It ain't about the small stuff ...
... which I sweat (way too easily), or the everyday stuff (most of which is small stuff anyway because yes -- if you're nosy enough to want to know, I am an inveterate worry wart) ...
Except when it is. As in WHAT IS THAT MASS DOING IN MY BODY and WHY HAVEN'T THEY BIOPSIED IT YET, for the love of Pete and his dog's balls?
The medical system, as great as it is (a highly debatable topic), has been throwing me around like a hapless cell in a petri dish for months, now. Names changed to protect the offending parties:
Dr. A, June 2007: "Oh no, that thing doesn't need biopsying. Come back in six months and we'll image it again." (Phew).
Dr. M. ("primary care physician"), June 2007: "Well, I think you need a second opinon. You need to see Dr. Monkeyshines in Boston. Sure, it's a slog, but she actually calls us back to discuss outcomes."
Dutifully, I board the train, sludge my way out to the South End of Boston to this place, enduring the smell and torpor of the T (subway system) on a not-especially-sweet smelling day in the middle of June. Why? Well, I'm fairly sure I want to live -- or I at least don't want to be fool enough to avoid whatever could save me from an early and agonizing death -- so I slog it out. Keep my eyes closed, my mouth shut, my arms away from the sliding doors.
Dr. Monkeyshines's Verdict: "Looking at these films, I see no reason why this should not have been biopsied. We want to clobber them when they make these decisions".
Make that two of us, lady. And oh, by the way, I retract my original "phew" and trade it for a double damn.
July 2007: back to the scene of the original crime for the biposy that should have happened. I'm lying on the table, having got about 89 minutes of fitful sleep the night before, clutching my imaginary sock monkey for comfort, ready for the needle ... and nothing. Dr. T. (charming, affable, and -- hey! -- able to convey the impression that he might actually know what he's talking about) says "I can't visualize this lesion well enough on ultrasound to make sure I sample the right area of tissue. You need a different kind of biopsy."
Uh, excuse me, but have the Keystone Cops taken charge here?
When do these people stop the ride and let me get off? And why would they think a $10 gas card (for "my inconvenience") would make up for their haplessness?
August 1st: I pour my wrath out to the referral coordinator. She's young, a rosy cheeked mother of two, and takes pity on my neurotic, early-middle-aged self. (Do these little people know how much they mean in the lives of scared patients? I hope they do. She's the one I am most grateful to so far. It's funny how feeling cared for can ease some mental anguish! I salute you, Ruthy).
August 7th: Here I sit, on the eve of the THIRD VISIT for a biopsy. Last week I sent my strongly worded (not quite bitchy, but close) letter to the hospital outlining my grievances regarding continuity of care, and in today's mail comes the response that my "concerns will be forwarded to the Office of Patient Advocacy" at the hospital.
Not exactly confidence-inspiring, but at least they know I'm not a dumb ass who can be sent to the waiting room and just be happy with whatever. ("Whatever" as in "WHATEVER", that adolescent word-du-jour, covering all manner of complaint masquerading as ambivalence/indifference -- your choice).
Advocating for yourself as a patient, especially when you are on Medicaid (and only Medicaid) is the pits. It's difficult, and you are discouraged. You are very nearly dismissed. But they haven't seen the last of me. Because if I have to jab that needle in myself, that biopsy is happening!
Even though I hate needles ... it's happening!
Except when it is. As in WHAT IS THAT MASS DOING IN MY BODY and WHY HAVEN'T THEY BIOPSIED IT YET, for the love of Pete and his dog's balls?
The medical system, as great as it is (a highly debatable topic), has been throwing me around like a hapless cell in a petri dish for months, now. Names changed to protect the offending parties:
Dr. A, June 2007: "Oh no, that thing doesn't need biopsying. Come back in six months and we'll image it again." (Phew).
Dr. M. ("primary care physician"), June 2007: "Well, I think you need a second opinon. You need to see Dr. Monkeyshines in Boston. Sure, it's a slog, but she actually calls us back to discuss outcomes."
Dutifully, I board the train, sludge my way out to the South End of Boston to this place, enduring the smell and torpor of the T (subway system) on a not-especially-sweet smelling day in the middle of June. Why? Well, I'm fairly sure I want to live -- or I at least don't want to be fool enough to avoid whatever could save me from an early and agonizing death -- so I slog it out. Keep my eyes closed, my mouth shut, my arms away from the sliding doors.
Dr. Monkeyshines's Verdict: "Looking at these films, I see no reason why this should not have been biopsied. We want to clobber them when they make these decisions".
Make that two of us, lady. And oh, by the way, I retract my original "phew" and trade it for a double damn.
July 2007: back to the scene of the original crime for the biposy that should have happened. I'm lying on the table, having got about 89 minutes of fitful sleep the night before, clutching my imaginary sock monkey for comfort, ready for the needle ... and nothing. Dr. T. (charming, affable, and -- hey! -- able to convey the impression that he might actually know what he's talking about) says "I can't visualize this lesion well enough on ultrasound to make sure I sample the right area of tissue. You need a different kind of biopsy."
Uh, excuse me, but have the Keystone Cops taken charge here?
When do these people stop the ride and let me get off? And why would they think a $10 gas card (for "my inconvenience") would make up for their haplessness?
August 1st: I pour my wrath out to the referral coordinator. She's young, a rosy cheeked mother of two, and takes pity on my neurotic, early-middle-aged self. (Do these little people know how much they mean in the lives of scared patients? I hope they do. She's the one I am most grateful to so far. It's funny how feeling cared for can ease some mental anguish! I salute you, Ruthy).
August 7th: Here I sit, on the eve of the THIRD VISIT for a biopsy. Last week I sent my strongly worded (not quite bitchy, but close) letter to the hospital outlining my grievances regarding continuity of care, and in today's mail comes the response that my "concerns will be forwarded to the Office of Patient Advocacy" at the hospital.
Not exactly confidence-inspiring, but at least they know I'm not a dumb ass who can be sent to the waiting room and just be happy with whatever. ("Whatever" as in "WHATEVER", that adolescent word-du-jour, covering all manner of complaint masquerading as ambivalence/indifference -- your choice).
Advocating for yourself as a patient, especially when you are on Medicaid (and only Medicaid) is the pits. It's difficult, and you are discouraged. You are very nearly dismissed. But they haven't seen the last of me. Because if I have to jab that needle in myself, that biopsy is happening!
Even though I hate needles ... it's happening!
posted by Laurie A.E. at 3:29 PM
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