A Study in Sloth: The Tragedy of Urgency Misplaced

From the moment the clock struck October 16, I declared war. I was ready to storm the gates. “Full speed ahead!” I cried. “That rat-bastard charlie must die!” — charlie, the unwelcome squatter currently renting space in my retina. The battle cry was clear. The troops, however, were apparently on lunch break.

First order of business: contact the Scott & White retina specialist. To his eternal credit—bless his overbooked, saintly heart—he squeezed me in. I dared to hope. Life was briefly good. The gods of medicine had smiled upon me.

He didn’t like what he saw (who would?), but he did recommend the super-doc in Austin—the medical equivalent of summoning Gandalf. Alas, even Gandalf keeps banker’s hours. The earliest appointment? Six days away. Six days! In cancer time, that’s roughly the length of the Mesozoic Era.

I persevered. The Austin appointment arrived, the doctor frowned, and decreed: “Let there be a PET scan.” First, however, a bureaucratic sacrifice to the gods of paperwork—apparently PET scans don’t schedule themselves.

Four days of radio silence later I started calling. Austin first with no update except its in the hands of Scott and White. so I call Scott and White. According to Scott and White, the mighty “fax”—that ancient relic of the 20th century—takes seven to ten days to appear “in the system.” Seven to ten days. The pyramids were built faster. I began to sense a lack of urgency.

I left a message on the patient advocate line—a magical hotline promising compassion and efficiency. The recording asked me to be respectful of their feelings. Their feelings. A delightful twist, since I’m the one with a potential ticking time bomb behind my eyeball.

Weekend passes. I show up Tuesday, fuming like a badly written Greek god. Still no PET scan. The doctor seems... unenthused by my enthusiasm. It dawns on me that the medical profession may have collectively misplaced its sense of urgency.

Then today—ah, today—Austin calls. No labs available until January. January! The scheduler sounds near tears, bless her. She suggests my primary care physician might “help.” Of course—let’s recruit yet another player for this tragic farce. Meanwhile my vision blurs, my eye aches, and my patience files for divorce.

So I take up the banner again. I message the Scott and White retina specialist, pleading for an in-house referral, and leave yet another note with the patient advocates, who by now are probably screening my calls. No reply. Silence.

Tomorrow I’ll try the VA. Maybe they have a PET scanner that isn’t being used as a coat rack. I won’t hold my breath—oxygen might be the only thing moving fast around here.

In summary: There is, indeed, a plethora of lack of urgency. Time is not my friend. And that rat-bastard charlie? He’s probably throwing a party in my eye while the healthcare system argues over who’s responsible for sending the next fax.

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