Tales of Incompetence

I will give fair warning: this is a bitching post. So if you're not in the mood for bitching, pissing, moaning, bellyaching, bad attitude, or the putting down of doctors and their staff, take a powder.

So I called my doctor's office this morning and told the receptionist that I've been sick for a week and don't seem to be getting better. I was told they were all booked up, would I be willing to see the physician's assistant? "No," I replied, and went on to explain how last time I was in, I saw the PA and she completely screwed things up (in a nutshell, I went in for a UTI a couple months back, and the PA prescribed an antibiotic for me not compatible with breast feeding despite the fact that I was very clear in emphasizing to her that I was breast feeding; however, she did reiterate a number of times that with that particular antibiotic I should not drink alcohol, which I thought was odd; when I went home and did my own research, I could not find a single thing about any contraindication of drinking alcohol with this antibiotic; also, she sent me downstairs to the lab to have blood work done that day without telling me that I needed to fast for 12 hours before said blood work). I told the receptionist that I had spoken to Dr. O on the phone last week and she said that she would squeeze me in if I wasn't feeling better in a couple of days. So the receptionist told me to come in at noon today. She said the doctor would be seeing patients through the lunch hour and I should expect to wait for a while, but they would squeeze me in.

I put Finn down for an early nap and left Kevin in charge and headed to the doctor. I get there right at noon, sign in and have a seat in the waiting room, where about half a dozen other people waited. A few minutes later, the receptionist (apparently not the same person who made my appointment this morning) says, "Lisa?" "Yes?" I answer from my seat, thinking she's going to ask for my co-pay now. Then she says, "We have you down for next Monday at 11:45." "What?!" I say. "I didn't make an appointment for next Monday at 11:45. I called this morning and was told to come in at noon today." "Who did you talk to on the phone this morning?" she asks me. I don't know! Suddenly, I'm on the defensive - as though, if I can't provide a name to back myself up, then my case doesn't hold water. I asked her, "Just out of curiosity, what's this appointment for that you have me scheduled for next Monday?" She says, "Flu symptoms." "Oh, that's great!" I say. "Why would I schedule an appointment for a week down the line if I'm sick now?"

After a few minutes, she tells me that they can't possibly see me until later this afternoon, and that I am free to wait if I want or come back later. I was so livid by this time that I was blinking back angry tears. I gathered my stuff and said, "You know what? Just forget it. I'm sick. I've been sick for a week. I made arrangements for my kids [okay, kind of a lie . . .], I drove all the way over here, and you've been no help. Thanks. Thanks for everything." And I stormed out.

So here I am, back at home, still sick, and mad as hell.