I awoke this morning to do some work before an 8:30 a.m. appointment.
I was called in at 8:34 a.m. for vitals at Venice Family Clinic.
I had a very thorough examination by my doctor, albeit beginning late at 8:50 a.m.
I had been experiencing a shortness of breath and pain in the middle of my chest since I switched from duloxetine(?) to viibrid(?) – which I learned today would not improve my impotence. The doc felt that the impotence was due to diabetes. Of course, being a government recipient, an Rx for viagra is out of the question. Strike 1 *
OMG! I just thought of something funny 😀
The doctor orders an EKG. Based on the EKG, she suggests I go to the emergency room for suspicious coronary event. I hesitate, but under threat of calling the paramedics – which would not be all bad, if you get my meaning – I comply and mother drives me to Marina del Rey Hospital.
Strike 2 was the third patient in triage: I find it the rudest and such a lack of boundaries when another patient is playing audio at a volume as to invade the person sitting right next you. By this time I had not eaten, nor had a stroke or heart attack, so I was getting uncomfortable, impatient and irritable. Fortunately, mom brought me something to eat. Finally, the Dr, Kay(?) came in and suggested overnight hospitalization for good measure due to enlarged heart. Additionally, due to my government coverage I would have to be transferred to another hospital. Fine. Let me get the hell out of here and get my ass over there because I can get over there faster than it takes you to even inform me of what’s going on, inflammation of my legs and feet very apparent.
Oh, and by the way, how fucking pretentious are you that you have a scribe who is violating my health care privacy by actually viewing me. If she can afford $20 lunches – overheard – why can’t she afford a dictaphone and learn to use it?
I get to Southern California Hospital, Culver City. I am super calm, but direct because I feel that half my day has already been wasted going from one medical institution to another. I relate what has already transpired and inquire politely if she has any idea how long it would take to get admitted. She turns to Dr. Bitch – I can see and actually hear through the six inch bulletproof shield, which, thankfully for them is there and that I am one fucking angry pacifist – relays my story and without even looking at the documentation I had brought, says “
I am busy right now.” <The Truth**> The admissions clerk – I think it’s the same lady I complained about before – turns to me and says she can’t be definite. Thank you, have a nice day.
I decide to take the bus to the dispensary my psychologist had referred to me. As I am walking to the bus, I have another stroke…
It just occurs to me, that I am pretty sure that I justifying my desire to just go the fuck home already – if I am going to fucking die, I’d rather die at home than in some incompetent, unprofessional hospital.
…Dr. Bitch didn’t even look at my paperwork and I had expressly stated that this was a matter of a coronary issue. At the time, I became incensed. I march back to the hospital and ask the name of the doctor? nurse? tech? who’s name I will include in a strongly worded letter to Southern California Hospital, Culver City. The admissions clerk turns to the girl and informs her “That guy would like to speak to you,” which is a fucking lie; I only asked her name; I did not specify why. A guy steps in – green shirt with horizontal blue stripes, trying to assist – or nosey? This is when she says “I am busy.”
Fuming, I walk across the street – again with shortness of breath and chest pain. After Lobo, Patient Relations, whom I had been talking to on the phone while the three stooges were trying to get Dr. Bitch’s name, had told me he would look into it and get back to me.
Look into what? Bring your fucking ass down her so I can’t point the culprits out! Just WHOM are you going to look into without a name or identification. And that’s exactly what I did when he finally came down from his air-conditioned office to find out why I was in the building. And I will point out, it was no minor feat wiht Reese(sp?), the security guard, choosing to argue over Lobo’s gender – I had thought I had been speaking to a woman. – translate that Spanish IV! 😀
I am tired and high and forgetting, let me wind this shit up!
When we get back to the emergency room, the window is shut. There is no way to ID anyone. Okay, that’s the way you want to play it. Give me Tony Desai (sp?), supposedly the top dog. Left message on voice mail.
On the bus, still fuming, call Tony back and leave another voice mail, this time using derogatory terms when referring to Dr. Bitch and demanding a list of all employees working in the emergency room @ 1:25 pm on September 1, 2017, which I will forward to my lawyer, and threatening this ain’t over.
Tell me the truth!
Am I wrong?
I’ll admit, I should not have used derogatory terms in my last voice mail, but considering my measured temperament – compared to how early I would have erupted previously – I may have been a little arrogant to expect IMMEDIATE attention, but I did not argue, I left willingly, no fuss.
WHAT THE FUCK DID SHE DO THAT ANGERED ME SO FRIKKIN’ MUCH?
I need another joint.
I just know I’m forgetting somethign. 😀
* …o was it Stroke 1?
* As I write this, I can’t remember what specific action by her incensed me, but if you’re still reading, you’ll see just what kind of Dr. she is.