86th Street Freeze Out
I find that when I am not speaking to someone because I'm royally pissed at them, the part that sucks the most is that they don't even try to reach me. No email, no phone, no carrier pigeon, nothing. Not an apology in sight. This feeds my anger, nourishes it, and allows the petty inner-beast to rest and grow stronger. Now I've gotten more ticked than I was when the stupid-ass-what-the-fuck-lick-my-balls original folly occurred.
My punishment has become my punishment.
Here's just a snippet of how ultra shitty this week has been:
OK, Monday evening I'm hurt and angry. I cry two days in a row. Some of that I am willing to attribute to hormones, maybe 30% maximum. So, yesterday I had to make an emergency appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. I did something to my left knee last week that I had hoped and prayed would mysteriously disappear in much the same way it arrived. At first the pain was wicked. I hobbled up and down stairs. I was up all night b/c of the pain. But the next morning I was fine. Throughout the week, tho, the knee would lock and then unlock. Nothing too horrible, just unpridictable. Susipcious and annoying but nothing to alarm me. The alarm came yesterday (during my Toy Show) and my mother f--in' knee blew up like an air mattress. It hurt from the inside out. So, I call my primary Doc and he gives me two names. I call the first and he doesn't take my insurance. The second one I call has one of those automated answering bitches, "Please listen to the menu of options as they have changed." Changed from what? 'If you're on fire, press 6. It was 4 but we moved it to 6 so the patients who sold their prescriptions on the street in order to pay our bills can get in touch with us and beg for more pills, any pills, that their HMO will cover.'
In my desperation, I call my insurance company for a list of orthopedic providers. I tell them my knee is falling off. They give me about 5 numbers. I call one, it's disconnected. Warning sign. I call another and she can take me, right away, 4pm. Thank Christ. I tell my boss that I have to leave (during the most important week in my industry). I hop in a cab and go uptown to 86th St. $15 fare. I wait for the Doc, and an hour later she walks, I limp, back to the exam room. I go into the "what happened to my body parts" speech, and she is giving me the weirdest looks. But why? I'm not telling her that my third nipple can move. She interrupts me and says, "Did they tell you what kind of doctor I am?" And I said, "Yeah, orthopedic surgeon." And she crashes headlong into my fragile mental state, "I am an orthopedic surgeon, but I only deal with the ankle down." Fucking fanfuckingtastic. She feels so sorry for me that she gets on the phone and tries to find someone who'll see me that day. But it's after 5pm. No dice. I'm so rocked and humiliated and lost that I go out of my way to be totally cool and understanding about this fiasco. I have never said 'Oh don't be sorry' and 'It's no big deal' and 'These things happen' more, and I'd never meant them less.
I left my job, went 63 blocks out of my way, dropped $15 in cash, hobbled in and out of the office and only to turn back, crestfallen, with no idea what was wrong with my knee, and head home to Brooklyn. Ankle and foot surgeon! I mean, fuck me in the goat ass. I turned my phone off as soon as I got home. I hobbled up three flights of stairs, got in bed immediately and closed my eyes. I couldn't end the day fast enough.
posted by Shannon E. Ennis at
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
My punishment has become my punishment.
Here's just a snippet of how ultra shitty this week has been:
OK, Monday evening I'm hurt and angry. I cry two days in a row. Some of that I am willing to attribute to hormones, maybe 30% maximum. So, yesterday I had to make an emergency appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. I did something to my left knee last week that I had hoped and prayed would mysteriously disappear in much the same way it arrived. At first the pain was wicked. I hobbled up and down stairs. I was up all night b/c of the pain. But the next morning I was fine. Throughout the week, tho, the knee would lock and then unlock. Nothing too horrible, just unpridictable. Susipcious and annoying but nothing to alarm me. The alarm came yesterday (during my Toy Show) and my mother f--in' knee blew up like an air mattress. It hurt from the inside out. So, I call my primary Doc and he gives me two names. I call the first and he doesn't take my insurance. The second one I call has one of those automated answering bitches, "Please listen to the menu of options as they have changed." Changed from what? 'If you're on fire, press 6. It was 4 but we moved it to 6 so the patients who sold their prescriptions on the street in order to pay our bills can get in touch with us and beg for more pills, any pills, that their HMO will cover.'
In my desperation, I call my insurance company for a list of orthopedic providers. I tell them my knee is falling off. They give me about 5 numbers. I call one, it's disconnected. Warning sign. I call another and she can take me, right away, 4pm. Thank Christ. I tell my boss that I have to leave (during the most important week in my industry). I hop in a cab and go uptown to 86th St. $15 fare. I wait for the Doc, and an hour later she walks, I limp, back to the exam room. I go into the "what happened to my body parts" speech, and she is giving me the weirdest looks. But why? I'm not telling her that my third nipple can move. She interrupts me and says, "Did they tell you what kind of doctor I am?" And I said, "Yeah, orthopedic surgeon." And she crashes headlong into my fragile mental state, "I am an orthopedic surgeon, but I only deal with the ankle down." Fucking fanfuckingtastic. She feels so sorry for me that she gets on the phone and tries to find someone who'll see me that day. But it's after 5pm. No dice. I'm so rocked and humiliated and lost that I go out of my way to be totally cool and understanding about this fiasco. I have never said 'Oh don't be sorry' and 'It's no big deal' and 'These things happen' more, and I'd never meant them less.
I left my job, went 63 blocks out of my way, dropped $15 in cash, hobbled in and out of the office and only to turn back, crestfallen, with no idea what was wrong with my knee, and head home to Brooklyn. Ankle and foot surgeon! I mean, fuck me in the goat ass. I turned my phone off as soon as I got home. I hobbled up three flights of stairs, got in bed immediately and closed my eyes. I couldn't end the day fast enough.
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