Last Friday I had my follow-up appointment with Arrogant Jerk, MD, the surgeon who performed the arthroscopy on my knees.
Keeping in mind that this sports medicine practice is like the assembly line at Ford, and that all my interactions with everyone there (except with the MRI tech) has had all the warmth and humanity of installing an engine block, I was a little surprised to find that they had no record of the appointment that had been on the schedule for weeks.
But, rather than lose the fee from my insurance, they let me in and left me in the sports hell examination room. (Truly I say unto you: there was nothing to read in that room except Sports Illustrated, ESPN Magazine and the sports section from that day’s Mercury-News.) And they left me there to wait for 25 minutes to fit me in between the transmission and the drive train.
AJ, MD’s assistant didn’t have my chart—she commented on that as she scribbled down notes what was operated on, meds, etc. When AJMD finally came in, he did have a folder in hand; I wondered if he picked up someone else’s chart on the way in, just to make it look good, as a prop.
His greeting was, “No hugs or kisses today—I’m sick.”
Euw.
He took a cursory look at my knees and basically cut me loose—if there are no issues I don’t have to see him again. And I’m not planning on having issues. Because every time I see this guy (except when I’m sedated) he creeps me out.
So, I continue with the exercises my physical therapist gave me and wait to make sure all the bills clear my insurance.
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