It’s not too hard to understand why I have so many silvery head hairs considering nightmare events that I experience semi-regularly like yesterday. I’d actually prefer to file this one under “Never retrieve again and in fact, please just delete” but its borderline comical insanity pushes me to document it in the most courteous way possible. Lettuce pro-seed.
Due to yet another new med, both of my girls are to go for blood work to check existing levels in their streams. If off we either add or subtract a pill. There are two current problems regarding this request. A) We are required to go as early in the morning as possible (lame!) and B) Since Mister Covid has moved into town most labs no longer offer walk-ins and the ones that do also have bookings 4 weeks out. In proper English it’s a crap shoot. Sometimes you show up and you’re told it’s a 2 hour wait. Typically I leave immediately. Sometimes you walk right in and ten minutes later you’re done, bickity bam.
Other times you’re told 30 minutes which turns in 210 minutes involving them turning you away about 2 hours in during a screw up on their part and then after all is said and nearly done, your daughters veins are hiding and there is no blood to offer and the anti-climax makes you wanna do some damage. Yesterday was that day. And yes, that was one heckuva run-on sentence.
Me and the human pin cushion Lindsey roll in mere seconds before 8am mountain standard time. Arriving on floor deuce I notice a bit of a line so before the lady blabs about travel and hand sanitizer I pose the question “How long of a wait?” She riffs off a simple “half an hour” then takes my phone number as the other waitees are to wait in their vehicles until further notice.
55 minutes later my personal telebuddy rings and we are instructed to come back up. This time we are in the line up outside the line up. Now we get the machine gun onslaught of silly arse covid questions that any monkey could lie about. 30 more minutes elapse before we step into the grand throne room that is the real waiting room. The data clerk and I exchange pleasantries. I state we have a standing order under doctor so and so to check her sirolimus level. Very important to get this point across as there are other standing orders on file to check other things like her synthroid level. Nurse Ratchet seems to have found the right one and instructs us to plant our proverbial tuchuses.
Between looking at my phone, chatting with Linds and trying to fight off sleep, the next hour point whatever passed very slowly. There’s something horrible as a parent in moments like these where you’re trying to stay positive and assure your questioning child that it’s our turn soon. You can only say it so long until you see the hope start to drain from them just the same way hospitalized Lexis over those first 10 days or so would ask multi-daily “Can I come home please?” Saying no is like daggers for us both.
So just under 3 hours of waiting, as though winning an academy award, Lindseys name is called and we are almost at the finish line. Neither of us have eaten and all we can think of is getting the heck out of there. The technician pokes her and just a trickle of blood comes out. She tries again elsewhere on her person and still no go.
I don’t know about Lindsey but I’m beside myself at this point. Is this really friggin happening? Did we just sit through 3 hours for nothing? The tech sends Linds to run her hands under warm water and looks at the requisition again. “This is for the CBE level, right?” If I wasn’t already beside myself I would have been hovering over my body with my face in my palm. “Um no it’s for the sirolimus level. This is why we’re here. I told you that when we got here.”
She asks I come to the front with her and she goes over the req’s in the computer. After a brief scan she announces there is no standing order req for Lindseys sirolimus level, it must have expired. I’m given the option to call the doc who sent the original one but I know from experience that this sometimes takes a while if they are available to begin with. Without yelling I firmly express at an above audible level that I cannot believe there was any confusion as I specifically requested the sirolimus level be tested and why have you wasted 3 hours of our lives?
We exit with me muttering other disgruntled sentiments at a censored level. We get into the van and while I’m relaying my nightmare to my mutha the other line is ringing and it’s the lab. They tell me they’ve printed off an old req and to come back up. This is my life, folks!
Back in the room and a new tech is about to poke my daughters scar tissued flesh and this time with success. Mission complete. 3.5 hours has now elapsed and winter has turned to spring. What’s the moral of the story? Life. Is. Bullshite.