MEDICAL MISFITERY in Adventures From Prison

2 ½ years ago - I woke up one morning to find a large pimple beneath my left eye. Over the next few days it swelled and popped. The area stayed sore and inflamed for another few days. When it subsided I noticed that a dark dot had appeared where the pimple once was. The spot grew for about a month then stopped at about the size of a pencil eraser. It was slightly raised and a deep blue color. Knowing what I do about the human body and it’s diseases I was mildly concerned about skin cancer – particularly melanoma which expresses with a similar color.
2 years ago - During a check-up with my PA I point the spot out to him and his intern. They both peer and poke and conclude it is a blue mole. I ask the MD about it, he measures it and said the same thing.
1 ½ years ago – My doctor measures the spot again. No change. I ask for a biopsy anyway. He said it’s not needed.
1 year ago – No one at medical says a word about my spot, although a passing staff member said I should get it looked at. I tell her I did and that it’s just a mole. She looks at me skeptically.
This January – I barely have my jacket off when my new PA looks at me and asks what the thing on my face is. The doctor who I’ve always had is called in. “It’s a mole,” I tell him. “A blue nevus is what you called it,” I remind him. “You told me it was nothing to worry about.”
“I said that?” he asks. “Well we’re going to need a biopsy.”
“I asked for one two years ago,” I said. “You said it was nothing.”
“I really don’t think I said that,” he balks.
“You did,” I assure him. “Then you said it the last two times I saw you.”
“No, if you’d brought this to my attention…”
“I did.”
“… I never would have let you leave without a biopsy.”
“You did. Three times”, I say.
He looks at me as if I had just recited the Pledge of Allegiance in Latin. “Well…” he turns to my PA, “Why don’t you do a punch biopsy.”
“Um…if you show me how,” she tells him.
“Excuse me?” I spout out. They ignore me.
“You don’t know how to do a punch biopsy?” the doc asks.
“It’s never come up before.”
“Well can you stitch?”
“I’m rusty,” she admits.
“Can we not practice on Gus, please?!” I say loudly.
They turn to look at me. “Who’s Gus?” my PA asks me.
I wave. A terrible premonition of me missing half my face comes over me.
“Tell you what,” the doctor said to my PA. “We’ll have Gary do it and you can assist.”
“Does he know how?” I ask. They ignore me again. It’s times like this that I really hate being an inmate with no ability to call them both idiots and find a new doctor.
The two over-educated nimrods agree that their plan is a good one and the doctor leaves me alone with my PA.
“Let’s get your vitals,” she said, strapping the blood pressure cuff on. She hits the start button…nothing happens.
“Hmm,” she says, readjusting the cuff and trying again.
Still nothing.
She then leads me into another exam room and tries again. This one doesn’t work either.
“Are you sure it’s plugged in?” I ask.
She is not amused.
We go into a third room where another PA is on a computer playing solitaire. (Okay, I’m not sure he was playing a game, but he had the same zoned out expression I saw on my wife every time she played it – which was a lot.)
He looks at her with confusion.
“I can’t get my vital machines to work.”
Together they put on the cuff again and hit the button. Still nothing!
“Try changing the cuff,” I said wearily.
“That’s a good idea,” the PA whose office we invaded said with surprise.
“Not all inmates are morons,” I remind him. “I used to write training manuals for hospital staff.”
“Oh,” he said, then scurried off to find a new cuff.
“Well, while he’s gone let’s take a look at what meds you’re on.” She pulls up a file on the computer then turns to me with a look of annoyance. “Why aren’t you taking your medication?”
I laugh. “Seriously?” I ask.
“The computer shows your refills expired last month.”
“They did. I’ve been waiting for the last three weeks for you to refill them. That’s what I just told the nurse when I asked to see you.”
“Oh. Well we’re running a little behind.”
“You think?”
“You need to take your meds.”
“I will if you give them to me.”
“What are you taking?” she asks.
“Isn’t it there on your screen?”
“No, it won’t show me anything since they’re expired. I’ll write them down then check it against your record on my terminal.”
So I recite off what I remember.
The other PA returns with a new cuff and takes my vitals while my PA goes to confirm and renew my meds. A few minutes later she comes back.
“You forgot to tell me you were on mometasone furoate.”
“No I didn’t. I said I was on Asthmanex.
“The BOP doesn’t carry Asthmanex.”
“Yes it does.”
“No the computer said it doesn’t.”
“Asthmanex is the commercial name for mometasone.” I tell her with a sigh.
“Oh, it is?”
“It is.”
“We probably use a generic with a different name,” she tells me. (An hour later I pulled out my inhaler. The name of the medication: Asthmanex.)
Two days later, I am called in for my biopsy. This part goes amazingly well. Even my PA seems surprised. For the most part it was painless; however the two shots lidocaine under my eye hurt like a bitch! I’m given two stitches and a few band-aids for the weekend to keep them covered.
The following Wednesday they really pissed me off. I showed up for my appointment at 8 am as scheduled, anxious for my test results. I’m the first one there and at the top of the list of scheduled appointments. Nine o’clock rolls around, then 10 and no one has been called. I stop a nurse who is going by and ask if my doctor is even there.
“I don’t know,” she said
“I’ve been waiting for over two hours. I just want to know if I should stay.”
“I’ll check.” She disappears in the back then returns to say, “He’s in a meeting.”
“A meeting? Like some sort of emergency?”
“No, just their usual 8 am, Wednesday meeting. You can wait if you want.”
“I was scheduled to see him at 8. Why would he schedule me for then?”
“You’ll have to speak with him.”
At 11:20 I am called back. My PA is standing in the hall with my Doctor. “We got your biopsy results back,” the PA said.
“Yeah,” the doctor laughs. “Turns out it was just a blue nevus. Oh well.”
“That’s all,” my PA said. “You can go.”
“Well we could take out your stitches since you’re here,” the doctor said.
“I’m supposed to ask you a question,” I say barely able to contain my anger. “If you were aware that you were going to be in a meeting at 8 – a meeting that always happens on Wednesday at 8 – then why did you schedule me for an appointment at the same time?”
Both of them stare at me.
“I just want to know, because I have been sitting out in the lobby for three hours, worrying about my test results, not wanting to leave like all of your 9 & 10 o’clock patients without seeing you, wondering if you are even here. Why couldn’t you have just informed me you were running late?”
As I asked this a woman who works in the records department walks by, she hears my question and decides to answer for them. “Because you’re an inmate,” she snarls. “You have nothing better to do and we don’t have to answer to you.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “You are always preaching about how inmates are supposed to respect the staff,” turning to my care-givers. “Well respect is a two way street. If we know what’s happening we are much more likely to be cooperative.”
“You’re an inmate,” the records woman snarls again. “We don’t have to give you respect.”
At this point my doctor can see how angry I am and escorts me into a treatment room. He’s followed immediately by the head of the department who overheard everything.
“So in this department inmates do not deserve respect?” I ask the head honcho.
“I never said that,” she tells me. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
So I tell her and receive an insincere apology. “You have to understand, sir,” she says to me. “That we don’t respond well to yelling.”
“I wasn’t yelling,” I tell her, “I was asking questions in a professional manner. It was your employee who was yelling.” The head honcho looks at me curiously, then turns to my doctor. “So what are we doing today with this inmate?”
“Removing stitches from a biopsy.”
At this point the PA who performed the surgical procedure comes over. “Take off your shirt,” he said. “I want to look at them first.”
I stare at him.
“Take off your shirt,” he repeats.
I raise my hand and tap my cheek. “They’re right here.”
His face falls. “Oh,” he says. “Well let’s remove them.”
I finally leave medical at 11:45, thinking it’s all over.
The next morning I find my name again on the appointment sheet. Not once but twice. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon.
Being a respectful inmate I go.
The nurse comes out and says brightly to me. “Time to take out your stitches.”
“Too late,” I sigh. “They did it yesterday.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She goes back to check her task sheet and comes back scratching her head. “Weird. I also have you down for the same thing this afternoon.”
So I leave.
The next morning, I have two more appointments.
I go back. The same nurse sees me. “Why are you back?”
“I have no idea.”
She goes in back, returning quickly to tell me to just leave.
And so ends my tale of medical moranacy. Just keep this in mind the next time you are sitting in a doctor’s waiting room bemoaning Obamacare. Remember it could always be worse. Your doctors and Pas could be government employees!