Monday: Bureaucracy Rides Again

Well, it’s another Monday — that cursed invention designed to remind us that hope has a snooze button. Still no word on the mythical PET scan, the sacred diagnostic ritual my doctor needs to decide whether I’m worth saving or just another entry in her billing software.

The office, bless their mechanized hearts, remains laser-focused on confirming that I will, in fact, show up to appointments that may or may not exist. They can’t tell me whether the test has even been ordered, but they’ll chase me down like a bounty hunter if I dare skip a scheduled guilt session. Accountability, it seems, is a one-way street — freshly paved for them, full of potholes for me.

Yesterday, my neighbor eased on over — on horseback, no less. A fine piece of horseflesh, the horse, not my neighbor. The animal gleamed and smirked, as if to say, I’m what progress used to look like. My neighbor, bless him, came by to check on me and see if there had been any “developments.” Real nice of him. The horse, to his credit, offered the only honest commentary I’ve heard so far — a steaming editorial right in front of me, straight from the north end of a south-bound critic. I took it as a sign of solidarity.

Meanwhile, my hunting buddy calls at least once a day to check in — just to make sure I’m still breathing and sufficiently bitter. If only the medical professionals showed half his dedication. He doesn’t have a degree or a fax machine, but he does have a pulse and a memory, which puts him several steps ahead of the healthcare system.

I even left a message with Scott and White’s so-called Patient Advocacy line. They promise patients can escalate grievances “all the way to the CEO.” Sounds impressive, until you realize they’ve built no actual ladder — just a trapdoor leading to nowhere. I suspect my message is now drifting in some digital purgatory, right next to lost insurance claims and abandoned ethics.

The eye doctor’s office joined the parade of uselessness too. After explaining my situation to the receptionist (who sounded young enough to still believe in justice), I was transferred to the “assistant to the doctor.” Naturally, they’re never available. I imagine them as a cloaked figure, sitting in a dark room illuminated only by the glow of unanswered voicemails.

Tomorrow’s voting day. Everyone says every vote counts. I’d like to cast mine for competence — or maybe just for someone who answers the phone. But those names never make it onto the ballot. So I’ll do my civic duty and pretend it matters — the same way the clinic pretends it faxed that PET scan request.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler