Allergy clinic blues

Today, I had to go to the allergy clinic to get my serum for the two shots I give myself once every three weeks. As I've explained in previous entries, the clinic will no longer give them to me unless I show up for a serum test. This process consists of a med tech putting one tiny amount of each of my serums under the skin on my arm, making me wait ten minutes, and then coming to see if my reaction was too strong. The med tech gauges the reaction size by measuring the size of the circle around the injection point; if its diameter is above 11 mm., the reaction is too big, and they have to remix the serum.

As usual, the experience was a winner.

After I checked in and was in the room with the med tech (MT), this dialog ensued. Please note that it is not my fault that MT has almost no English.

MT: What your name?

ME: Mark Van Name

MT: That no funny. What your name?

ME: That is really my name. My last name is Van, like a moving van, and Name, as in "my name is."

MT: We no moving. What your name?

ME: My last name is two words: Van (pause) and Name.

MT: Oh, yeah, yeah. I remember. Funny name. (Rummages in refrigerator, emerges with serum, and shows the two bottles to me.) This you?

ME: Yes.

MT: All correct?

ME: No. My address is wrong. (I pointed at the error.) This 1 should be a 2.

MT: You move?

ME: No. Someone in your office simply made a typing error.

MT: Not possible.

ME: Please just change this one number.

MT: No. (Hands me a pen.) You do.

(I do.)

MT: You pick up [other location].

ME: No. I want to pick up my serum here.

MT: Open all time there. Here only one day one hour week.

ME: That location is almost half an hour away from my home or office. This location is less than ten minutes. I'll come here.

MT: (nods and strokes his chin) Hour changes some weeks.

ME: Okay. I'll ask.

MT: Could be hard to find.

ME: I'll take my chances.

(He shakes his head and points to a chair. I pull up my left sleeve. He walks in front of me.)

MT: Which arm?

(I point to the one with no sleeve covering it.)

ME: Good choice.

(I resist saying, "WTF?" What if I'd chosen the other arm? Would he punish me?)

(He gives me the two tests.)

MT: Go. (He hands me one thin piece of tissue.) If you bleed lot. Ten minutes.

(I know the drill, so I don't ask for clarification. I am to go to the waiting room and sit for ten minutes, at which point he'll come and check the two test areas. I do, and after ten minutes, I ask for him.)

(The receptionist looks up from talking to her boyfriend, points to the corner chair, and says, "Wait.")

(I wait. At the fifteen-minute mark, he emerges. As he walks out the door, I push up my sleeve to show him the test arm.)

MT: Which arm?

(I point to the arm with the sleeve up.)

(He studies my arm. One test spot has a tiny reaction; the other has none.)

MT: I do two?

ME: Yes.

MT: I see one. No other reaction.

ME: That's good.

MT: No reaction.

ME: So I pass, right?

MT: (Steps back and again rubs his chin.) Okay. (Hands me the envelope with my serum.) You go.

You can bet your ass I left.

Things that piss me off

On the long list of things that piss me off, one phrase stands bold and tall:

We're only doing this for your protection.

When a representative of a company says those words, they are rarely telling the truth. Here's one of my special favorites:

We're changing your credit card number for your protection.

No, scumbag, you're doing it to save your company money. If anything happens to my card, per my agreement with you I have a maximum liability of fifty bucks. You're nervous, so you're going to inconvenience me and make me change my credit-card info on approximately as many Web sites as there are atoms in the universe.

Today, I got to hear this one:

This new vial test policy is only for your protection.

No, you lying piece of crap, it's not. It's to protect your medical practice from possible lawsuits.

Ah, not familiar with the vial test? Let me explain.

Once every three weeks, I give myself two subcutaneous allergy serum shots in my left arm. I've been giving myself these shots for about seven years, first weekly, then after a while every ten days, then after another while every two weeks, and now every three weeks. I'll probably be doing this as long as I live. I'm okay with that. Prior to beginning these shots, I had severe allergy issues and a major needle phobia. Now, I have neither. I chose to give the shots to myself to save that most precious of assets: time. The ENT office I use would mail me my serum, I would send them a few bucks for postage, and all was well.

Until the vial test policy. The braintrust at some national otolaryngeal association decided it was no longer safe to mail the vials. As one dipshit explained to me--and I am not making this up--terrorists might intercept the vials and do things to them. Why target McDonald's when you could steal my allergy serum from the mail?

Now, each time you change vials--which happens every three months--you have to go to the doctor's office and have them test the vial on you (or in my case, the two vials). They do what amounts to a scratch test, then make you wait fifteen minutes, then check the size of your reaction.

Of course, you're in the doctor's office, and you're using up a nurse's time, so of course they have to bill you. I'm sure that's just a coincidence.

I've been taking the same exact mix of serum without a problem for about four years. Not one problem. So, today I had the vial test, and the size of the reaction area on my arm exceeded their standards. The nurse and I then had this lovely interchange, which I am also not making up:

Nurse: Wow, that must really hurt and itch.

Me: No, I can't feel it.

Nurse: Sure you can. Just look at it. It must really be hurting and itching.

Me: No, honestly, I can't feel it. No pain. No itch. May I please have my vial?

Nuse: I don't know how you can stand it. Maybe if I show it to you in the mirror you'll realize how much it's hurting and itching.

It went downhill from there.

The next step was to dilute the serum and try again. The nurse drew from the same bottle and started to inject me. I suggested she might need to dilute it first, she tittered, and then she did so.

Fifteen more minutes of dead time in the waiting room.

My reaction was one half of a millimeter too wide in diameter.

No serum for me.

I begged.

They had a conference call; I got to hear only my nurse's end.

No serum for me.

Now, I have to come back in about a week--when I'm likely to be out of town--and repeat this process.

Oh, yeah: Of course they'll have to charge me the same fee again.

The serum is worth all this hassle, but I hate every moment of this process.

Good thing it's all for my protection.