Went to the doctor this morning. Whole thing only took half an hour.
For Doc Chao, that is laser fast.
But I still had to wait in the waiting room and that is becoming increasingly unpleasant because the TV in the waiting room is tuned to what appears to be the 24/7 Politicians Giving Boring Speeches About Covid Channel and to be honest, when I am in the doctor’s office, I would rather be watching something cheerful.
I mean, this shit makes vapid breakfast television type shows look appealing, and I fucking hate breakfast television.
I mean seriously. Listening to cheerful dingbats natter on about recipes and fashions and oh so adorable human interest stories is enough to make me hate humanity.
Anyhow, I got to see the doc and got my B12 shot. And I do feel better. But not quite as good as other times because I went in there in a somewhat crappy mood.
No particular cause. I figure I’ve just hit one of those periods of irritability and depression that my deep emotional processing requires now and then.
I soon had a cause, though, because when Doc Chao went to pull up the hotly anticipated results of my lactic acid test, it turned out the lab didn’t do one.
Instead, they did an A1C diabetes test, which was NOT on the lab req at all. All that was on there was the lactic acid test (no electric kool-aid involved), and they somehow managed to fuck that up.
So I have to go back, dammit. This time, I am armed with a paper requisition form, so I can point at the lactic acid test portion and say “HERE. DO THIS THING. “
That pissed me off solid.
Then it was off to the bank. Cashed my cheque, got the $600 in bills to pay Joe the rent, put the rest on the ol’ reloadable VISA.
Which means they have won, basically. They made it hard enough to dispute a charge that I never had the energy to do it and I certainly didn’t have the energy to find another bank, so I am going to keep using the same ol’ reloadable VISA that failed to protect me from thieves before, only with a new card number.
I will just have to be extra paranoid about where I enter said number from now on.
On the way out of the bank, I dropped my wallet. Luckily, I noticed before we were even a block away, and when we circled back around, the nice people at the bank had my wallet at the customer service desk.
Phew! I got enough stress without having to replace my wallet, my ID, and my rent money because I’m such a spaz.
I still haven’t gotten the money from my sister. I fear I have been forgotten.
Story of my life, really. Especially when it comes to family.
Oh well, I left her a FB message, I am sure she will get back to me eventually.
I have two thousand reasons to be patient.
More after the break.
Getting ready to fight
Been checking up on Canadian medical malpractice law today.
The gist of that article is that doctors in Canada all belong to the
Canadian Medical Protective Association, or CPMA.
It’s basically like a massive insurance racket, and all claims of genuine medical malpractice (as opposed to civil suits) go through them,
And according to the article, they’re bastards. No surprise. really, i am sure they have silos full of rabid lawyers raised on nothing but medical malpractice horror stories (all I did was staple her eyebal to her elbow, and now I have to sell the summer mansion! ) ready to rip into me for daring to raise my voice to The Medical Establishment.
But if they think that will intimidate me out of taking them on, well,
That kind of thing just fires me up. I was born to spit in Goliath’s eye. I am a bug they cannot quash and like I have been saying, the harder they fight me on this, the louder i will get and the more expensive it will be to shut me up.
I am perfectly willing to do whatever it takes to make Doctor Andrew Smith pay for deciding my life was not worth his time. And that goes for any and all who try to protect him from my justice, whether it’s the CPMA or the little old lady who lives next door.
I will crush all opposition to my will. I will smash every tactic used against me like a fucking wrecking ball. I will turn myself into a cause celebre.
Hell, I will make myself a motherfucking hashtag if that’s what it takes.
And I know I can do it. My body might be weak (gee, I wonder why) but my powers are still vast and I can make the sky rain fire on those who piss me off.
So if the evil forces of corporatism are ever reading this as they look for dirt they will foolishly think has the power to stop me, this message is for you :
You cannot stop me. You cannot even slow me down. I will hammer away at you from every angle until your defenses shatter like dry mud. So my true, legitimate advice to you is to give up as soon as you can, give me what I want, and thank your lucky stars that you had the good sense to stop before I got REALLY mad.
Once I have confirmation that my lactic acid levels are still incredibly high, I will contact a lawyer and get their input on the case and they will tell me the best way to make these fuckers pay for what they did to me.
Honestly, I’m kind of looking forward to it. I know damned well that I can’t be browbeaten, intimidated, obfuscated, bullshitted, doubletalked, buried in jargon, snowed under with minutiae, or strangled by red tape.
But I dearly hope they try.
I could have a lot of fun with that.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.