So after yesterday’s episode with the floor, I figured I’d call my doctor to see if he could get me some lovely antibiotics or something. Maybe some sweet painkillers to pass the time, if I’m nice enough. His office was, of course, closed for the day. I suspected this, so I browsed around looking for a walk-in clinic.
The website was quite vague, so I just called back the doc’s office and hit the urgent option button. I’ll spare you the 8 phone calls I had to make, with not much of a voice left mind you. It’s not that it wouldn’t be comical, or that I lack the literary faculties to convey said comedy, it’s just that I became so enraged during that series of phone calls that I began hacking up foreign substances that I’d never seen before. Rather than rile myself up again, suffice to say that I told one guy that his name would replace “Wii” as my final words of spite were I to expire thanks to his indifference, and told another woman that I’d be by to cough into her non-whip half-caf mocha latte (really hard to say when your voice is gone) if I didn’t see results.
So after all of that, the doctor on call told me (secondhand) that he wouldn’t see me, and that he wouldn’t authorize a walk-in visit. His reason? I belong in the ER. That’s right. The fucking ER. He said that my symptoms warranted a trip to the hospital (to which I’d have to drive myself) rather than an easy office visit and some antibiotics. I told the receptionist that I’d sleep on it.
Still alive bitches. Not only that, but the receptionist at my actual doctors office gave me the walk-in referral immediately because, according to her, they were taking off early today. I’m glad its such an easy breezy afternoon for them. I’m going to go sit in a walk-in lobby for awhile and make people vaguely uncomfortable with my angry presence.