Thursday, August 10, 2017

Hope is red and it sparkles. Who knew. 

I could see my car when I left our courtyard and more specifically, I could see the bright orange parking ticket tucked under my windshield wiper. This was Tuesday and I was on my way to see the Primary Care's partner about that crazy Saturday pain. A parking ticket. Huh.

This week I read a children's book about what to do about a problem and I took the books advice. Hit it head on. Oh-kay.  

I got wooshed into the doctors office. I hate to be the one to point this out, but in terms of doctor's office art, this one was ugly. 

So here, I utilized the maneuver SOMEBODY told me about and this one's called: if you need to make an important doctors appointment, don't go through the hospital switchboard. Call the doctor's actual office, push the button that permits you to speak to the nurse, leave a message and they do get right back to you and they do hop right on top of it. Seriously cool and I would never abuse that and I hope none of us ever has to use that again but there it is.

Lots of questions, lots of poking, lots of possibilities. It came down to a question of Miralax or an infection in the top laparoscopic incision. He told me to get some Miralax-I was thinkin' what-are ya' kiddin' me? I had colon cancer. I have an industrial sized bottle left over from that little adventure. 

And call the surgeon. 

Off I went to the Dept. of Parking. The strangest thing happened where I took a number and sat down to wait? (I was the only one there waiting.) THREE DIFFERENT WOMEN were simultaneously rendered incapable of seeing me. Honestly and seriously I wish I had it on film. It was an amazing thing. 

Finally, after a very long while, one of them drew the short straw and up to the counter I went. I showed her my ticket. She wasn't able to find me in the system. There was a mix-up with my city sticker. She had to get the next level up person who came around and I just can't find the words to describe how unhelpful and ridiculous the situation became. 

We don't play these games at the library. I can't speak for anyone else but as far as I'm concerned, we're given the tools to solve the problem. And we do. 

Anyway, where I knew my Primary Care had filled out the form and faxed it-she said she didn't receive it. Hmm that's mysterious. I have the receipt from the fax. And then she said I was missing The Letter. The letter? Oh yeah, I was supposed to supply a letter describing my disability and at this point, she adds in that it has to be Written by the Surgeon. And for some reason she adds on that I have to now go to the Oak Park Township and apply for a temporary hang tag. Oh and PS, she's giving me till Monday to get all of this completed because what I really need to be doing at this point is racing around, right? 

I spoke to the surgeon AND his lovely secretary. He said the mystery Saturday pain is too far out from the surgery unless there's fever or vomiting or other wound-type drama, the only thing to do is watch it and hope the pain never returns. I said that part. Not him. His secretary said I could fax her these forms and she'd take came of them.

The next day, I tried faxing and of course(!) nothing went through so I called the secretary and asked if it was okay if I just came over and showed her what I needed. 

You see all these superfluous hurdles I had to hop in order for me to be able to walk less and recover from the surgery. Is this making one bit of sense to you? 

The secretary was charming. I got to go into a whole new section of the hospital complex which was weird and cool. I got the one paper I was permitted to take with me(this others had to be faxed from the doctors office) and I ran to the Oak Park Township and that is when-after all this crap-I was met with a glimmer of hope. 

Because I tell you what. This was really getting me down. 

I handed in my form and about 10 seconds later-with no judgment and not one iota of nonsense that they seem ever so good at delivering at City Hall(oh and when this ever gets cleared up I am going to raise Holy Hell about my treatment), I was handed a temporary hangtag. Oh cool, I said. My favorite color. 

Well, here's the thing. I don't really want one of these things. I don't know why this woman made me go get it-I sure didn't ask for it but today, just for fun, I gave it a whirl.

And here's why any of it made a difference to me. This surgery? I didn't puke for days. I was eating exceptionally healthy stuff and getting some nice exercise so I healed up fast. But still, every day I feel exhausted around 3:00. And at the very same time, I feel like I have all these nice hours with which to get important life things done? And I'm just way off my game in terms of motion. And this red tag felt like, finally finally, finally, someone really understands. And maybe that somebody is me. 

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