It’s Friday morning and I’m in a coffee shop near my new new doctor’s office. You might remember I got myself a new doctor just a few months ago, and she helpfully informed me that I almost certainly do not have a brain tumor. I liked that doctor just fine, though I can’t actually remember her name now. I think of her fondly.
But it’s over between us, because in between then and now I got a new job and with the new job came new health insurance, this time of the HMO variety. So I can’t see the old new doctor anymore. And because HMO means you have a primary physician/gatekeeper standing between you and other medical professionals, I had to pick out a primary doc and I have to go see the primary doc, even though I really want to see a specialist, for reasons I won’t disclose here.
Choosing a doctor is kind of like voting for judges. How the hell should I know who is a good judge? What does the little bio on the website tell me about the doctor? What I really want to know is, will they send me to the specialist I need? What it tells me is, where they went to school.
So I looked at my doctor choices and I picked the one who was a.) female, b.) my age or older, and c.) sporting the standard Seattle lesbian haircut. I’m not sure why this seemed like the right choice. Instinct is all I really had to go on.
I’m going to see my new new middle-aged possibly lesbian doctor in about 20 minutes. Please think happy specialist referral thoughts for me.
Oh, also, the barista at this coffee shop gave me the wifi password by handing me a receipt with the password printed in teeny tiny very faint letters and numbers. I was too ashamed of my weakness to go back to the counter and ask her to read it to me. I shined my cell phone light on it and squinted as hard as I could and finally discerned the code. It might be time to start carrying reading glasses in my backpack. Maybe.