I probably shouldn't have, but a few weeks ago during my regular skin checkup I threw my dermatologist a crumb. He asked if anything was worrying me and looked so disappointed when I said no that I told him about the little bump on my heel I've had for about a year. I did this partly because I really like the guy and partly because his framed diploma from New Jersey Medical School always makes me feel sad for him. Anyway, he didn't know what the bump was and so referred me to a foot specialist. "Really? A foot specialist for this?" I asked. "It doesn't even hurt." Still, he said, it could be something, and we should find out what.
Admitting it was something but suspecting it was nothing, I went ahead and hurled myself down the medical rabbit hole, and this morning had my appointment with the foot specialist. Actually he turned out to be a foot and ankle specialist, so I was fairly confident he would suggest a course of action that would cost a bundle, take forever and hurt like hell.
Besides having to drive downtown in rush hour (which in Maine is twenty cars all going in the same direction and no big deal but still you get spoiled living here), I had to fill out five pages of "paper work" before I could be seen by Dr. Foot (not his real name but I never got it). In addition to my blood type, insurance information and names of next of kin in the event of an emergency (a foot emergency?), I was asked how my parents died and when, did I smoke or drink and if so what and how much, which prescription drugs I was on, what prior surgeries I had and all current and past illnesses suffered by the members of my immediate family. Finding it nonsense I filled in my name, address and phone number and handed it back to the receptionist who was clearly pissed off but took my picture "for their records" anyway.
Dr. Foot turned out to be a genial young man who examined my bump, called it something I already forget, deemed it "nothing to worry about" and offered me two options: Do Nothing unless it hurts or gets bigger, or Stick A Needle In It and drain out whatever fluid was in there. No dummy, I chose Do Nothing. He said fine, shook my hand and sent me on my way. The whole thing took ten minutes.
I cannot wait to see that bill.
Admitting it was something but suspecting it was nothing, I went ahead and hurled myself down the medical rabbit hole, and this morning had my appointment with the foot specialist. Actually he turned out to be a foot and ankle specialist, so I was fairly confident he would suggest a course of action that would cost a bundle, take forever and hurt like hell. Besides having to drive downtown in rush hour (which in Maine is twenty cars all going in the same direction and no big deal but still you get spoiled living here), I had to fill out five pages of "paper work" before I could be seen by Dr. Foot (not his real name but I never got it). In addition to my blood type, insurance information and names of next of kin in the event of an emergency (a foot emergency?), I was asked how my parents died and when, did I smoke or drink and if so what and how much, which prescription drugs I was on, what prior surgeries I had and all current and past illnesses suffered by the members of my immediate family. Finding it nonsense I filled in my name, address and phone number and handed it back to the receptionist who was clearly pissed off but took my picture "for their records" anyway.
Dr. Foot turned out to be a genial young man who examined my bump, called it something I already forget, deemed it "nothing to worry about" and offered me two options: Do Nothing unless it hurts or gets bigger, or Stick A Needle In It and drain out whatever fluid was in there. No dummy, I chose Do Nothing. He said fine, shook my hand and sent me on my way. The whole thing took ten minutes.
I cannot wait to see that bill.
No comments:
Post a Comment