By Which I Meant “Moroccan Henna”
My pinkie finger hurts. I got a sliver in it yesterday and may or may not have been successful in getting the whole thing out. Now I am just waiting for the infection to set in because I don’t have a doctor and this is how things go for people who don’t have doctors. I had a new doctor in June but I fired her because she was awful. Then I had a new doctor in August, but I fired him because he was incompetent. So now I have a hurt finger but no doctor. I also have another thing going on that might be serious or it might be unremarkable but since my second fired doctor is — let’s say, intellectually incurious — there’s no way of knowing until I find another doctor.
See, the problem is that there are a lot of doctors who are accepting new patients, but they are mostly terrible (see above paragraph). If you want to see someone who’s not, you know, an unprofessional moron, you have to (a) happen to call their office on one of the two days each year when they will actually accept a new patient and then (b) wait two to four months for an available appointment by which time whatever is wrong with you has either gone away on its own or you are deceased.
Lest you think I’m overdramatizing, which I tend to do when one of my fingers is critically injured, allow me to tell you what my second fired doctor said to me after I had an allergic reaction to medication, which caused my blood pressure to drop to 12 over -7 and made breathing sort of iffy: “Wellllll … I’ll put it in your record that you’re allergic to this, but I’m reluctant to do that because it closes off a treatment avenue.” Yes, well it also closes off a death avenue, so please stop talking and start updating my chart? Additionally, he then decided my symptoms weren’t that bad and suggested some home remedies, which had already been suggested three weeks earlier by Dr. Google, the only difference being that Dr. Google didn’t charge me $515 and didn’t prescribe medication that reminded me I need to update my will.
I’m taking my mom to see her doctor (whom we love) next week and I’m going to ask her if she’ll take me as a patient even though she hasn’t been accepting new patients for a couple of years and she only works two and half days a week and I’m sure she’ll say no but refer me to one of her colleagues who is available only because he or she is no good and who will probably turn out to be my third fired doctor in less than four months. But the main thing is that I have a plan.
Hey, did you hear that America has the best health care in the world? So did I!
You are probably wondering how I got a splinter in my finger. Some of you have no doubt already jumped ahead to the comments section to ask so I’ll just tell you. I was sanding my front door in preparation for painting it. It’s just a normal-size and -shaped door but because I have to get all the old oil-based lacquer off of it before I can paint, I’ve already spent two days prepping it. Today I put on a coat of primer and then I can paint it this weekend. I’m spending five days on a 2′ x 8′ portion of my house. I really need to start drinking more liquor.
I also discovered that Home Depot, unlike Sears, doesn’t have pre-mixed cans of paint just sitting out on the shelves so that you can get in and out without interacting with anyone more than strictly necessary. So I had the following conversation with an Orange Apron Guy, in which I play the part of a cretin.
Me [looking at all the paint cans, wondering why they have no colors listed like they do at Sears]: La la la la la la la la.
Orange Apron: Are you finding everything you need?
Me: Yes. Well, no. I need some semi-gloss latex paint for an exterior door.
Orange Apron: Did you pick out a color yet?
Me: Uh. … Brown?
Orange Apron [warily, in case this is an episode of Punk'd, then patiently, the way you'd talk to a three-year-old]: Okay, first you have to come over here [indicates rack with a million different color cards] and choose a color. And then [checks to make sure I'm still understanding] you go over there [points to counter] and give them the card with the color you want [peers at me to see if my eyes are still tracking] and they’ll make your paint for you! [drops mic, walks away]
Me: Okay, thank you! I’M SORRY! Really … I’m sorry. My finger hurts.
Why do I have to get all of the splinter out anyway? People get shot and doctors leave the bullet in. Okay, maybe only one of my doctors would do that. I’m going to go rest my finger on a little pillow now.