Lately I have been looking at my life from the perspective of how broken things are. I don’t recommend it as eventually you notice that everything is broken. It gets overwhelming fast, and you find yourself with really stupid options for remedy. You can take the chaos theory approach to things and just say that it’s the universe’s tendency to return to its natural state of disarray. You can take the optimists approach and say if it can be broken it can be fixed. Or you can declare it irreversibly fubar and either hide in a hole or bail.
Sufficed to say all my trying to fix what I can fix has led to more things going to shit, which just further supports chaos theory, and pushes me toward fubar every time.
Case in point. The more I try to fix my health the more backward I seem to go. Despite my efforts to try to make my blood situation manageable, the more I get screwed up.
I got a letter in the mail sometime last week. I say sometime because someone else got to the mail first and not only did not deliver my letters to me, but sort of hid them from me. That aside, I find this letter addressed to me from the oncology clinic that serves as my blood dealer. It is a form letter notifying me that it no longer exists, but not to worry – my oncologist or haematologist will contact me with further instructions on what to do and where to go now. With the exception of this one oncologist who also no longer exists. Of course, that one oncologist happens to be MY doctor and I happen to have labs due for him and an appointment at his now nonexistent office in a week.
What? I just looked at the paper and then reread it several times. Who notifies a patient that their oncology clinic has closed and they’ve got to find a new oncologist that way? Who just dumps their practice and makes for the hills like that?
I seriously hope that they did not send that letter to all the patients who use that clinic’s services. I mean really. Imagine getting that letter when you’re in the middle of cancer treatments? I’d be terrified if my oncologist just bailed. My needs at that clinic are nowhere near as severe as they could be, but what would have happened had I not received that letter? Would they have just let me show up to my upcoming appointment and find out that way? It is exceedingly inhumane to have your health – which in the case of oncological patients is your life – treated with the coldness of a form letter. And people have the audacity to argue that there is nothing wrong with our health care system.
Right now I’m sort of having a rough time of it, and I suspect I will need to be fused to the juice again soon: I’m cold, exhausted, my hair is coming out in clumps again, and I’m passing out. What if I can’t wait months to find a new clinic and new doctor? What the hell is wrong with people?
It turns out that my clinic and its parent hospital were absorbed by a larger area hospital. I knew that was happening (via local media) but had been under the impression that the two hospitals would function the same way, with departments and emergency services remaining at both just under one name. This made sense as they both shared the same lab departments, many of the same staff, and the larger hospital has more services, better facilities; the smaller hospital would often refer a patient to the larger for those services. I had no idea that they were planning to consolidate oncology services. At my last treatment no one said a word and they made the appointments so they knew I was expecting to come back. I am now concerned that the rug may have been pulled out from under them as well, and am more than a little worried for many of the staff. No one needs to lose their jobs in this economy.
The letter provided several (seemingly random) telephone numbers for me to try to figure out what I’m supposed to do next. I felt terrible for the various receptionists and nurses I talked to on the phone who must be running ragged trying to figure out what to do with all of these lost people calling them up all day. It took several days to work it out, but I have found a new oncologist and we have an appointment to meet next week. This is good but it means starting from scratch with someone new in a new place that I don’t know with people I don’t know. Sorry, but I like to get to know a person before I puke in front of them (because Real Women Puke in Barrels) or exchange bodily fluids.
I have yet to hear from the oncologist who ditched his practice and r-u-n-n-o-f-t back to Boston. I am now oh-so confident in his diagnosis and prescribed treatments.
So fubar is my blood. Next I have to fix my home. My hair (I really don’t want to go bald). My employment situation. My book. My life.
In other news the spider did not in fact steal my mother’s purse. But there’s the possibility of a missing twenty so this was suggested: