Don’t You Wish Life Had A Rewind Button?

So in an effort to be proactive about finding out exactly what keeps causing this…

Oh.  It's YOU again...

Oh. It’s YOU again…

I decided to take myself off to the experts.  Seeing as I conveniently live within a reasonable distance of a major league football team, I figured why not avail myself of THEIR medical miracle workers?  BUT, of course, one must go to one’s own doctor first, because heaven forbid one just take oneself off to said experts without permission.  This lovely jump through the hoops excursion landed me in the exam room yesterday of a doctor I had never met.  An hour past my appointment time. After sharing the lobby with some germ-emanating woman who actually sneezed in her hand then used that same hand to write her name down on the sign in sheet.  E-GADS.

Say it isn't so!

Say it isn’t so!

Here’s where my aggravation factor multiplied exponentially.   I simply want to jump through the appropriate insurance company hoops to get a referral to see The MAN about my ITBS.  Next thing you know, I’m laid out on the table for an EKG (normal), and given forms to go get my blood supply sucked dry.  (Actually, more like just getting my iron level checked, but it sounds so much more dramatic when there’s a vampire connotation involved, doesn’t it?) Then, as if I wasn’t already aggravated enough, I have to explain to THEM (as in the office staff – you know the ones who deal with the insurance hoops EVERY DAY), what THEY need to do with the insurance company so I can go see The MAN.  Me.  The PATIENT.  Am I the only one seeing the horrible dark comedy of errors in this whole situation???

Be afwaid Black Dog. Be vewy, vewy afwaid.

Be afwaid Black Dog. Be vewy, vewy afwaid.

So instead of actually having a productive day, I will be spending it on the phone arguing with my, playing intermediary between my doctor’s office and insurance company, all in an effort, to – here’s a novel idea – TAKE CARE OF MYSELF.

So let me take this moment to apologize dear readers, for the momentary lapse in sanity and rant against all things medical.  Hopefully though, the light at the end of the tunnel will be that I DO actually end up getting to see The MAN, who will then proceed to tell me in the first five minutes of my visit that he knows exactly what is wrong with these blasted IT bands, and can fix them in 20 minutes or less.  Or even 30.  I’ll take 30.  Maybe there will even be some hot, retired football player waiting in the lobby when I get there.  Nothing wrong with a little bit of eye candy to brighten up the wait.

How you doin'?

How you doin’?

Enjoy the ride.

Do the hoops you have to jump through for insurance companies make you absolutely insane?  Have you ever just wanted to scream unintelligible curses at your doctor? Have you actually done it?  Did it get you anywhere?