- Upon arriving, I was not given the COURTESY to be informed that the doctor was running late.
- After waiting a half hour, I got up to ask, and I was informed he was running late. No indication on HOW LATE.
- At the 1 hour 41 minute mark, as I got up to leave, of course, THEY CALL MY NAME.
- Against my better judgement, I go into exam room.
- Get trifled with by the aide taking my stats.
- YES YES, by all means! NOW IS THE BEST TIME EVER TO TAKE MY BLOOD PRESSURE, ASSHAT! SURPRISE SURPRISE, IT IS JACKED UP! GEE HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?
- I am then asked to fill out new patient forms (despite that I am not a new patient at this office, nor am I a new patient at Mt. Sinai where this doctor is affiliated). It would have been just GRAND if I could have filled these out at a leisurely pace, WHILE WAITING AN HOUR AND 40 MINUTES!!!
- NP comes in to assess me. Neurologist is no where's to be found.
- Halfway thru the assessment NP lets me know they only do assessments for surgery in this office. Why in the name of the blue blazes of hell did my (otherwise sterling) internist recommend I see this fuckface?
- Wrapping up assessment, neuro calls, says he was called away for an emergency. WHATEVS.
- As NP is writing up an Rx for me to go for an MRI (which I'll have my chiropractor read, or perhaps ANYONE ELSE ON PLANET EARTH before I give one more moment of my time to this time suck.
- As I'm about ready to leave, one of the admins have the neuro on the phone and they ask if I want to talk to the neurosurgeon, to which I replied, "Fuck no. I've wasted enough time here."
Showing posts with label Shit-tasticWeek. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shit-tasticWeek. Show all posts
Friday, August 08, 2014
Shit-tastic Week, Event #3: Neuro No No, Pain Status-Quo
Today was supposed to be a day where I was working towards addressing and possibly coming up with solutions for my assortment of pain issues. Sadly, that was not to be. In all actuality, it would have been a better use of my time to have not gotten out of bed at all today.
Wednesday, August 06, 2014
Shit-tastic Week: Event #2: Road Rage Recipient
(Cross-posted at another of my blogs...)
As if it were not bad enough to be in PHYSICAL pain from the shoe-wear debacle from Monday's job interview, Wednesday, I found myself at an intersection. Middle lane of three. Left lane would have been optimal, as I was going to make a right then a quick left onto the side street. At the light, I put my blinker on, and as soon as it turned green, I gunned the motor, as the car to my left was lagging a smidge.
In my attempt to get over to the left lane, that driver finally woke up or dislodged his thumb from his rectum and decided he, too, was going to gun it into my blind spot, attempting to bully his way, and afford me zero courtesy to make my left.
Quickly as this is all unfolding, as I approach the side street, it APPEARS as if I can make a left in that lane, too. And I continue with my plan. Meanwhile he's in my blind spot, making his left, only once on the side street, there are cars parked on the street in metered spots, so he quickly made that left, only for it to fuck him up that I made mine.
I come to the traffic light which is red, but my mistake was I did not pull all the way up to the stop line. Sir Asshole sidles up next to me and motions to me to roll my window down. I shake my head no. He's aghast. And angry. Obviously I'm impeding his ability to tell me off.
I roll my window down and say, "I had my blinker on, and thought both lanes were left turn lanes." Of course, he launches into his tirade, and I promptly roll up my window.
Of course, he will not abide this aggression! Oh no! He has to nudge his car up and askew, and PARKS HIS CAR IN MY LANE THUS IMPEDING TRAFFIC, all to come over to my driver's window, which is rolled up and the car locked down tighter than a duck's ass, all to berate me and my driving.
Me and my bitchy resting face are in full effect, full on cool as a cuke mode. Honestly, I don't know how! IS THIS WHAT BEING A GROWN UP IS?
I mean, I could totally predict all the events happening. I could see it happening in my head, and VOILA! HAPPENING!
And, again, cool as a cuke, I roll my window down about 2 inches, and say loud enough for him to hear, "Yes, yes, and arguing about this is ACCOMPLISHING SO MUCH!" and I promptly roll the window up.
He blurts out an impotent,"Bitch!" And I smile, and nod in agreement!
It was so awesome, but I think I'm going to investigate carrying mace, because "what if" he actually broke my window and tried to assault me, or somehow gained access to my car and tried to assault me?
As if it were not bad enough to be in PHYSICAL pain from the shoe-wear debacle from Monday's job interview, Wednesday, I found myself at an intersection. Middle lane of three. Left lane would have been optimal, as I was going to make a right then a quick left onto the side street. At the light, I put my blinker on, and as soon as it turned green, I gunned the motor, as the car to my left was lagging a smidge.
In my attempt to get over to the left lane, that driver finally woke up or dislodged his thumb from his rectum and decided he, too, was going to gun it into my blind spot, attempting to bully his way, and afford me zero courtesy to make my left.
Quickly as this is all unfolding, as I approach the side street, it APPEARS as if I can make a left in that lane, too. And I continue with my plan. Meanwhile he's in my blind spot, making his left, only once on the side street, there are cars parked on the street in metered spots, so he quickly made that left, only for it to fuck him up that I made mine.
I come to the traffic light which is red, but my mistake was I did not pull all the way up to the stop line. Sir Asshole sidles up next to me and motions to me to roll my window down. I shake my head no. He's aghast. And angry. Obviously I'm impeding his ability to tell me off.
I roll my window down and say, "I had my blinker on, and thought both lanes were left turn lanes." Of course, he launches into his tirade, and I promptly roll up my window.
Of course, he will not abide this aggression! Oh no! He has to nudge his car up and askew, and PARKS HIS CAR IN MY LANE THUS IMPEDING TRAFFIC, all to come over to my driver's window, which is rolled up and the car locked down tighter than a duck's ass, all to berate me and my driving.
Me and my bitchy resting face are in full effect, full on cool as a cuke mode. Honestly, I don't know how! IS THIS WHAT BEING A GROWN UP IS?
I mean, I could totally predict all the events happening. I could see it happening in my head, and VOILA! HAPPENING!
And, again, cool as a cuke, I roll my window down about 2 inches, and say loud enough for him to hear, "Yes, yes, and arguing about this is ACCOMPLISHING SO MUCH!" and I promptly roll the window up.
He blurts out an impotent,"Bitch!" And I smile, and nod in agreement!
It was so awesome, but I think I'm going to investigate carrying mace, because "what if" he actually broke my window and tried to assault me, or somehow gained access to my car and tried to assault me?
Tuesday, August 05, 2014
Shit-tastic Week: Event #1: Feets They Failed Me Now
I am all about Newtonian physics, especially the law involving things in motion tend to stay in motion. I wonder how heat and moisture factor into Newtonian physics, well, how they factor in beyond BLISTERS.
Monday, I had a job interview. It was technically the second interview, as they had a telephone interview the week before. Wanting to make a good first impression, visually, I wore nice shoes. High heels. Not too high. Otherwise comfy. But I went barefoot. I did manage to wear a toe cup thing to help cushion my little piggies, but in the course of walking, it shifted, and started to chap my toes.
Once I arrived at City Hall station, first opportunity I could, I removed the toe cups, thinking the ten minute walk to the rendez-vous point would be quick. Hopstop said it was 12-14 minutes, and my shoes were good quality (or so I thought), and didn't think much of it. But each step of the way, was with increasing pain. Soon, my whole body ached, and I knew things were going to shit... FAST.
I went to a drug store and got a box of water proof bandaids and a box of J&J brand "blister' bandaids (which, to be blunt, are TINY, they really should come larger). I put the blister bandages on the blisters, then regular bandages on top of them, and continued on my way.
I had to triage my feet a second time before arriving at the meeting spot, and to add to my pain and anxiety, I received a text from the ladies who were going to be interviewing me. While the interview was arranged for 3:30, the text came through at 3, so I knew that once I arrive, there would be no time for me to freshen up, relax a bit, perhaps crochet, and regroup. Once I got to the corner, I had to do all my last minute hair brushing, lip stick applying, perfume spritzing out in the open, and continue hobbling until I got to the entrance, and somehow or another "get it together" enough to walk to the table without appearing as if I were in the physical agony I was.
I believe it went well. Who knows for sure? Looks promising, and if it weren't for my poor choice of shoes, I probably would have had a very good ending to my day. I intended on going to the Raging Bull on Wall Street and cup its balls for good luck, and planned on going to a yarn store which has escaped a visit from me thus far, as well as stop someplace for a drink or lunch.
Instead, my focus was on my increasing agony and worrying and wondering how the hell was I going to get back up to midtown to catch the train home. I caught a cab, and while it probably was taking the longer way back up to midtown by way of the FDR Drive, we were free moving, wind in my hair, me with my shitty cell phone connection, with an ever-dwindling battery, trying to text to the husband saying where I was, an ETA for GCT, as well as BEGGING him to get me a pair of flip flops. IMPERATIVE!
So I get myself to GCT, and I get a hot dog and an ice tea and try to make the best of it. And I find a seat near an electrical outlet, and the husband arrived. And finally, I could take my shoes off without worry. And once on the train my feet were triaged yet again...
Horror of horrors, in the course of removing the bandages, we ripped the skin clear off one of the two big blisters (one on each pinky toe). It was gross and painful, but the husband truly was mission oriented and got my feet properly bandaged up.
Blisters to the top of me, blisters to the bottom of me (try to ignore the callouses, but at the same time behold that I have blisters UNDER my callouses!)...
Yes, there's nearly a string of pearls of blisters all across the ball of my foot under where the toes attach to the foot! BRILLIANT!
We get home, and I promptly pour a vodka tonic for pain, and gradually top it off with sparkling wine, just for good measure. Apparently, I got a wee bit drunker than usual, and went from a happy floaty feeling to outright sobs. I laid down for several hours, woke up, chewed an ibuprofen, had a yogurt, then a frozen klondike bar, and faded in and out of consciousness while watching Conan. At 1, I got myself back to bed, and finally drifted off.
Tuesday at the office was a whole OTHER problem. I was able to walk from my car to the office (roughly 400 paces), and once I got to the office, the bandage on the epic wound fell off, and it was gross looking, glistening wet and plenty of angry looking capillaries looking back at me.
I spent the day alternating between nausea and agony. No first aid kit to speak of here, not even a tube of neosporin to be found. My co-irker provided me with some foaming wound cleanser and I spritzed that liberally, but still worried about wearing flip flops in a carpeted environment with an open wound on my foot. By 4 p.m., I hobbled my way to urgent care, and an hour later, I returned to finish out my shift.
I will say that if I don't get an offer (whether I take it or not, is another matter entirely), I will be (wait for it.....) SORELY disappointed!
End note: My feet are different sizes. Left is an 11, right is a 10.5. No pair of shoes fit me perfectly. Hence the chapping. Problem also was I was barefoot. And I miscalculated exactly how much walking was involved. Like I said, amateur move. I traverse NYC all the time, and am always prepared and wear appropriate footwear. There were just so many elements of Monday which went wrong on a very fundamental level. I just hope they liked me. The interview was roughly an hour, and very casual. Stay tuned! I'm hoping there will be a positive conclusion to this, and hope to have a blog post wherein I am finally cupping the Raging Bull's balls for good luck. My office won't be far from Bowling Green, so it's entirely possible.
As scary as it is to leave and start someplace else, it's scarier to think of spending another year or five or TEN here and be no better off, and if anything, perhaps even be MORE MISERABLE. And yet? I'm leaving myself open to the POSSIBILITY of growth, happiness, fulfillment. High risks sometimes equates to high rewards. Isn't it time I reaped some rewards?
ETA: Here it is, 10/23/14. Interview was 8/4/14. Not even the courtesy of a text or email to say "Thanks, but no thanks. We went with someone else." Horrible follow up skills for sure, but useful information no doubt. I imagine working with people with such poor communication skills would be downright hellish.
Monday, I had a job interview. It was technically the second interview, as they had a telephone interview the week before. Wanting to make a good first impression, visually, I wore nice shoes. High heels. Not too high. Otherwise comfy. But I went barefoot. I did manage to wear a toe cup thing to help cushion my little piggies, but in the course of walking, it shifted, and started to chap my toes.
Once I arrived at City Hall station, first opportunity I could, I removed the toe cups, thinking the ten minute walk to the rendez-vous point would be quick. Hopstop said it was 12-14 minutes, and my shoes were good quality (or so I thought), and didn't think much of it. But each step of the way, was with increasing pain. Soon, my whole body ached, and I knew things were going to shit... FAST.
I went to a drug store and got a box of water proof bandaids and a box of J&J brand "blister' bandaids (which, to be blunt, are TINY, they really should come larger). I put the blister bandages on the blisters, then regular bandages on top of them, and continued on my way.
I had to triage my feet a second time before arriving at the meeting spot, and to add to my pain and anxiety, I received a text from the ladies who were going to be interviewing me. While the interview was arranged for 3:30, the text came through at 3, so I knew that once I arrive, there would be no time for me to freshen up, relax a bit, perhaps crochet, and regroup. Once I got to the corner, I had to do all my last minute hair brushing, lip stick applying, perfume spritzing out in the open, and continue hobbling until I got to the entrance, and somehow or another "get it together" enough to walk to the table without appearing as if I were in the physical agony I was.
I believe it went well. Who knows for sure? Looks promising, and if it weren't for my poor choice of shoes, I probably would have had a very good ending to my day. I intended on going to the Raging Bull on Wall Street and cup its balls for good luck, and planned on going to a yarn store which has escaped a visit from me thus far, as well as stop someplace for a drink or lunch.
Instead, my focus was on my increasing agony and worrying and wondering how the hell was I going to get back up to midtown to catch the train home. I caught a cab, and while it probably was taking the longer way back up to midtown by way of the FDR Drive, we were free moving, wind in my hair, me with my shitty cell phone connection, with an ever-dwindling battery, trying to text to the husband saying where I was, an ETA for GCT, as well as BEGGING him to get me a pair of flip flops. IMPERATIVE!
So I get myself to GCT, and I get a hot dog and an ice tea and try to make the best of it. And I find a seat near an electrical outlet, and the husband arrived. And finally, I could take my shoes off without worry. And once on the train my feet were triaged yet again...
Horror of horrors, in the course of removing the bandages, we ripped the skin clear off one of the two big blisters (one on each pinky toe). It was gross and painful, but the husband truly was mission oriented and got my feet properly bandaged up.
Blisters to the top of me, blisters to the bottom of me (try to ignore the callouses, but at the same time behold that I have blisters UNDER my callouses!)...
Yes, there's nearly a string of pearls of blisters all across the ball of my foot under where the toes attach to the foot! BRILLIANT!
We get home, and I promptly pour a vodka tonic for pain, and gradually top it off with sparkling wine, just for good measure. Apparently, I got a wee bit drunker than usual, and went from a happy floaty feeling to outright sobs. I laid down for several hours, woke up, chewed an ibuprofen, had a yogurt, then a frozen klondike bar, and faded in and out of consciousness while watching Conan. At 1, I got myself back to bed, and finally drifted off.
Tuesday at the office was a whole OTHER problem. I was able to walk from my car to the office (roughly 400 paces), and once I got to the office, the bandage on the epic wound fell off, and it was gross looking, glistening wet and plenty of angry looking capillaries looking back at me.
I will say that if I don't get an offer (whether I take it or not, is another matter entirely), I will be (wait for it.....) SORELY disappointed!
End note: My feet are different sizes. Left is an 11, right is a 10.5. No pair of shoes fit me perfectly. Hence the chapping. Problem also was I was barefoot. And I miscalculated exactly how much walking was involved. Like I said, amateur move. I traverse NYC all the time, and am always prepared and wear appropriate footwear. There were just so many elements of Monday which went wrong on a very fundamental level. I just hope they liked me. The interview was roughly an hour, and very casual. Stay tuned! I'm hoping there will be a positive conclusion to this, and hope to have a blog post wherein I am finally cupping the Raging Bull's balls for good luck. My office won't be far from Bowling Green, so it's entirely possible.
As scary as it is to leave and start someplace else, it's scarier to think of spending another year or five or TEN here and be no better off, and if anything, perhaps even be MORE MISERABLE. And yet? I'm leaving myself open to the POSSIBILITY of growth, happiness, fulfillment. High risks sometimes equates to high rewards. Isn't it time I reaped some rewards?
ETA: Here it is, 10/23/14. Interview was 8/4/14. Not even the courtesy of a text or email to say "Thanks, but no thanks. We went with someone else." Horrible follow up skills for sure, but useful information no doubt. I imagine working with people with such poor communication skills would be downright hellish.
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