Things That Make you Go "Grrrrrr..."

You know, most of the time I try to have a good attitude about things, but sometimes I let life get to me.

This is one of those times.

To start off, I finally got the results back from my blood tests and ultrasound on my thyroid. I had been told that the results would be back by the end of the week. That is, the end of last week. As of Tuesday morning, I hadn't heard a thing, and was stressing myself out considerably over the results. Yes, I know the old adage that no news is good news, but my brain kept coming up with reasons why it was taking them so long to call me back with the results, and by Tuesday my brain had constructed this elaborate nightmare that the results were so bad that they had to fly in specialists to get a second opinion. I wasn't sleeping well, I was alternating between picking at my food and completely binging, and I spent much of Tuesday morning with a nervous stomach that rejected everything that I ate or drank for a few hours.

Now granted, I know that I'm not a big priority to Giant Health Association. HMOs are not known for their red-carpet treatment of patients. But when you have a new patient - new as in first appointment in the office - and you run tests and promise the patient you'll call with the results of said tests, then you should do it. After the complete rigamrole I had to go through to actually see the doctor and get the tests run, I didn't need the added annoyance of having to call Giant Health Association and sit on hold for twenty minutes and get bounced from department to department. And while the medical assistant that finally looked up my records was very courteous and read my results to me, she didn't have any idea what plan of action my nurse practitioner wanted to implement. She took down my name, work number, and home number and said that she would have Not Dr. Ruth call me so I could discuss the results with her.

I stressed to the medical assistant that I was at work until 5:00. Of course, she must have spoken a strange dialect where "I can be reached at work until 5" means "under no circumstances should you call me at work - leave a message on my answering machine at home, because this whole experience hasn't been frustrating enough for me!"

I finally got ahold of Not Dr. Ruth, and she explained that my thyroid levels were fine, but that I had a multi-nodular goiter (ewww... there's that word again). She offered to send me to an endocrinologist, but since the goiter (ewww) wasn't causing a problem, why would I want to give Giant Health Association any more of my money? We agreed that the best course of action was just to continue to monitor my thyroid for any changes. (So, I'm abnormal, but not dangerous at this time. Pretty much like I am in real life.)

Of course, then she goes on to tell me that one of the other tests came back incomplete, because they didn't manage to get a culture of one of the required types of cells, so I have to get another exam when I go back in for my next Depo booster in three months. This wasn't important enough to call me about either? Half the test is missing, and they figured they'd just let it slide and spring it on me in a few months? "Hey Myo, we know you're just here for a shot in the butt, but do you mind getting up on the table and putting your feet in the stirrups? We kinda messed up last time, and need to try again. Thanks!"

Um, I look upon my annual visit to the girly-bits doctor as a necessary evil. It's not my idea of a good time. I also look upon it as an annual thing.

Someday I'm going to look back on this and laugh.

And while I'm griping, I suppose I should include my laundry list of "stupid things that happen at work" while I'm at it...

I love my job, really I do. But sometimes the people I have to talk to when booking programs drive me crazy.

Today, for instance, I had to deal with a charter bus company. Now, charter bus companies don't like to give up the school's address or any other information for the reason that they are charging the school a different rate than we would charge them. The touring company is worried that the school will find out how much of a profit is being made by the "tour escorts" and won't book their services the following year. However, I've never had a bus company representative blatantly lie to me to prevent me from getting this information before.

When I asked for the school's address, the representative (let's call her BS Becky) said she didn't have that information because she didn't have the file in front of her. I explained that I needed that information, and she told me that I really didn't need it, since all of the arrangements were being made by BS Tours and the school would never again be coming to our zoo. I explained again that we needed to enter the school's information into the database for our records, she spouted off an address in a single breath. Since she had just told me that she didn't have the school's file, I was more than a little suspicious... especially when she didn't have the phone number. I went ahead and took the information, told her I would send the confirmation packet to her attention at BS Tours, and pulled up a search engine to find the school's phone number and verify the address. (Seems that BS Becky isn't aware of a little thing called the internet, or that almost every school in the nation has its own webpage, or that those webpages usually have contact information.)

Lo and behold, when I pulled up the school's website, the address I had been given was totally wrong. I called BS Tours back to verify their address, and discovered that the false school address was actually the old address of the tour company. Apparently they had just relocated their offices across town.

But none of this should really surprise me. After sending out an email invitation to some of our teachers for a Festival of Lights preview night where it very clearly stated (twice) that RSVPs were to be called into a specific phone number, I wasn't surprised to find that several of the teachers tried to RSVP by emailing me. It doesn't surprise me when teachers seem to overlook the "please call at least two weeks in advance to register your group" and call at 4:30 in the afternoon to set up a field trip for the next morning. It doesn't surprise me when home schools tell me that they can't schedule that far in advance, since they are unable to predict the weather. (Apparently home schools think that public schools have the power to do this, I guess.) And it doesn't surprise me in the least when teachers call to essentially ask me to write their zoo field trip curriculum. (I actually had one teacher tell me her school planned on bringing enough chaperones so the teachers wouldn't have to supervise any of the students.) Call me crazy, but I thought that teachers were paid to supervise and educate their students, not have me send them activities that the room mothers can distribute while the teachers sit in the restaurant and drink coffee.

Oh well. As a wise friend of mine once said, never underestimate the power of human stupidity... but don't dwell on it, either. I guess I should concentrate less on stupid things that I can't change, like teachers that can't read and doctors' offices that forget to call you back, and more on things within my power to change, like getting back up to quota on NaNoWriMo. I'm currently almost 5000 words behind. I'm such a slacker. It's going to be a long week and a half. Hope the coffee supply holds out.

Doctor, Doctor

(Warning: The following entry is about various experiences in doctors' offices. It contains references to bodily fluids and icky girl stuff. If that kind of thing bothers you, don't read it. Go support me or Rosencrantz or Tyim in our NaNoWriMo insanity and read our novels or something.)

I hate going to the doctor. This has nothing to do with any weird phobias about needles or hospitals or anything. I used to give blood at Hoxworth on a regular basis. Heck, at one point I considered becoming a nurse, and undertook a year of classes at one of the local hopsital based schools. For the most part, most of my past visits to any doctor have been positive ones.

The main exception was Dr. Sourball, whom I visited for the first and last time a few years ago when I had a double whammy of sinusitis and bronchitis. I had suffered through about of week of sniffling and wheezing, hoping that my symptoms would clear up, and called for an appointment when it became clear that I wasn't going to be able to wait out this bout. On the afternoon of my appointment, I got stuck in construction traffic and was late. Upon checking in with the receptionist, she reminded me of this in the tone of a condescending second grade teacher. Fifteen minutes later I was called into exam room, where I waited to see Dr. Sourball for another five minutes.

Finally, he came in and greeted me by lecturing me on being late for my appointment. Dude! If I could have magically avoided the gridlock on I-71, I would have done so. I didn't enjoy sitting at a standstill in front of a Speed Limit 65 sign for ten minutes, so lay off.

So after he grumbled at me, he finally asked, "And what brings you in here today?"

"I have sinusitis and bronchitis. I thought I could tough it out, but it seems my body had other ideas."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you know you have sinusitis and brochitis. And how do you know that?"

I'm sure doctors have to deal with patients who self-diagnose all the time. I'm sure it can get annoying. But it wasn't like I walked in and told him I had a brain tumor or bubonic plague. I had two rather common ailments, and I have a tendency to over-research things before I seek professional help. "Well, I've had sinusitis and bronchitis before, and I know what the symptoms are. I just took a layman's guess." In other words, Dr. Second-Guess-Your-Patient, my snot is green and I feel like I'm breathing through a sponge. You do the math.

He scoffed at my respose. "Well, we'll just see about that," and ran the necessary exam procedures and tests. A few minutes later, he returned with the results. He didn't look too happy.

"Well, it looks like you have sinusitis and bronchitis." Um, duh. He begrudgingly gave me prescriptions for decongestants and antibiotics, and told me that smoking was bad for me. Again, duh. While I don't claim to be the brightest bulb on the strand, I'm not a complete moron. It's not like I thought smoking was a good way for me to supplement my vitamin intake.

Since that day, the only doctor I've visited on a regular basis is my gynecologist. For the past few years, I had been fortunate enough to have the option of visiting my local Planned Parenthood under the coverage of my insurance. All of the employees there were friendly and top notch, and I didn't mind having to go in every three months to get my shot in the butt. (TMI alert: I switched to Depo Provera because the Pill made me crazy. It's made me gain a little bit of weight, but I haven't had to shop for "feminine products" for over two years. In my book, it's one of the greatest medical discoveries of the last fifty years.)

My insurance at the Zoo didn't cover visits to Planned Parenthood, so I found myself having to switch doctors for my annual visit. I called scheduling to make an appointment. No, I didn't care who they assigned me to, as long as they would be covered by my insurance and could see me on November 4th, when my next Depo injection was due.

On the day of my appointment, I awoke to find that my car had been broken into, and my stereo had been stolen. Oh well, I would have to make the necessary calls later that morning from work. I drove up the street to the doctor's office, realizing as I drove that I had forgotten the copies of my records from Planned Parenthood. No big deal, right? I could just drop them off on my way home from the Zoo.

Well, apparently it was a problem, and they couldn't give me my Depo until they saw my records. After offers to fax them from my office or call Planned Parenthood to obtain another copy, I was told that I would just have to reschedule. I was assured this would not mess up my injection schedule, took the next available appointment, and drove on to work.

Flash forward to my appointment yesterday. I'm back at the medical center, sitting in the exam room in a gown that doesn't fasten up the back, a big white sheet draped over my legs. I've been informed that I will not be receiving my Depo today after all, since they waited too long and have to run a blood test to see if I'm pregnant. (I could guarantee that the answer was a resounding No, but they still had to run the test. Arrrrrgggghhh.) My nurse practitioner, Not-Dr. Ruth greeted me as she came in and started the exam. She started off by palpating my thyroid gland.

"Huh."

When someone in the medical profession makes a remark like "Huh," it usually isn't a good thing. "What is it?" I asked.

"How long has one side of your thyroid been bigger than the other?"

Um. Since no one has ever mentioned it previously, I had no idea. She remarked that it probably wasn't a big concern, but just to be on the safe side she would order an extra blood test and an ultrasound. No big deal. Better safe than sorry.

Of course, the girl who was assisting Not-Dr. Ruth had a little problem with the blood draw. Apparently I inherited my mother's tiny tiny veins, and after fifteen minutes and one false stick which resulted in nothing but a big hole in my arm, she sent me down to the phlebotomy lab. Again, no big deal. The phlebotomist drew two vials of blood and sent me up to Radiation to make my ultrasound appointment.

I went home and did a little research on enlarged thyroids and what it could possibly mean. An hour later, I had learned the basics of hyperthyroidism and nodules, and had decided that "goiter" was the ugliest word in the English language. (Not to mention the fact that when I think of goiters, I think of a picture of an extreme case that I saw once as a child, where the man's neck bulged out uncomfortably. Ew. It's tube neck. It's the damned plague from The Stand.)

So here I am, sitting at work with a little more than two hours to go until my exam. I've never had an ultrasound, and I know it's nothing to worry about. But sometimes my mind, when given time to wander, has a tendency to jump to worst case scenarios. As certain as I am that the test will show nothing major, just some small anomaly that can be corrected easily with medication, there's a tiny voice in the back of my head chanting things like Grave's Disease and endoscopic subtotal thyroidectomy and radioactive isotopes and fine needle aspiration. Last night it was throwing in surgery and cancer for good measure.

I know that I probably have nothing to worry about. I know that thyroid cancer is rare, and that women have as high as a one in five chance of developing thyroid problems. But I also know that practically everything about my lifestyle can cause thyroid problems: caffeine, smoking, ephedra, hair color. And after speaking to my mother on the phone a few minutes ago, I have just discovered that my grandfather had thyroid cancer, and had to have his removed.

OK. Now I'm worried. The little voice in the back of my head is laughing at me, taunting me and shaking its finger in my face, and telling me I've brought all this upon myself. And if it's this loud at this point, before I've even gone for my exam, I'm terrified of what it's going to sound like later on tonight.

At least it's made me forget about having to get my Depo shot. I guess that's one good thing.

Progressing to Points Unknown

Whew!

NaNoWriMo has begun, and so far I'm managing to keep with my quota. (I hit 8413 words last night, 78 words more than my daily average requires.) So far I'm feeling quite comfortable with the pace and direction of my story. It could probably be better, but the month of December is reserved for revisions. Right now, it's just about getting the words down on paper and having them make a bit of sense and move the plot along. I really do need to pick up the pace, though. One of our graphic artists just stuck his head in the door and asked when the next happy hour was going to be, and I know from experience that I don't write well after a night out with the Zoo Crew.

If you're interested in reading my progress, I'm posting as I go. Please don't laugh at me too much when I hit the brick wall of writer's block. I might not hit the wall this time; the other night I sat down to write, and the resulting passage was not at all what I had intended to write. I typed out one simile, and it knocked me out of the way and took over. (For those of you keeping score at home, it was Chapter Four, the "gambling" chapter. I have no idea where that came from.)

Rosencrantz (writing under the pseudonym of Ratatosk) is also making progress on her novel, On the Clock. And out of nowhere, Tyim (writing under the name of Forkface) has joined our foray into high speed novelling, with his entry, Out of the Box. Why yes, we're all publishing online because we're insane. WHEEEEE!!!

Posting the chapters online has provided an extra sense of motivation to finish, as has the fact that I've already committed to the Thank God It's Over party in December. Nothing motivates like the fear of humiliation in front of strangers.

In hopes of being able to work on my novel in other places besides my home, I recently purchased a laptop computer. And it was a good thing too, since my desktop is acting funky and not connecting properly to the internet. Oh well. I'm sure I'll get it fixed eventually. My main concern now is getting the novel written on the laptop, and figuring out how to work the CD burner.

Of course, after committing myself to making payments on my new toy for the next year and a half, my finances suffered a major setback when my car was broken into Sunday night. I had to replace the window, will have to get the dashboard frame repaired, and am now minus a CD player/radio (with one of my favorite CDs still inside). Just when everything seemed to be getting better....

There's been a recent new arrival at the Zoo: a cheetah cub was born on October 17th, and was transported to the nursery soon after he was discovered. (Apparently no one knew that the mother cheetah was pregnant and, as is common in first time mothers, she wasn't taking care of the cub.) He seems to be doing fine, and I've heard that they just brought in a beagle puppy to be raised as a companion with him. Guess I'll have to take a walk over to the Children's Zoo after I run the mail across the parking lot.

I realize this is rather short and disjointed, but my brain is completely fried from writing this novel. Just thought I'd check in and keep everyone posted on what's new....