I’ve been playing two medical waiting games concurrently and I just won both within a week of each other.
I’ve been waiting for a cure for my hoarse voice since October 13. It took referrals from two specialists, but I’m finally seeing an ENT (ear, nose and throat) person on January 12. At least I have an appointment.
Now that I think of it, it’s almost miraculous that I managed to hear from three specialists in three months during a pandemic. However, I went to great lengths to pull it off. I emailed one of them directly (it’s the only time I’ve used her address for something like this – I don’t abuse the privilege), and I spent a week on the phone trying to connect with Doomandgloom’s receptionist (other less obsessive types would have wisely given up after several days).
And the second waiting game? As you already know, I’ve been on the hunt for a family doctor since last summer. On September 7 when I registered I felt they didn’t ask for enough information to get a sense of how much I need one. According to the Department of Health website, I could provide an “update” without losing my place in line. When I still hadn’t heard anything in December, I sent another email detailing why my need is a little more urgent than the other 39,999 people on the list.
1. I have multiple sclerosis
(that same old tired refrain.)
2. I have congenital heart disease involving my aortic valve
(A heart issue always makes medical types pay attention.)
3. I have eight prescriptions that will need to be renewed
(I provided my laundry list of pharmaceuticals to prove it.)
4. On October 10 I fell and broke my right hip
(For some reason, a recent fall always makes you more of a priority. Since I have that card in my hand I might as well play it. There’s nothing I like better than turning misfortune into an asset. I am a master alchemist.)
There are so many reasons why I hate, HATE doing things like this. For starters, I shouldn’t have to do it all. The system should just work. Whenever I provide info about my drugs, I’m forced to confront how appallingly long the list is. Getting the help of the family doctor – or any doctor for that matter – is always the last resort for me. I seek them out begrudgingly because I have already tried to fix it myself. And yet here I am, faking a little tantrum to get the government wonks to notice how sick I am, even though I consider my general health to be excellent. If I want to take care of myself, I have to play their game.
My email must have woken some people up because about 10 days later I got an email from someone named Alan who said they could not find my name or Medicare number on their list. REALLY?!! Doesn’t exactly inspire a lot of confidence in their record-keeping. I gave him my sign-up date and registration number. He said someone would be in touch. Yeah right, I thought cynically.
On January 4 I got a phone call from a woman at a medical clinic in town that I’d never heard of, wondering if I’d be interested in a nurse practitioner. ABSOLUTELY!! From what I’ve heard they are even better than doctors. A day later I spent an hour on the phone talking to my new NP about my glorious medical history.
I guess my story proves that the system sort of works, although I had to take matters into my own hands and make things happen faster than they would have otherwise. The catalyst for all this was my laryngitis. If I’d had a family doctor from the get-go, this process would have taken one month instead of three.
My second email was a power-play that resulted in a shorthanded goal (shorthanded because I am disadvantaged in everything I do.)