grrgoyl

Well, here it is, my first entry on my new (to me) laptop. Of course as is everything in my life, all is not perfect. The internal modem is inexplicably fucked up but I am working on it. Guess I shouldn't complain, at such a bargain price I half expected the thing to not even turn on. But how utterly blissful to type in my journal stretched out on the couch rather than in that stinky "ass chair" as Tery and I have dubbed it.

But that isn't what I wanted to talk about. No, I have a new chapter in my quest for medical attention for my lump (I have named it "Marla" lovingly after the line in Fight Club, you know, "If I had a tumor, I would name it Marla." There are so many choice quotes in that movie I am glad I finally get to use one. Not that this is a tumor (yet) but somehow the word "lump" sounds just as ugly.)

Well against my better judgment I traveled halfway across town through rush hour traffic to the surgeon's office. I hit an unexpected snag when the receptionist asked me questions such as when and where exactly my last mammogram was performed. Now as I have been blessed most of my life with exceptional health (barring an emergency appendectomy at the age of 10 which I am told saved my life, as my useless, ungrateful appendix was on the verge of bursting) I am a miserable historian when it comes to my medical care. I am aware this makes me look like an idiot when questioned by medical personnel such as this lady, but there we are. In my defense I had attempted to look this information up when I first embarked on this foray into the world of medicine, however the few relevant papers I found regarding the procedure were only insurance documents which didn't mention the location.

So there I was, sheepishly admitting to the receptionist that I had no idea where I had my mammogram done. I will be the first to bitch about the stupidity of some customer service personnel, so in this case I absolutely have to give this lady her props...she somehow managed to track down the facility based solely on the nearest major intersection, which is all I could give her (and which, like most medical buildings in a large city, is surrounded by many other medical buildings handling different specialties. The medical industry is almost as convenient as a McDonald's drive-thru in that respect). I was duly impressed but she was too irritated to notice.

So after this unpleasantness was resolved I was brought to an examining room and told to don what I can only describe as a paper banquet napkin with armholes. It seemed less humiliating to just remain topless. After changing into this hideous garment (for lack of a better term) I got bored and took out my copy of Order of the Phoenix (yes, I am still reading it. Tery gloats that her nephew finished it in about 3 days, to which I wistfully expressed a wish for the free time of a 10-year-old.) The surgeon entered the room, glanced at it quickly, and told me what a good book it was despite its lack of a jacket with which he could identify it. I wondered if he always made such small talk to help the patient forget the ridiculous clothing they were being forced to wear. If that was what it was, it failed spectacularly.

We proceeded with the exam, which consisted of him squeezing my breasts while staring fixedly at the ceiling. This created an attitude of embarrassment that made me more uncomfortable than if he had just looked at me. I wondered as he did this if feeling women's breasts at work all day affected his sex life, if his poor wife was neglected because if he had to look at one more breast he was going to scream (yes I have strange thoughts sometimes....and the lucky readers of my journal get to hear all about them). Well, good news or bad remains to be seen, but he did find a matching Marla in the right breast. I don't know if the Planned Parenthood doctor somehow missed it or if it sprang up during the 3-day interval between visits. The surgeon speculated that since I was symmetric perhaps it was just a "normal variant," but he couldn't tell anything without a mammogram. Which is exactly what I suspected he would say back in my previous entry. He DIDN'T have a magic wand, making this visit in my view completely superfluous and a waste of my time. But if it made the grant people happy I would do it. Speaking of the grant, as I was leaving and talking to the Wonder Woman receptionist, she seemed unsure as to whether this visit would be covered by it as she thought the cutoff date was Aug 18. My life is typically ironic enough that it wouldn't surprise me if I had to pay for a visit I saw no need to go to in the first place.

But I lied. So as to make the trip more worth my while, I had also planned to visit the County DMV building which inexplicably is located well over the line into the next county. You see, when I renewed my registration and put my new sticker on my plate, I suffered a moment of confusion and put the year sticker over the month side, making both sides inaccurate. I didn't even notice it until a few days later; I was sitting on the couch, minding my own business, when it came to me out of the blue in a classic forehead-slapping moment. Tery said I should just leave it and if I got pulled over for expired plates I could explain the mistake. I didn't like this solution because with my luck I would be pulled over precisely when I was running late for work or at the worst imaginable, inconvenient time (is there ever a GOOD time to get pulled over, though?) so I wanted to get it fixed, and naturally it could only be done at the County Building, not my friendly neighborhood DMV.

The DMV lady was very nice about it and assured me people did it all the time. This made me feel a little better until I got the envelope with the new stickers home and discovered that not only had she circled the little diagram designed to help motorists avoid this error, but she had written in large red numbers on the bottom "8" on the left side and "04" on the right, just to make ABSOLUTELY SURE I knew what I was doing this time. That bitch!! I am not an idiot and there is no faster way to my bad side than to assume I am and treat me as one. Boy is she lucky she is clear on the other side of town!!!!

-=Lainey=-

Well, for those among you who care about such things, I had my doctor's appointment yesterday.

And let me tell you how out of place I felt in the Planned Parenthood waiting room amongst all those breeders and (in some cases) their boyfriends. As I filled out my paperwork, I imagined them all staring at me, somehow instinctively knowing I didn't belong there. Or maybe they were just tired of looking at the condom endorsements featuring lovely young women facing off against amorous-looking men that hung on every wall. That waiting room was more provocative than the local adult toy shop!

My appointment was fairly uneventful. Despite indicating at every possible turn my (predominantly) lesbian status on the paperwork (there was a question "do you have sex with: men women both" but I didn't see any need to cloud the issue since I haven't technically been with a man in 11 years (sexual fantasies notwithstanding)), the nurse still asked in the interview my method of birth control. My response made her and her assistant laugh: "I have a female partner. The best birth control there is!"

I made it through the preliminaries and at last in to see the doctor. We chatted briefly, then she felt me up a little (believe me, no more titillating (no pun intended) to me than it would be to a straight girl....although later I couldn't resist joking to Tery "That was the most action these ladies have seen in a long time!") and before I knew it, it was over.

Just as I suspected, she couldn't tell me anything right there and then other than I needed a mammogram. She did want to take blood for some thyroid tests which turned into a mini-adventure all its own. The person chosen to take my blood was the assistant, still obviously in training, as she did so only amid many false starts and much screwing up of her face in uncertainty and concentration (which, like the incompetent mailbox man, did nothing to inspire confidence). The longer she took, the more of a production it became, and the more nervous I got. My only stipulation was to please not move the needle once it was in my vein, which happened to me once while I was donating blood and hurt like a sonofabitch (the technician claimed my vein had "moved." It was all I could do to keep from smacking him, hard). But she finally got her nerve up and did great (I made sure to tell her so, build up her confidence and whatnot).

The most pleasant surprise came at the end of the appointment. When I had first arrived I told the receptionist I had no insurance (hell, the question was the first words out of her mouth practically before "Hello, can I help you?") and she said the visit would cost about $60. Having expected to pay over $100, I told her that was fine. The doctor discussed some kind of grant with me and gave me a couple of referrals where I could use this grant. But still I never expected the final bill, which was only $46 for the lab work...the rest of the visit was free! I was thrilled and silently took back all the cursing I had done of President Bush and The System in general.

I took all my paperwork home, which consisted of one page with a list of imaging centers for a mammogram and said clearly across the top "Komen Grant" and another with a list of doctors that didn't mention the grant at all. I called to make an appointment with an imaging center on the Komen list for Oct 8, and put the phone down with a sigh of relief, satisfied that I had done all I could for now. This relief quickly changed to confusion, however, when the doctor called me back today. She first told me all my blood work had been totally normal, which naturally made me happy. But then she asked if I had made the appointmentS (emphasis on the plural) from the referral sheets. I said I had scheduled the mammogram and didn't realize there was more involved. She explained I also had to go see a surgeon from the other referral sheet. I hung up thoroughly nonplussed.

WHY would I need to go see a surgeon rather than just get a mammogram? Wasn't the surgeon just going to feel me up too and tell me I needed a mammogram? My faith in The System was shattered anew. First I called Tery for advice, thinking as she works for a vet she is vaguely associated with the medical profession. Unhelpfully she pointed out that our cat, Alsatia, has undergone more operative procedures than she has and I might be better off asking her. Alsatia, though, could not be reached for comment, being as she was deep in the throes of her after-breakfast before-noon nap. I next called my little sister, the nurse in Boston, who seemed similarly mystified. I called the surgeon to schedule an appointment, figuring I could always cancel if I got to the bottom of this, and I asked the scheduler if she knew why I needed to see the surgeon. "Well, so he can rule out the need for any surgery," she replied, her tone clearly indicating this answer was as plain as the nose on my face. I was too defeated to ask how he could do that without diagnostic tools such as a mammogram. Maybe he had a magic wand or something. After hanging up from that, it still nagged at me though. When I could stand it no more I called the imaging center and asked them if THEY knew why I needed to see a surgeon. The best they could come up with was if Planned Parenthood said to do it, I should do it. I am just assuming these are the hoops I will have to jump through to be eligible for this Komen grant. Like I said before, everyone wants a piece of the check, and there is no getting around The System. This is also probably why insurance is so expensive and complicated. I wonder if I will ever be able to make sense of it......

The good news is, I have a surprise coming soon shhhhhhh don't tell Tery: ( No Tery allowed! )