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When the doctor told me that a normal rheumatoid factor is under 14, but that mine was 73, I was impressed with my score. I thought, Wow, for someone who's just a beginner, I'm pretty good at this arthritis thing.
My doctor referred me to a specialist and told me that I should bring the x-rays that had been done by my company's worker's comp clinic. "It should be no problem at all," he said, "In fact, they're legally required to give them to you." Whenever someone tells me that there shouldn't be any problem, this sends up a red flag that there probably will be some sort of problem, most likely an aggravating one. The company that I work for had sent me to the worker's comp clinic because I told them I was experiencing pain in my hands and elbows. When the worker's comp doctor concluded that the problem was arthritis rather than carpal tunnel, the human resources department at my company was overjoyed. Not only were they not going to have to shell out any money, but they no longer had to pretend that they cared I was in physical pain. Wahoo! What a relief that must have been. The industrial clinic my company sent me to is called COMP, which is an abbreviation for "incompetent." I found this out within five minutes of being there when I learned far too much about the receptionist's personal life but absolutely zero about when the doctor would actually see me. My first impression was to be re-affirmed when I tried to pick up my x-rays. I called ahead and asked what I had to do to get them. They said all I had to do was come in and fill out a form. I arrived early Monday morning and was greeted by a new receptionist whose expression reminded off a fish that has washed up dead on shore due to mercury poisoning. Apparently it had not yet reached the attention of the doctors in the office that one of their own was in desperate need of help. Slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, the receptionist referred me to a gentleman who asked me if I had gotten my company's permission to pick up the x-rays. My answer was "no." So he called them and asked if he could give me the x-rays. They said yes. At that point, it would seem to me that the next obvious step in the process would be to hand me the x-rays and, maybe, a release form. The man behind the counter handed me several sheets of paper and said, enthusiastically, "Here you go!" as if he had just handed me my x-rays, and I could go merrily on my way to happy doctor land. Using all of the powers of observation at my disposal, I was able to point out that the papers he had given me were a description of what the clinic's doctors had said about the x-rays, but they were not the actual x-rays themselves. I was able to tell this because they were not pictures of bones. "Oh, we can't give those out," the man said, "The x-rays are our only records of treatment. If your doctor can send us a release form, we will send him the x-rays directly." Let me take a brief moment to say that there are certain things in this world that I do not like. I don't like asparagus. I don't like ongoing physical pain. I don't like it when I'm misinformed. And I don't like it when people "handle" me in some cheap "customer service" kind of manipulative way. And while I'm at it, I also don't like anchovies. But I also know that sometimes the best way to win in this type of bureaucratic game is to follow along through all the wacky steps, get it done, and then make fun of everyone afterwards in a humor column. From a passive aggressive point of view, it's a stroke of genius! I took my pseudo x-rays, breathed deeply, and went to work. From there, I called the office of the arthritis specialist, Dr. Calamari. Calamari isn't his real name, but it's close enough for important medical records. I asked the receptionist if they could order the x-rays from the industrial clinic. Sure they could, she told me. All I'd have to do was come in and fill out the release form. "I'm surprised the clinic didn't tell you that," the receptionist said. Here's the deal. When she told me this, it was nine o'clock on a Monday morning. If this was any indication of how the week, my day, or even the next five minutes was going to go, I was done. I could not take it anymore. Yeah, I can fill out those forms. No problem. I could do it right freakin' now! I took some sick time, left work, and went to the doctor's office where I filled out the dang form. Twice. The form was a little ambiguous. I was surprised that the receptionist hadn't told me that. Silly me, I thought that I was the one "receiving the health information." But no, that's the doctor. So I guess in a few days Dr. Calamari will be receiving some x-rays along with an explanation telling him that he has arthritis. I, oh-so-politely, turned in the second form, and then drove, quietly and serenely, home. It is there that I now sit, typing this with a smile on my face. Oh sure, with every letter I type, my joints get stiffer and the pain gets sharper, but as the Buddha said, life is suffering. And, clearly, the people running the front desks at certain medical centers want us to know that if you can't get rid of the pain, you might as well embrace it. |
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