First of all, if you haven’t already and you can, go do what you can to contribute to Calliope’s IVF fund. This woman deserves to have some good deeds coming her way.
In completely unrelated news, my hand is healing–enough for me to type with it! This is thanks, in no part, to the “doctor” I saw yesterday. As a person who has sporadic health insurance, I don’t have a regular general practitioner. I have a great OB/GYN, a decent ear/nose/throat guy, and even a physical therapist, but for the other stuff, I just press my luck and go to a local community clinic. This way, for the six months of the year when I don’t have insurance, I can visit the doctor for a sliding fee. Usually this works out. Well, I have insurance now, and I made the painful mistake of visiting this clinic yesterday and seeing a new doctor. He was dreadful!
I was told by the ER to have the my doc remove the bandages and cream and reapply them after examining the burns. This idiot doctor I saw yesterday decided it was better to just leave the half-inch thick cream caked on and said, “Well, I suppose it looks as good as can be expected.” Now, keep in mind that the cream was so thick, I couldn’t even determine where the burn was, but he must have x-ray vision or something because he downplayed the whole thing and instead talked to me about his fucking screenplay about competitive birdwatching. Holy fucking hell.
So then he proceeded to send this assistant in to dress my hand. Not only did she not remove the old cream, but she didn’t even cover it completely! The woman covered part of my fingers and palm with some crappy gauze, barely attached some tape and accused me of pouring boiling water on my hand on purpose. At this point, I was trying to control the tears streaming down my face and trying to decipher the ten different sets of directions they had given me for the care of my hand, when she asked me, “So how did you do it, anyway?” I told her I was sterilizing a gallon jar for me and J’s apple cordials (she gave me quite the pinched face when she realized this was alcohol) when the seal on the lid broke and poured boiling water all over my hand. Her response (after again asking, “Are you sure you didn’t do this intentionally?”) was, “Well, you should have put the jar in the oven. That’s what I do, and it’s a lot better than boiling water.” Oh. my. god. Even if that were a better solution and wouldn’t result in a giant jar the temperature of an OVEN, what business does a medical professional have basically saying, “I told you so!”?
At that point, I needed to leave. I couldn’t take it anymore. She sent me out some weird back door so I didn’t even get to pay my copay. Instead, I was suddenly on the sidewalk, cars whizzing by, crying, with this bandage that a two-year-old could have improved upon.
When J picked me up, she knew immediately that something was wrong, and she promptly took me home, cleaned off the goopy cream, and helped me look at my burn. We needed to know what was going on with it, and honestly, parts of it are much worse than I expected, and some of these bad parts, the medical assistant DIDN’T EVEN COVER WITH THE BANDAGE! In fact, they told me I should probably just use a band-aid. This burn is far bigger than any band-aid I’ve ever seen, but whatever. Maybe at their medical school, they place super-sticky latex on burns. Or maybe they just have their heads up their asses. Anyway, my sweet wife redressed my hand, made me a pretty little bandage, stopped my tears, and even bought me chocolate. I really am a lucky woman.