I have been on a hellish health care carousel for the past several months as insurance changes have necessitated my replacing all my beloved medical providers with new ones. Every merry-go-round I’ve ever ridden in my life has left me dizzy and nauseated, and this one has been no different.
My first mission was to secure a new PCP, which turned out to be a much bigger challenge than I had anticipated. I spent a full afternoon calling various practices only to find they were either not accepting new patients or they had six-month waiting lists. I finally found one that could see me a few days later (maybe this should have been a red flag?), and I was initially encouraged by their heavily advertised boasts of a “team approach” to patient care as well as their “focus on the total person.”
As it turned out, the practice itself did not resemble in any way the slick marketing come-ons. Let me break it down for you.
The Orthographically-Challenged Medical Assistant
Before I stepped one foot inside the door, I had already filled out pages of online forms, detailing my health history, insurance coverage, and my opinion regarding granite vs. quartz countertops. (Quartz, definitely.) So, when the medical assistant asked me what medications I was on, I assumed she was confirming my submitted information, although she was not looking at any computer screen. In fact, she was going decidedly low-tech, holding a pen poised over a blank sheet of paper. How quaint, I thought to myself, perhaps the system was down, so I told her the two fairly common medications I took regularly, to which she responded, “Like, how do you spell those?”
That didn’t exactly inspire confidence in me as a new patient, but there are so many drugs, and an assistant might only be familiar with a limited number, so I spelled them. Four times. Slowly. And she still couldn’t manage to get the letters down on paper in the right order. I had to write them for her. True story.
The Obviously-Still-Ovulating Health Coach
I was then shuttled to meet with my “health coach,” where things went downhill fast. The coach, who didn’t look old enough to drive, began taking my history all over again. When she asked me the date of my last period, I joked, “Oh, the late 20th century.” She immediately stopped typing, looked at my DOB and asked “Wait, how old are you again?”
“I’m 65,” I answered. “And my last period was actually in 2005,” I added with a wink, “so early 21st century.”
“Oh, wow, I was thinking you were 55, because you actually look pretty good, but you’re 65,” she said, her voice almost quaking at this revelation. Suddenly she started speaking several decibels louder and enunciating each syllable very slowly, presumably so my ancient and addled brain could understand. “So, did someone drive you here today?”
“Um, no,” I said, a bit confused. “I drove myself here today.”
“Oh, how much driving do you still do?” she inquired, the concern in her voice evident.
“Well, as much as necessary,” I replied. “Obviously to and from my job.”
At that, her eyebrows shot up and she looked at me quizzically as if I were speaking in a foreign tongue. “Job? Oh, like volunteer work?”
“No, like real work,” I answered, a little irritated. “You know, a job, where I go five days a week. For pay. I function almost like someone who still ovulates.” (Hey, I’d let her “you actually look pretty good” comment pass, but I had had enough it by this point.)
No matter because facetiousness, sarcasm, or even irritation did not register with this woman-child, so I shut up and headed to the phlebotomist for some routine blood draws.
The Botched and Bungled Bloodwork
As the saying goes, mistakes were made. Oh, were mistakes made. Multiple times. I had to return four times for blood draws because either the wrong tests were ordered or a test was omitted. Once, the lab where my specimen was sent for analysis flagged it as too degraded to test. (Had it been stored in someone’s back pocket before transport?) In each instance, I had to call, email, and/or text repeatedly to get answers and make arrangements to be re-tested. In four months of presumably being a patient (and a patient patient, at that), I never once received a return phone call, email, or text.
The Doctor (Will See You Now . . . for seven minutes)
In his defense, seven minutes was likely all he could tolerate as I suspect he was recovering from surgery—best guess, a complete charm-ectomy. He had the personality of library paste and turned a mostly deaf ear to any of my questions and concerns. Almost as an afterthought, he put his stethoscope to my heart for a few seconds and then to my back as I took some deep breaths. He dismissed me, saying we’d talk further after my bloodwork came back. Ha! All in all, I can think of lots more productive and enjoyable ways to spend $324 in less than an hour.
The Unexpected Silver Lining
I am beyond delighted to report that I was recently able to join a different insurance plan, and I will soon be back in the capable and caring hands of all my former providers. I feel like Alice coming back to reality after having fallen through a mind-bending looking glass. But, and here’s the silver lining, I didn’t leave that nutty practice without some compensation.
I used their referral to a well-regarded breast specialty group for an opinion on some issues I’d had in the past. When I arrived for my appointment, I was told that the doctor I was scheduled to see had had an emergency, but one of the others would see me. Par for the course, I thought, but no big deal. I undressed from the waist up and sat on the exam table in my lovely paper cape to wait for her. Uh, surprise, make that him. What?! I was not expecting a him! I hadn’t had a breast exam performed by a him in thirty years, and certainly not by a him who looked like this one.
Knock-Knock
Who’s there?
Oh, just one of the most handsome men on the planet. Can I come in and, you know, examine your breasts?
Uhhhhh…
Dear God in heaven, have mercy. I am not even kidding when I say my jaw (and possibly my paper cape) fell open when he walked in; he was that handsome. The ovulating health coach may have considered me over the hill, but I did still have a pulse, and it was racing. I may have even had a spontaneous hot flash, which is amazing, considering I’d only had two throughout all of menopause. I tried to regain my composure and act like a normally functioning person (which is a stretch for me anyway) by avoiding direct eye contact with him as much as possible. I managed to get through the entire review of my films, history, and the physical exam without making a total fool of myself, and the good news was everything checked out just fine. Whew!
“Very nice meeting you, Ms. Gaitan. Let me know if you have any problems,” said Dr. Handsome as he walked out the door.
“Thank you so much, I will,” I replied, like a regular, unflustered person.
Just before the door closed, he poked his head back in the room and added with a smile, “Oh, you can go ahead and get dressed now.”
I laughed and said I would. But after the door clicked shut and I heard his footsteps recede down the hall, I collapsed back on the table, let out a big sigh, and jokingly murmured this alternate, completely inappropriate response, “I know I can get dressed now . . . but, do I have to?”
Silver linings are everywhere, my friends, even at the end of a maddening medical merry-go-round. Keep your eyes peeled and your paper cape at the ready. You just never know!