Traveled to Dr. Primary's place yesterday at 8:30 a.m. for a flu shot. By 4 p.m., I was convinced I had the flu.
The psycho head games continue. To quote the Scarecrow: ah, if I only had a brain.
Prior to my visit, I inquired of Dr. P by phone his thoughts on the H1N1 virus inoculation. He was apparently unaware of, or forgotten that, I was on Vidaza.
"I don't think your bone marrow condition means you're in a priority situation," he said. "You're not on chemo, or anything like that, right?"
"Well, actually I am. I'm on Vidaza, which is a kind of chemo. Dr. O says I'm a fully qualified 'chronically ill senior.'"
In that case, he agreed, I rated priority.
Of course, his office doesn't have he vaccine as yet. "Keep calling," he said, "and when we do have it, tell the desk I said you're a priority case. They won't believe you, naturally, so they'll check with me. But it'll be okay."
Well, why should they believe me? We've only been dealing with the docs in this practice (who are universally wonderful, by the way) for 20 years or so. I could just be an hysterical patient—or an egomaniac—who craves attention.
Never mind. I've finally made it: a priority case. VIP. Head-of-the-line. On the list. The Big Time.
This is some crappy realm in which to attain status—a mystery illness that pulls down an untested treatment for another mystery illness.
I think I'd rather earn flying first-class privileges, or 50 yard line suite seats at the football games. But, you can't get those via a disease.
My 4 p.m. flu-like symptoms disappeared by 8.
The psycho head games continue. To quote the Scarecrow: ah, if I only had a brain.
Prior to my visit, I inquired of Dr. P by phone his thoughts on the H1N1 virus inoculation. He was apparently unaware of, or forgotten that, I was on Vidaza.
"I don't think your bone marrow condition means you're in a priority situation," he said. "You're not on chemo, or anything like that, right?"
"Well, actually I am. I'm on Vidaza, which is a kind of chemo. Dr. O says I'm a fully qualified 'chronically ill senior.'"
In that case, he agreed, I rated priority.
Of course, his office doesn't have he vaccine as yet. "Keep calling," he said, "and when we do have it, tell the desk I said you're a priority case. They won't believe you, naturally, so they'll check with me. But it'll be okay."
Well, why should they believe me? We've only been dealing with the docs in this practice (who are universally wonderful, by the way) for 20 years or so. I could just be an hysterical patient—or an egomaniac—who craves attention.
Never mind. I've finally made it: a priority case. VIP. Head-of-the-line. On the list. The Big Time.
This is some crappy realm in which to attain status—a mystery illness that pulls down an untested treatment for another mystery illness.
I think I'd rather earn flying first-class privileges, or 50 yard line suite seats at the football games. But, you can't get those via a disease.
My 4 p.m. flu-like symptoms disappeared by 8.
No flu. No vaccine. No first-class flying. But, I'm priority. We'll just have to take our perqs where we can find them.
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