we are absolutely not here today to discuss my weight.” The Dr. sits down with her notebook, and starts listening. Nice. She does happily mention I have lost 10 lbs. Yes. Uh-huh, because I am so gut sick.
So she explains she wants to do a full MIC work-up, plus blood work as she is concerned I may be getting dehydrated. She can also feel a significant amount of, uh air, in my gut which is likely causing the pain. Gre-eat. I ask her how that is going to get out of there. She laughs. Next, she tells how Chewy is going to give me several cups and scoops, asking me if I can produce a specimen in the “Specimen Collection Room.” Now it’s my turn to laugh.
“Oh no”, I tell her, “I don’t do that here.” Can you imagine? Shoveling shit into cups with tiny scoops in public? So I let the good Dr know, I am waaay ahead on this one. The Dr. summons Chewy back, who draws my blood, then proudly presents me with a gift: A bag of scoops and cups.
I reach into my purse, pull out a small brown paper bag, hand it to her and warn, “It ain’t lunch!”