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Unlike Julie on the Love Boat, this dude is anything but perky.
Nothing really went badly, or took terribly long today, considering the system in which it all resides. One does wonder, though, why we tolerate a health care system that requires at least four stops in at least three different zip codes to diagnose, image, manage and ultimately repair a relatively simple breakdown of function in a pretty damn robust and healthy adult female.
The appointment at our primary physician was at 2:45, and he pretty much kept to that. First, though, we did have to sit through some pretty frightening noises coming from somewhere in his office building (which I think was a Catholic elementary school in a previous life)- a loud clanging and banging of metal against metal. "Frankenstein's prostate exam," I helpfully speculated.
In time, she was called in , and in an act of defiance that probably violated at least 20 different sections of HIPAA, I went into the examining room with Eleanor, introducing myself as "her third crutch." (He's my doctor, too, not that it matters.) This gave me the distinct pleasure of watching all four poke-prod procedures where he asked her, "Does this hurt?"
The first three of them hurt. Trust me. The fourth, she couldn't even manage, so it didn't.
His best guess is torn cartilage, but since no self-respecting (or non-self-insured) physician will ever guess at anything, she was sent post-haste to three additional stops.
----
First was a radiology shop for an x-ray of the knee, a good ten miles back toward the family manse.
Herewith begins the more micro section of my medical rant. The medical office building at 1150 Youngs has two diagnostic facilities conspicuously displayed on its signboard. One is called Quest, and from all of my past experience specializes in samples of the "roll up your sleeve" or "here, pee into this" variety. It's a fair guess, I think, that not all that many of its patients are required to come in by means of wheelchairs, walkers or crutches. Our destination, on the other hand, bears the far sparklier name of Spectrum Radiology, and I think it's a fair bet that virtually all of its incoming trade is hobbled at one end or another of their neuroskeletal systems.
Care to guess which of these has the primo location right off the lobby, and which is located down the hall, to the right, and past the sign saying "beware of the leopard"?
Could be worse, though. I left Eleanor there for her closeup while I headed over to the third stop of the day to fill her Naproxen scrip. As I left, a patient was coming down the hall from an even more distant corner of the office building, and she was in a wheelchair and had at least one artificial leg.
Quit complaining, Ray.
----
The pharmacy of choice was WalMart, since we've already signed up there for a couple of their $4 generic deals. The pharmacy itself is prompt and pleasant, but the Transit Road parking lot is enough to require a couple of Vicodin just for the transient pain of dodging the assorted East Amherst idiots who all seem to go slumming there at the exact time I do twice a year. I dropped it off, headed back to Spectrum Not Speculum to reclaim my bride, returned yet again to pick up the souped-up Advils, and finally made it home (with an unscheduled, unprescribed liquor store run in between) roughly three hours after leaving the house in the first place.
----
The x-ray will tell for sure- or if it doesn't, an MRI likely will- but if the cartilage tear proves out as the diagnosis, the most likely treatment will be a whole bunch of Bloody Well Nothing. The most extreme cases call for arthroscopic surgery, but far more cases are solved with a simple combination of rest, anti-inflammatory medication and more patience than either of us can ever muster on a daily basis.
We've called in sick for tomorrow. Wednesday was a day off anyway. Hopefully things will be better by then.
Nothing really went badly, or took terribly long today, considering the system in which it all resides. One does wonder, though, why we tolerate a health care system that requires at least four stops in at least three different zip codes to diagnose, image, manage and ultimately repair a relatively simple breakdown of function in a pretty damn robust and healthy adult female.
The appointment at our primary physician was at 2:45, and he pretty much kept to that. First, though, we did have to sit through some pretty frightening noises coming from somewhere in his office building (which I think was a Catholic elementary school in a previous life)- a loud clanging and banging of metal against metal. "Frankenstein's prostate exam," I helpfully speculated.
In time, she was called in , and in an act of defiance that probably violated at least 20 different sections of HIPAA, I went into the examining room with Eleanor, introducing myself as "her third crutch." (He's my doctor, too, not that it matters.) This gave me the distinct pleasure of watching all four poke-prod procedures where he asked her, "Does this hurt?"
The first three of them hurt. Trust me. The fourth, she couldn't even manage, so it didn't.
His best guess is torn cartilage, but since no self-respecting (or non-self-insured) physician will ever guess at anything, she was sent post-haste to three additional stops.
----
First was a radiology shop for an x-ray of the knee, a good ten miles back toward the family manse.
Herewith begins the more micro section of my medical rant. The medical office building at 1150 Youngs has two diagnostic facilities conspicuously displayed on its signboard. One is called Quest, and from all of my past experience specializes in samples of the "roll up your sleeve" or "here, pee into this" variety. It's a fair guess, I think, that not all that many of its patients are required to come in by means of wheelchairs, walkers or crutches. Our destination, on the other hand, bears the far sparklier name of Spectrum Radiology, and I think it's a fair bet that virtually all of its incoming trade is hobbled at one end or another of their neuroskeletal systems.
Care to guess which of these has the primo location right off the lobby, and which is located down the hall, to the right, and past the sign saying "beware of the leopard"?
Could be worse, though. I left Eleanor there for her closeup while I headed over to the third stop of the day to fill her Naproxen scrip. As I left, a patient was coming down the hall from an even more distant corner of the office building, and she was in a wheelchair and had at least one artificial leg.
Quit complaining, Ray.
----
The pharmacy of choice was WalMart, since we've already signed up there for a couple of their $4 generic deals. The pharmacy itself is prompt and pleasant, but the Transit Road parking lot is enough to require a couple of Vicodin just for the transient pain of dodging the assorted East Amherst idiots who all seem to go slumming there at the exact time I do twice a year. I dropped it off, headed back to Spectrum Not Speculum to reclaim my bride, returned yet again to pick up the souped-up Advils, and finally made it home (with an unscheduled, unprescribed liquor store run in between) roughly three hours after leaving the house in the first place.
----
The x-ray will tell for sure- or if it doesn't, an MRI likely will- but if the cartilage tear proves out as the diagnosis, the most likely treatment will be a whole bunch of Bloody Well Nothing. The most extreme cases call for arthroscopic surgery, but far more cases are solved with a simple combination of rest, anti-inflammatory medication and more patience than either of us can ever muster on a daily basis.
We've called in sick for tomorrow. Wednesday was a day off anyway. Hopefully things will be better by then.