A Pain in the Ass

This is not the blog I wanted to write this morning, but I’m so pissed off I can’t see straight, so I apologize in advance for any instances of moronic sentence structure.

Two weeks ago, I had a consultation and exam with Dr. Pain Shot (AKA “God”), an appointment that took three weeks to get, about getting what is called a “lumbar branch nerve block.” It may not even work, but it’s the best chance I’m staring at right now for me to go about my life without having to pop Motrin every four hours for at least long enough so that my physical therapy treatments can be used to strengthen my back and let me heal instead of wasting them laying on heat packs on his table so he can do even the mildest of adjustments.

When I left said appointment, I was told that “once my chart was processed and they hear from my insurance company,” the “procedure” could be scheduled.

I called a week later and they didn’t have the approval yet. I let it go a few days. And the pain kept getting worse. Lots of rain and stress from being suddenly unemployed and not sleeping is also making the pain worse.

I’ve had enough of this shit so this morning I called my insurance company.

They don’t have anything from Dr. God’s office proving that I even exist.

So I called Dr. God again. (something is wrong, in an office with one doctor, when every time I call I get a different assistant on the phone) I told Assistant A that my insurance company has no record of my claim. She said she didn’t have my chart, which means I “wasn’t ready to be scheduled yet.”

“When do you think you’ll have my chart?” I asked.

She didn’t know. But said if I gave her my number, she’d call me back.

Well, I know how that works.

“No,” I said. “Can I please talk to someone who can tell me where my chart is?”

“Hold on,” she said, a little frosty.

Note that I really, really hate to be a hard-ass to staff. Or to anyone who answers the phone in general. I know these people work hard and probably aren’t paid well and often it isn’t their fault that I’m not getting what I want. But pain makes people do strange things. Pain that contributes to getting people fired and to the ruination of their daily lives makes them do strange things like get a little PISSED OFF that it takes WEEKS to just get an appointment for a procedure that MIGHT make a little bit of difference.

Then she came back. “We just got your dictation back so we’ll submit the claim to your insurance company today.”

I let this settle a beat. Because I didn’t quite believe what I was hearing. “Excuse me? My dictation? You can’t even send my claim in until the DICTATION is done in my chart?”

“That’s how long our company takes,” she said, without a trace of apology in her voice.

“That’s how you deal with people in pain?” I said.

“That’s how long our company takes,” she said. Then brightened up. “But we’re submitting your claim today and then we’ll schedule you as soon as possible.”

I was out of steam at this point. I’d had a crappy night and it’s my birthday (more on this later) and I didn’t want to wind myself up and make myself feel worse on my birthday. So I thanked her and hung up.

Meanwhile I take more Motrin, do deep breathing, try to do whatever exercises don’t hurt too much, and wait.

And they wonder why people go ballistic. Well, if you read in the papers that a distraught patient firebombed a doctor’s office in Kingston, I hope one of you will take up a collection bail me out.

We can always blame it on my medication.