Bang my head on my desk.

It seemed simple enough – phone and make an appointment.

Well, not that simple; it was a mammogram appointment, a.k.a. MEDICAL.

My first round of the eight numbers on the Order was to determine how old the equipment was in each location.  Personally, I wasn’t going for the pre WWI x-ray equipment, I wanted something from the 2000’s at least.  I hit a wall.

“Hi, how old is your equipment?”  


OK, I’ll try another angle.  “When was your equipment installed?”. 

That got answers; “We’ve been open for three years.” 

I asked, “Was the equipment new when you opened?” 


Lesson 1; just because you’ve ‘opened’ does NOT mean you opened with NEW equipment.  Medical equipment is stupidly expensive (more money then the building) so the ‘used’ equipment gets moved down the food chain for decades.  The building may be new, but the equipment may be a decade, or two, old.  Economics runs the Medical world.

Eight Centers, not a single answer past, ‘the building’s new’.  I bang my head on my desk.

I pick the Center that had the best media coverage, figuring they wouldn’t put used equipment on TV/YouTube.

‘Hi.  I’d like to make an appointment.” 

I’m patient for ten minutes of endless questions that fall into the ‘not medically relative’ group, such as ‘do you work?’ and ‘where does your husband work?’. 

Lesson 2; those are NOT medical questions, those are medical insurance claim questions.  Specifically, can they force the other company to pay?  That could leave me stuck in no-man’s-land during the 90 days of haggling which would likely end with me having to pay the full cost despite having medical insurance that clearly covers the mammogram.  I refuse to answer. 

The poor, aggravated appointment clerk says, “I can’t book the appointment until you provide me those answers.”  I sigh; that’s a SOFTWARE problem.  Whoever coded the software forced the population of those fields.  It’s not the appointment clerks attitude.  I bang my head on my desk.  

When I’m done I say, “Just put in whatever you think will let you move on to the next question.”

The clerk types snippily, I’ve aggravated the poor soul, again. 

It’s not without consequences; for the rest of my life that file will read whatever is typed.  Who knows?  I might just be the person with the multiple gender, a bizarre psychological diagnosis and employed as an itinerant farmer with a PhD in Bitchology.  The sound of typing changes to something that sounds like the clerk banging their head on their desk.

I go in on Friday.

I’m curious to see if my arrival causes any excitement…


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