I finally have the strength (Xanex) to write the finale to the operation I was supposed to have a few weeks ago. Yes, that’s two hyperlinks because the first one was me finally getting up the nerve to tell you about it and the second was me being sent home telling me it will happen, I just need to wait a few weeks.

I am going to say words that might make your ears bleed.

Following the conversation I had with my doctor the morning of the surgery I was guaranteed to have this fucking operation before the end of  March because beginning April 1st, my fucking insurance (burn in hell BSBC) deductible resets and I now have to pay $5000 motherfucking dollars to have anything fucking done.

Let’s flash forward a few days.

I call the office since I hadn’t heard from them and was told by the only competent person there that the doctor spoke with the allergist and now they are just trying to figure out who my shrink is so they could talk to him about medication interactions.

WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM YOU FUCKING RETARDS.

That was my mind screaming.  My voice calming inquired why I wasn’t called three hours ago since I would not only clearly know my shrink, but I have his cell phone number because he is a SHRINK and his job is to be there for people that are mentally un-fucking stable.

Yeah.  So.  Let’s give it another day and the doctor himself calls me.  Color me impressed.  Then he opens his mouth and speaks and the impression flies out the window and splats dead onto the window of the car behind me.

“We spoke with the allergist and your psychiatrist and have finally found a medication that would work for you (telling me what it was would have been helpful) but now that I’ve looked at your charts, I’ve found that this procedure isn’t the right one for you.  I looked closely at your charts and that of the doctors in our practice and I feel that if you went through with this operation it would cause you an immense amount of pain and would do nothing to remedy the situation.  What I specialize in is the removal of the back part of the tongue that isn’t visible.  You require to that the sides of your tongue taken off and I can’t do that operation.  The other doctor (I’m not tossing out names because someone is getting the shit sued out of them) can do this operation because if I did it and messed up, you could have permanent nerve damage.  Let me talk to this doctor today and I guarantee you that you will have this operation by March 31st”

That is such a remarkable amount of retarded that I actually sat silently still for what felt like hours so I’m assuming it was a solid 27 seconds.  Not only had they not prepared for my pain relief (and never did have me follow up with that allergist, apparently guessing is fun), but they didn’t even attempt to READ MY CHART before deciding to rip my throat apart.

If I had no medication issues, I would have gone through a very painful operation for absolutely no reason whatsoever.  An operation that was suggested by a doctor I trusted and I had assumed agreed upon my the two different doctors I have worked with THIS ENTIRE YEAR.

Next day.  No call.  Tick, tock bitches.  I have people flying in that need to know what to do.  I start making phone calls but I now assume they have caller ID and blocked my sweet ass because there’s no answer.

More calls are made.  Taking it to the top.  Chief Operations Officer.  Big time.  Oh yeah.  She’ll line ‘em all up and give them a swift ball kicking for their total incompetence.

WRONG.

The decision has been made.  There will be no operation.  While we have no logical reason to give you, we have the power to tell you that so nee-ner nee-ner Maloney, you’ve just been turned around, bent over and screwed right up your ass.

This is my thought.  The fuck tarts who put this whole thing together realized that they a) didn’t submit it to the insurance company properly b) Never followed up on my 30 phone calls prior to discuss pain management and c) FUCKING SCHEDULED THE WRONG OPERATION.

This is what they told Ms. Crappy Pants.

“She said if we didn’t do the operation she was going to kill herself”

That statement right there is my money shot to their faces.

THIS right here is pretty much my reply to Ms. Crappy Pants.

“Listen, I am not retarded.  I come from a long line of not retarded people.  My father is so not retarded, he has his PhD in Psychology.  While I may be a 32 year old bipolar menopausal woman, I am in no way suicidal.  If, by chance I happened to BE suicidal and did have the intent to kill myself, I wouldn’t TELL you because that would mean I really have no desire to kill myself.  I’d like to top this off by calling “Bullshit” and say that while I am not a medical professional, I believe it is your duty to admit me to the hospital in the psychiatric ward because I should at that point be considered a danger to myself.  Thank you, Ms. Crappy Pants, for giving me this information so that I can use it to shit on your face.”

After a few irrelevant phone calls where I called “Bullshit” and they called absolutely nothing, I pulled the Media card to which Ms. Crappy Pants donned her name.  She crapped her pants.

After about 40 seconds of trying to professionally yell at me for playing this very, VERY big card I have, I was then asked to join them on Tuesday for a “sit down”.  I don’t know why a woman who had filled her pants with crap would want to sit down, but personally I had absolutely no desire to smell the shit flowing from her body and I absolutely didn’t want to sit with the three blind fucking mice to hear them tell me shit I already know.

They. Fucked. Up.

So this is how it ended.  I told Ms. Crappy Pants that I had absolutely no intention of having a sit down with anyone, but I have every intention of sending her the receipts totaling over $500 the US Air charged me to purchase (using my miles) and refund in order to cancel the flight and put my miles back in my account.  Ms. Crappy Pants then agreed to consider reimbursement if I send in the receipts if I promise to never see them again and instead go to my regular doctor and get her recommendation so I can get myself into a practice where doctors read their patients charts and COO’s don’t crap their pants.

Yes, I’m starting over.  Yes, you’ll be there every step of the way and yes, Ms. Crappy Pants might want to start wearing skirts.