The Nittany Turkey

Primarily about Penn State football, this is a tale told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

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Home Archives for Health Care

Healthy Arrogance?

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Those of you who have read my stuff for any length of time know of my ongoing frustration with the medical industry. I need to blow off some more steam about it. This is not a political post, though. While it is my belief that if the government gets involved in health care any more than it already is, they’ll screw it up even more, I’m not going to get into that here. The present state of affairs in provider-patient relationships at issue here, not how it got to where it is.

Why do we accept being pushed around by the health care industry? Others providing services to us could never get away with the arrogance and lack of basic business courtesy. (Well, except for home repair and remodeling contractors. They don’t seem to give a damn, either.) I believe that our system promotes this type of behavior. For most Americans, health insurance comes from the employer, who pays most of the premium. Doctors and hospitals bill the insurance company, not us as individuals. Thus, in many cases, health care providers view the insurance companies and the government (in the case of Medicare patients) as the customer, and patients as transport devices for the all-important insurance or Medicare card (check out Medicare Benefits). This is not true of all practices, but it is certainly an easy rut to slip into for many of them.

With that buildup, you have to be thinking that I have been annoyed beyond the breaking point by some egregious sin committed by a doctor or treatment facility. Well, two things got on my nerves this week. Taken individually, or perhaps even together, they seem like the type of minor annoyances that most of us routinely accommodate — just because that’s the way it is. Again, I ask, why do we tolerate it?

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Just So’s Ya Know…

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The best laid plans of mice and men sometimes run amok, even if the mice are hopelessly addicted to social anxiety disorder drugs. Doubtless my faithful readers (both of you—Hi, Mom!) are anxiously awaiting my brilliant post mortem on the so-called Syracuse game. Well, you’re not going to get much of one due to extenuating circumstances. So, tough!

I spent the weekend in the hospital, all wired up and monitored. I had some chest pains, which sometimes means that an old geezer like this Turkey is about to gobble his last gobble, so I went to the ER. Under the “Better Safe Than Legally Liable” principle, the ER doc, a pink-cheeked, mid-20s-looking butterball who will be a future coronary case himself, admitted me for 23-hour observation. That was at around 4 PM on Friday.

Alas, what was this Turkey to do? Even if I got out on time, the discharge procedures and the ride home would get me there past the end of the game. In this area, ABC was playing the Georgia Tech vs. Virginia Tech game, so I couldn’t get it on the hospital room TV. That would have been acceptable, even if I wasn’t in the brand new wing with the big LCD flat-screens in each room. I wound up ordering DirecTV to record the game on my DVR by using that satellite company’s nifty remote recording set-up via their web site from my Blackberry. Modern technology is great, but I couldn’t stand not to be able to get the game in real time.

I settled for watching the Michigan vs. Notre Dame game while I accessed ESPN.com from my notebook, which Artificially Sweetened had brought for me. Fortunately, the hospital provides Wi-Fi for its coronary patients. In this case, it would have to provide me with the appropriate adrenaline jolts. The game tracker thing worked in a pinch. I was able to watch drives via a chart and textual play-by-play in almost real time. The nurses thought I was completely nuts, with the TV bouncing between channels, the computer splayed out, and the Blackberry repeatedly chirping out score alerts.

Very quickly, the game was out of hand (or in hand, depending on from whose perspective you’re looking at it). My only EKG bender came on the second play of the game when Daryll Clark fumbled the ball away. That was quickly followed by our defense forcing a fumble on the next play, which made me laugh in comic relief. The game was never in doubt from that point on.

My testing was completed on Sunday, after a couple of false starts. The treadmill stress test was originally scheduled for 9 AM, but it had to be rescheduled to 11:15 AM because someone (and I now know who it was) was supposed to have ordered the radioisotope dose the previous day but didn’t. Then, my cardiologist had an emergency at another hospital, so my test was moved to 12:30.

In the meanwhile, I got a chest shave. Now, I’ve had treadmill stress tests before, and in those instances only the areas where the contact pads were to be installed got shaved. This time, I was completely shorn.

When I originally met with the cardiologist in my room, he was rather pessimistic about my chances, wanting to transfer me to the big hospital because he believed that I would do just OK on the treadmill and would still need to get the cardiac catheter to determine how major the blockage was. He wanted to do it at the big hospital in case he had to “open me up” right then and there. He even mentioned that Tim Russert had a good treadmill and still keeled over unexpectedly. These bright, cheery, reassuring words led to my suffering what I presume to have been a panic attack while the Ohio State vs. USC game wrapped up on my non-LCD, non-flat-screen room TV. After some nitroglycerin and a shot of morphine, I was fine. I mean really fine. I still had chest pains, but I didn’t care. Yay, morphine!

So, anyhow, with that glum forecast, I was looking forward to proving to this pessimist that I could handle the treadmill. I told the doc that I had to be home by 8 PM to see the Steelers game. I hopped on the treadmill and did my thing. The nuclear medicine tech knew me from the gym where we both work out. She told the doc and his other tech that I would probably do at least 10 minutes, because she had seen how hard I work out. Both the cardiologist and the technician were indeed surprised that I was able to do 11 minutes of the Bruce Protocol. My pulse simmered down rapidly from maximum, too, and my measured ejection fraction was 69%, for those Turkey fans with medical (or hypochondriacal) orientation. The imaging studies at rest and after exercise revealed no significant blockage or other abnormalities. The cardiologist told me I was going home and could follow up with him if I wanted.

Then, it was a matter of time before my floor nursie got my discharge signed off and sent me home, well in time for the Steelers.

Surprisingly—or maybe not—I had no desire to rehash the Penn State game. It is still there on the DVR, but I might never watch it. I know, I know! I am an irresponsible Nittany Lion blogger, not bothering to watch every nuance of Daryll Clark and Pat Devlin. But, hell, a scrimmage like that one proves absolutely nothing about anybody. They might as well have been playing Discovery Middle School. Besides, I don’t take myself that seriously. There are plenty of pedestrian reports out there on the Internet with more facts than I could dig up. Read them and then come back here to hang out with someone who has more opinions than facts. I’m easier to argue with!

I wish people would quit making comparisons to 1994 and 2005 teams, already. It’s just too early in the season for that kind of crap. What games have PSU played? A scrimmage with an FCS team; another scrimmage with an Oregon State team that was a shadow of its former self; and a walkover with a hapless, has-been Syracuse. So please shut the hell up with those comparisons. We have another cakewalk this weekend, and then the going gets tough. We’ll have nicely padded stats going into the Illinois game, but that’s when the tests of team character and efficacy begin. Until then, I don’t want to hear about the “greatness” of this team.

Sadly, with my weekend hospital stint, our guest reporter for the Syracuse game backed out on us. Hillary was busy with other things and she didn’t want to do it without me. However, Dr. Bill Cosby is still on board for the Temple game wrap-up next week.

This Turkey will return later in the week for a look at the Temple Owls.

A Close Brush With Dr. Drool

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It was lunchtime on a recent afternoon (Okay, last year. It’s been a while since I posted.) and I was about to take a bite of a Garlic Chicken and Pasta Lean Cuisine when I ran into a snag, or to be more specific, my left jaw did. I couldn’t bite down all the way and it hurt. Since this was the third such incident within a two month span, I decided it was time to take action. I called a local dentist from https://www.northscottsdaledentistry.com who specializes in jaw irregularities. Having acquired his name from my “regular” dental office, I figured I would be in good hands. I figured wrong regarding dental implant cost.

New age Muzak wafted through the waiting area when I arrived for my appointment the next day. Gee, never heard that at a dental office before. I signed in, sat and looked around. The reading material was fairly typical: those big blue Bible Story books for kids; some health magazines; monthly Guideposts. A rather odd mix, I thought, new age music and Christian literature, but whatever works. When the mild mannered receptionist asked me to follow her into a small office, my feeling that something was just a tad strange grew a little bit bigger. Ms. Mild Mannered explained she wanted me to fill out some forms while she made copies of my drivers license and insurance cards. Okay, but why take me into a private office? I start digging my ID out of my wallet and catch myself just before I accidentally hand her my Visa card. Whoops! “Oh,” says MMM (Ms. Mild Mannered), “you may want to keep that out. Heh heh.”

Huh?

When I’m finished filling out the forms and pay the $300 fee—I was informed when I made the appointment that payment was required upfront, and desperate to unlock my jaw, I agreed—MMM ushers me down the hall to yet another small office, even tinier than the last. I take a seat in front of an enormous desk which fills up most of the room. About a minute later, in walks Dr. Drool who makes up in width what he lacks in height.

“Welcome to our family,” Dr. Drool cries, spreading his arms out wide. My jaw has relaxed by now but the rest of me begins to tense up when Dr. Drool proceeds to take a seat right next to me.

“So, what brings you to see me today?”

I tell Dr. Drool about the lock jaw and he explains the condition, TMJ, that is, when he’s not cracking himself up with dumb jokes. In fact, at one point, Dr. Drool becomes so tickled with himself that he leans over to me and actually rubs his shoulder against mine. Excuse me? Who is this guy? Dr. Drool chortles on and seems completely unaware that his behavior is, shall we say, f—ing inappropriate!

A voice inside my head starts to cry: “I want out of here!” Unfortunately, my butt seems to be as frozen to the chair as the smile is to my face. I’m too shocked to move. Dr. Drool has moved behind his desk and is showing me some bizarre looking computer graphics of the jaw and its workings.

“Well, you’ve heard enough of me (I’ll say, buddy), so now I’m going to show you a little film. Watch this” Dr. Drool commands and flicks on a small TV. Suddenly I have double-vision. There’s Dr. Drool—TV celebrity—talking with a local news reporter about TMJ and his miracle cures. Hello? I’m sitting right across from you, pal, why do you need to play me a promo?

Dr. Drool is really having a good time, watching himself on TV and all. The voice inside my head is getting louder: Get away from this nutcase! But then the video portion of what is becoming quite a freak show ends and Dr.-Drool-in-the-flesh begins to speak. First, however, he comes over to sit next to me again.

“That’s a cute haircut,” he grins.

Uh, thanks.

“Now. Let me ask you. How do you deal with stress?”

(Uh, I have a lot of sex but don’t think for a minute that I’m going to have it with you, mister.)

What I really say: “I run. I’m training for a half marathon.”

Eyes me up and down. “Yes, you’re in good shape.”

Okay. I’m getting out of here. Really this time.

I’m about to move out when Dr. Drool whips some forms under my nose.

“This is my fee. Are you married?”

Yesyesyes!!!!!

“Well, get ready to have another man in your life for a while–wink wink.”

Moving quickly, Drool proceeds to show me how much it’s going to
cost—upfront, of course—over the next 12 months (!) of treatment. It ain’t pretty.

I tell him I’d like to talk with my husband about this first.

“Oh, you can call him right here and we’ll discuss it together.”

He’s kidding right?

Doc picks up the phone.

No. He’s not.

I say I really want to talk this over—in private—with my husband.

He’s not happy. “Well, okay. But I explained in my introductory letter to you that you should bring your significant other.”

Letter? Hello, I just made the appointment yesterday. It is now the next morning and unless he sent it special delivery, I don’t think the mail works that fast.

Dr. Drool clucks his tongue. He’s getting the idea that I’m not coming back so he trots out the big guns. Actually, it’s only a single gun whose name is Pat, a no-nonsense looking woman with grey hair and a slight brown mustache.

“Pat will take your check.” Dr. Drool takes in a massive breath and gives me a hard look. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.” Drool pauses, swallows, then says: “Your condition will NOT improve without this treatment.” With a dark cloud of doom floating above his head, Dr. Drool turns and waddles away.

Pat says, “I can take Master Card or Visa.”

They really want my Visa card! I reiterate that I want to talk this over with my husband. The cloud of doom floats back into the room. All right, says Pat, “but you won’t get better UNLESS you come back and see the doctor.”

I’ll take my chances with lock jaw, lady. I (finally) make my exit with my Visa card still firmly tucked inside my wallet. Next time I will consult only the trusted Philadelphia emergency dentist!

A few days later, I receive a letter from Dr. Drool stating that he has forwarded my file to my regular dental office. Little problem. I signed a form permitting this however Dr. Drool has sent my records to the WRONG dentist. I read further. Drool informs me in bold typeface (I’m surprised he didn’t use all caps as well) that “your condition will not improve without this treatment.” But I wanted to Get More Info before giving in to the warning. For good measure, he repeats his warning two more times before concluding with—

Have a blessed day.

Oh, I will all right. I’m counting my blessings that I won’t be rubbing elbows or shoulders or anything else this shyster may be planning, ever again. And when it comes to the TMJ, I’ll just take smaller bites.