Sheee-ut!!!!! The lovely (no irony!) woman my son hired to babysit me all day, every day, schlepped me out to the Mayo Clinic to chat with the docs about the endlessly nagging peripheral neuropathy. Planned to touch on a few other sources of pain and stress, none of them exactly heavy-duty.
WHAT a waste of time!
We sat there and we sat there and we sat there and we sat there until we finally were ushered into an exam room.
And…whaddaya guess? We sat there and we sat there and we sat there and… Finally I just announced that I was leaving. And away we went. No one even seemed to notice that we were fleeing the premises.
Before we left the building, I had to search for my clothes, which some accommodating soul had picked up and carried off.
Why d’you suppose the Mayo would do that? Evidently they know their doctors keep the patients waiting until the last rooster crows after sundown. If they have your clothes, you can’t get home.
Well, I was about ready to walk home in my underwear, so PO’d was I. One of their underlings apparently realized that, and she brought my clothes into the waiting room. And then…
OUTTA THERE!
Yeah. I do realize the Mayo has rafts on rafts on rafts of patients. And Sure, I do know they can’t ever be certain of when any one of those patients is gonna soak up hours and hours, more than any doctor could catch up on. But honestly….
Wouldn’t you think that when they see they’re running an hour late, they could announce that to the waiting hordes and offer to reschedule those who would prefer not to spend half a day twiddling their thumbs?
How hard WOULD that be, really?
The peculiarly annoying thing about our (mis)Adventures at the Mayo is that none of the other major local hospitals — Good Samaritan, St. Joseph’s, John C. Lincoln, on and on– seem to be very good. They all receive rafts of negative reviews! Apparently, the Mayo is the best of a bad lot.
Right now, it’s 4:40 in the afternoon and I’m waiting (waiting…waiting…waiting) for the woman my son has hired to ride herd on me to GO HOME, DAMMIT!
No sign that she’s about to do that.
I don’t have enough in the refrigerator to feed dinner to myself, much less to me and her.
Wait: take that back: A perfectly gorgeous slab of sirloin steak is in there.
And selfish little me: I would just as soon not have to share it with her. Dammit!
But if she doesn’t make a move to leave within the next half-hour or 45 minutes — it’s 4:20 p.m. right now — I’ll have no choice but to offer her dinner and then, without a doubt, host her in the spare bedroom.
Yes, it would be good to have her (or someone) stay here tonight. I did spavin a hip earlier today, and yeah: tromping around the house just now hurts like the dickens.
Just dropped an ibuprofen. We’ll see if that helps. If not…well, then I’ll have to find my own quack.
My long-time physician, the Beloved Young Dr. Kildare, first moved his practice to the far west side (a horrible drive from here) and now, within the past few weeks, has moved it into Sun City.
NOTHING could be worse sign for a doctor.
My mother died hideously under the ministrations of a Sun City quack. The doctors out there, the hospital out there…eeew!
Yeah: those would be the ones who assume, ipso facto, that if you’re a woman you must be a hypochondriac.
And that, right there, is the Number One reason that you could not pay me to move to Sun City! Add to it…
*Endemic hate as a cultural theme…
* Loathing of young people…
* Constant, ungodly racket from that dam Air Force Base…
* Barrenness as a design element…
* Cheap, flimsy construction…
* Air-conditioning bills hovering in the stratosphere, because the houses were never built to be occupied during the summer…
What a horrible place!