Paging Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard

And to think, I watched “Grey’s Anatomy” last night and got myself into surgery mode. You see, I was to have a procedure today to help with my heel pain, which prevented me from qualifying for the US Curling Team this year. Well, after a phone call this past Thursday from the surgical center (doc in a box with oxygen and the good drugs), reviewing all my allergies and telling me not to use any alcohol in my hair (what? oh, sparks, the oxygen, the flames, oh the humanities), they assured me that I would be called this weekend with my scheduled time and the time for the limo (yes, limo) to pick me up, as driving would be out of the question once they perform the magic whatever. Well, you know it. They did not call me and when Sunday afternoon rolled around, I called and left messages. I was up most of last night imagining the limo showing up here and me in my pajamas. They said it could be as early as 6. So I sat, fully dressed and comatose, on my couch from 6 am on, like one of those senior citizens who is getting picked up to go to a wedding, and is dressed and ready four hours early, sitting in her recliner, with her purse hooked onto her wrist, ready to jump up and go at any time.

Naturally, I must’ve fallen back asleep, and the phone rang at 9 am. “It’s the surgical center. Where are you?” Where am I, indeed. “Oh, well we don’t know what happened, but since you are not here, the doctor has started his next patient and we are all booked for the rest of the day.” She instructed me to call my doctor’s office and reschedule. I look out the window for a moment and see the limo down the block. I call her back, and she says, “Oh, just ignore him, he just took a ride.” I’m still mulling that one over.

Angela, the very nice and efficient woman at the podiatrist’s office is apologetic and she told me they called and yelled at HER. She wasn’t happy. Finally, later that afternoon, and I should save the message, Michelle from the surgi center called and said she is the scheduler and it was her fault and she explained the cockamamie procedures that were even worse than EB’s about forms and vouchers and where the ball was dropped. She did an appropriate amount of groveling and I felt a lot better. In the age of George W. Fathead, it’s nice that someone took responsibility for something.