I keep forgetting this essential fact in a corporate society — the person with the complaint is always the problem.
Who would you rather be, a wealthy, philanthropic, problem-solving job creator or a sniveling, powerless loser trying to lodge some niggling complaint? Not much to choose there, really, in our either/or, winner/loser, black/white, powerful/helpless culture. Then, among us puny earthlings, there is the personal sphere, the only thing we can sometimes control — how we act in response to stress.
If it weren’t for whiners like me who need to make a “complaint” any time they feel slighted, cheated, over-billed, underserved, physically or emotionally injured and all the other annoying signs of personal self-pity, corporations would never be troubled by the odd customer with a gripe of some kind. Life is unfair, everybody, even the most powerful among us, has gripes. De minimis non curat lex. “The law does not concern itself with your trifle, asshole.” Sounds more majestic in Latin.
Somehow, I take the fact that I am now a cripple personally. When I use that ugly term to refer to myself (we prefer to be known as ‘person with a disability’ or something more respectful than ‘cripple’ or ‘gimp'[1]) I am describing a person who cannot walk a few steps without pain. It is not uncommon for a medical limitation such as not being able to walk, after a knee replacement, with no available medical cure, to eventually make a person bitter. I am now officially fucking bitter.
I obliged the wife yesterday by sending my dermatologist photos of two new skin growths. I went on the MyChart of the corporation my doctor works for and sent a message. My question was if either of these look suspicious enough to merit expediting my appointment, currently set for April.
After a night of interrupted, low quality sleep (ongoing pain, swelling and stiffness in my impeccably installed prosthetic left knee) that left me without REM, deep sleep, or any real rest, I woke today, Friday, to a text from the dermatologist’s office with a Monday morning appointment (90 minutes from here at that hour).
I hadn’t heard from my doctor. It generally takes a few days, and she always gets back to me. There was a notation on the portal, when I logged in, that my doctor had not yet seen my note. Somehow, somebody (a fucking bot driven by AI is my best guess) scanned my note, saw the words “expedited appointment” and put me on the calendar for Monday morning.
Annoying, but easily remedied by calling to cancel the appointment. In hindsight I should have just texted “N” to “not confirm” and been done with it. I was already cranky from another shit night’s sleep, the inability of the medical profession to fix the new problem they had caused for me, and everything related to the pain, physical and emotional, of being unable to walk. I made the mistake of not texting “N”, instead calling to find out if there was some reason for this sudden emergency appointment.
As is the case whenever trying to talk to anyone in a corporate medical office, it was a gauntlet of ads, unsolicited advice about their convenient website and hold music. I hung up angrily after a few minutes of a five second loop of hold muzak played over and over and over. The wife, seeing me upset, moved in to help me out. At one point, when she had someone on the line, she began to cry in frustration and overflowing sympathy for my aggravation. I took the phone, explained the situation, canceled the appointment, handed the phone back to the wife. Ten minutes later she was still making nice with the very nice clerk at the appointment desk. The doctor was seeing other patients, but would personally call me at her earliest opportunity, she let me know.
I didn’t need a call from the doctor. I’d make an earlier appointment if needed to after I got her response on the portal. There was no need to trouble the doctor, there was no need to trouble myself, and yet, the call went on and on until I finally lost my shit and began screaming, as I do in the shower sometimes when I’m alone in the house and my knee is screaming along with me.
The wife is now hurt, and I am a brutal fucking bitter asshole, in addition to an ungrateful one who snarls and yells at someone who is only trying to help me.
Have a blessed day, y’all. May this cautionary tale remind you to be the best person you can be, and remember to make nice after you lose control of your frustrations.
[1] Across the board, people with disabilities generally agree that words implying the person is a victim of their disability should be avoided. For example, it is recommended that people choose phrases like “they had a stroke” instead of “they are a stroke victim” or “they suffered a stroke.” These negative phrases can imply that the person is passive to their condition.
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