The Devil Wears Ill-Fitting Scrubs

I caught a long, painful glimpse of Hell last night. We’ve all heard complaints about doctors offices, the wham-bam-thank-you-m’am treatment of patients, long waits on the paper covered examining tables…but until last night I had never truly experienced it for myself. Sure, I’ve waited my share of countless minutes in the lobby listening to my fellow patients sniffling and sighing and coughing. But never have I waited three hours in such a miserable environment as I did last night at the UMC Quickcare conveniently located minutes away from my home.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. My cough was getting more painful, my throat aching to the point of making speech difficult. With three sweet baby triplets at home, I decided not to just “ride it out,” like I usually do. My usual treatment of this ailment I get so often involves lots of Thom Yum soup, Nyquil, Ludens throat drops, and 7UP Plus. It works though it usually takes 2-3 weeks. I just didn’t have the luxury of that kind of time! So I decided to stop at the UMC Quickcare facility on the way home from work and get some meds prescribed so I could nip this thing in the bud.

5:30ish: I arrive at UMC, sign in an settle down in a cold, wobbly chair. I look around. Lots of sick, dirty people surround me. I am struck by the feeling that I don’t belong here…

5:50ish: I decide that I will leave if my name isn’t called by 6:15, though I am desperate for “healing waters.” A few chairs down from me, a baby cries.

6:12: My name is called. I guess 45 minutes is not such a bad wait. I’ll be on my home soon! Nurse has an attitude. She takes my vitals sighing the whole time with a bitter look on her face. We have the following conversation: She “So why are you here?”
Me: “Well, I have a history of chronic bronchitis and I’m experiencing a flare up.”
She: Sighing angrily “That’s what EVERYBODY says. I asked you why you’re here, tell me your SYMPTOMS.”
Me: “Oh um, very painful cough in lungs-“
She interrupts: “YES I KNOW, but are you coughing anything up?”
Me: “Yes, some yellow ph-“
She interrupts: “I KNOW but is it yellow, is it green?”
Me: Talking as fast as I can: “YellowandIalsohaveaverysorethroat,conjestioninmysinusesandfeelacheyallover.” Phew.
She: “Okay, go wait in the lobby again.”

This is how the UMC traps you. They take you back for 30 seconds with Nurse Ratchet, and then you are legally obligated to pay for treatment. You sign some papers and they tell you a doctor will be with you as soon as a room frees up.
Well, I was trapped and I’ve never been more miserable. Cold, sick, tired, and now thanks to the nurse from Hell I felt incompetent and my moral was low. I slumped down in my chair and tried to focus on the entertainment news on the fuzzy screened TV. This was when the “family” came in. A cute, earthy looking mother with a teenage son and a little hipster daughter maybe 12 or 13 years old. I smiled at them thinking what a cute family they were. They sat right next to me. Then the real nightmare began. The boy began to wrestle with his sister and they proceeded to shake the row of shabbily attached chairs. I was getting a little nauseated. The mom got up and went outside to smoke. When she came back, she reeked something awful. I tried to tune them out…tried not to focus on the fact that I had already wasted over an hour in that horrid place.

A man came in carrying a woman who had passed out. Set her in a chair. She slumped over and moaned. This woman should have been taken to a hospital. Suddenly all the doctors in the building are focusing on her. Sure I hoped she’d be okay, but I was more annoyed by the fact that she was now making the wait even longer for everyone. I am ashamed for thinking that. The woman is rolled away in a wheelchair and I never see her again.
Teenage boy blows his nose wet and hard. Starts shoving the tissue in his sister’s face telling her that’s what is for dinner. I cringe as the wet tissue is hurled across the room landing dangerously close to my feet. He begins to blow again. Not wanting to risk getting hit by another tissue-missile, I stand up and move away. There is nowhere else to sit where I can see the TV, so I choose to stand.

7:15pm: The wacky family gets called back. I reclaim my seat next to the TV. My victory is little comfort as I’m exhausted but can’t leave because I have already agreed to pay for treatment. Cold, hungry and thirsty, I watch as people approach the door to UMC trying to get in but they can’t. The facility is now closed. The rest of us are locked in. Like sick pigs in a filthy pen.

7:30ish Wacky family comes back out. They sit directly across from me. Brother and sister begin to wrestle again. They are loud and disturbing. Suddenly, sister yelps! Brother has given her a bloody nose. Blood drips through her fingers. She begins to laugh hysterically through her bloody lips. This is now officially the worse night of my life. Well, maybe not the worse but its up there!

8:00pm Finally get called back to see the doctor. Wait another 10 minutes in the back. Doc comes in, spends 5 minutes with me, asks if I’m a smoker. They always ask me that. And the answer is always no. He leaves me for another ten minutes or so and a different nurse comes in hands me my prescription and shoos me out the door. My ordeal finally ends around 8:30 pm. Three of the longest hours of my life.

Well, I went to Walgreens to get my prescription filled and this whole episode has made me so depressed I buy 20 dollars worth of snacks. Fortunately, the pharmacists at Walgreens are wonderful and take the time to answer any questions I may have, except for the one I’m too embarrassed to ask. I’m prescribed two different antibiotics. One is covered by my insurance and costs me a mere 4 dollars. The other is not covered and costs me 50. Why? Why? Why?

All I can say is anyone who thinks it is inconvenient taking an hour or two off of work to go see a REAL doctor at a REAL doctor’s office, be assured that this is nothing compared to the inconvenience of UMC Quickcare. This place is neither QUICK nor do they CARE.

The end.

oops!

Sorry zuz - I just published on your page - a big NO NO -

A stitch in time

I’ve come to the understanding that I am good. I am damned good. At hurting myself on common household items. In the past two years I have had mores stitches than most teenage boys. While none of these accidents have been life threatening, I am coming to terms with the fact that I might just die from wounds sustained while opening a can of chili beans.

My most recent mishap takes the cake. I officially gone done and hurt myself on my effin ashtray. Classy…The worst part is that I wasn’t even intoxicated. Just dumb. Which I think in my case is more dangerous. I won’t go into all the details, but it involves running outside in my bare feet, right over an ashtray that I had broken earlier and was too lazy to clean up. So needless to say I deserved it.

I dripped an impressive trail of blood from the porch to the bathroom waiting for my brother, sister-in-law, and Amanda to come to my rescue. God bless them all what would I do without you guys?

They didn’t give me much sympathy in the emergency room and proceeded to shoot me full of litocaine which hurt way more than running over the ashtray. The best part was when Doc started stitching up my big toe after leaving me long enough for the shot to wear off – I felt EVERYTHING.

The time prior to this set of stitches, involved a cat, a fluffy little kitty, now who would think that a cat could be dangerous. Well, this one just about took out my eye in one mad dash and left me with 20 stitches in my face.

And it’s left me not too fond of cats. I am now also terrified of vintage glass ashtrays…

But this whole experience has left me with a greater appreciation of the fact that I have full use of my limbs. I am extremely more sympathetic for the fact that there are such things as handicapped parking and ramps and elevators.

Tiny Glimpse

3:30 a.m. Feeding time. Chase, eating even slower than usual. Fussy, unable to burp. Sweet, tiny body writhing in my arms.
Being a parent must be tough. I did my first overnight feeding and I am wiped out. There is something so surreal about feeding one baby, staying up with the baby until after midnight then getting up with a different baby a few hours later, feeding that baby and staying up with tiny baby till he falls asleep. You know, I loved it though. One night I can handle. Tonight’s going to be rough, I can tell. Even when you do sleep you can’t help but think “Did I change baby’s diaper, did baby need it? Is baby sleeping in an uncomfortable mess of his own making right now?” I don’t know if I’ll ever find a man…someone to share my life with, the joys of children. But if I do, darn-it…by the time the triplets are 6 months old I will have received some of the best training and preparation a girl can get.

Dodged a Bullet...Literally, Most Likely.

Now, I’m no poetic genius but I do love to pen my thoughts now and then. Usually said thoughts are about something I just ate or would like to eat in the future. I plan on compiling this poems into a “slim volume” (whoever gets that reference wins a poem!) about my lusty love affair with tasty cuisine. I decided I’d try said poems out on a real live audience, when I read about Las Vegas’s “Untamed Tongues Poetry Slam” at a club called Barcode. Great! A chance to rub shoulders with other aspiring writers…ahh, perhaps I’d sip Italian soda listening to their thoughts in poem form. Lisa, a fellow artsy-type pal even agreed to come and share some of her own works. It was going to be great! Says I, “Perhaps I’ll check out their myspace page to make sure my directions are accurate. Well, not only did I get directions but I was treated to a short video of some of the poetry slams in the past. Boy…it wasn’t what I expected. Turns out Barcode is a hip-hop club that I don’t think white people are even allowed to go in. The poems read were graphic descriptions of sexual encounters, doing drugs, or getting shot/stabbed/etc. Somehow, after viewing said video I felt that Lisa and I and our poems of a considerably lighter nature would not be welcome there. Our pale skin and lack of hoochie-clothes only added to that fact. So we decided to skip it. I found one happening at a coffee house the first Tuesday of every month that seems a little more up our alley. Until then, my poems will have to wait.