Allergy serum blues hit again

This morning, I had to get up early and drive to my ENT clinic's nearby office to pick up my allergy serum.  After some years of non-physical sparring, my previous nemesis and I have made peace, so I expected a simple trip.

Instead, I found a new person doing the stick tests, in which they poke a little of each of my serums into my arm. 

The test itself went fine, but then rather than letting me sit in the waiting room, the tester demanded I stay in the room with her--and with other patients.  The others and I found this awkward, but we politely kept to ourselves.

When it was time to check to see if I had reacted strongly to the serum, the tester decided she should lower my dosage because my reaction was on the edge of being too big.  Fine; it is what it is. 

Then we took an unfortunate turn.

"Let me put some cream on that," she said.

"No need.  It doesn't itch."

"Are you sure?  It looks like it should itch."

"But it doesn't."

"You don't have to be macho."

Now, I know that at this point I probably should have just surrendered to her cream fetish and let her rub some on my arm, but I didn't, because my arm didn't itch, and she had really annoyed me.  So, I kept trying to be polite as I refused her ministrations.  "I'm not being macho.  It doesn't itch."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Really?  It sure looks like it should itch."

"It doesn't."

"I don't mind putting on a little cream."

"It does not itch."  Before she could speak again, I said, "May I please leave?"

"If you're sure you don't want some cream," she said, "I guess so."

I bit my tongue and left.

I am now actively hoping for my former nemesis to do the stick test next time.

New developments in the allergy serum war

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that I give myself two allergy shots every three weeks. To do that, I naturally need two vials of serum from my ENT practice. My ENT's main office is more than half an hour from my house and completely out of all my normal driving routes. The ENT also maintains an office right on a road I drive to work. So, I like to pick up my serum there.

The problem is, for reasons I don't understand, the ENT seems determined to make that as difficult as possible. They want me to drive to the main office.

Screw that. Rather than cave to them, I continue to insist on picking it up at my local clinic. The result is that I am in a cold but active war with the firm and the allergy serum tester who works only occasionally at that clinic.

This past week, my new serum arrived. Tuesday afternoon, I returned the phone call I received. The woman who had called me said that I could pick up the serum Tuesday mornings from 8:00 a.m. to 9:30 or Thursdays from noon to 1:00.

There were two small catches, however: the serum was actually available for only during one half hour of the Tuesday time and for only 15 minutes of the Thursday time. They also could not tell me in advance which of those slots it would be. I would have to come at the very start of each time and be prepared to wait until the very end.

I didn't get the call until Tuesday afternoon, so my option was Thursday. I was already booked with a client lunch that day.

No problem, I'd go the following week (this week). I don't need the serum until next week, so that's fine.

Tuesday morning, I had taken off work and so decided to wait until Thursday (today). When I called on Wednesday to confirm my pick-up today, the woman said,

"Oh, it's not available Thursday this week. Those were last week's hours. You could always go to [the other office]."

No way. I asked what this coming week's hours were. They were not set yet. I finally secured an appointment next week--for an hour slot, of which the tester will be available only 15 minutes.

This fight has become personal. (It's also very difficult to start over with another ENT, and this is the only local one that lets you self-administer the shots.) I will show up at the start of that hour next week, but I will also do something annoying, perhaps bring a boom-box or eat something particularly stinky while standing in front of the receptionist's window. If I'm going to suffer, they are, too.

My own irrationality on this topic surprises me, but I don't care; I will not lose this fight.

Cease-fire in allergy land

If you read this blog regularly, you already know that, as the tag on this entry says, my allergy clinic hates me. To pick up my serum, which they will no longer mail to me, I have to let them administer a "vial test," i.e., let them stick me with tiny portions of each of my two serums so they can see if I react negatively. I don't. I haven't in all the years I've been taking these shots. They insist, however, on the test. To get it, I either have to drive half an hour across town or go to the place that costs me two minutes of lost driving time because it's on my way to work.

Of course I choose the close one.

The problem is, they hate that I do, because they want everyone to go to their main facility, so they've reduced the available test hours to 90 minutes a week--and not all at once. No, that would be too easy. They provide vial tests on two different days: an hour on one day, and half an hour on the other.

I was scheduled to go to the one-hour slot Tuesday morning at 8:00. Because of the snow, I couldn't get out of my driveway then, so I didn't show. I called them, but no one answered and there was no message option, so I assumed they were closed.

One of the women who works there called me Wednesday. Here's how the call went (you can tell which of us is which). In the interest of avoiding legal issues, I'll call her X and the clinic Y.

Hi, Mr. Van Name. I'm X from Y. You were scheduled to come in for a vial test Tuesday morning.

Yes, I was, but I couldn't make it due to the snow.

It was a lot of snow. [long pause] So, you didn't come.

No. I called, but no one answered, and there was no way to leave a message.

Oh, that's because we were closed that morning.

It went downhill from there. I'm proud to be able to say that at no point did I turn sarcastic or threatening; I just hung up quickly.

So, today I headed there at noon for the half-hour slot available to me.

No one greeted me. The place was open but empty.

After calling for a few times, a faint reply came from the rear of the clinic area. A few seconds later, the Chinese med tech with whom I'd argued many times in the past appeared around a corner.

He stopped as soon as he saw me.

He tilted his head and stared at me.

I stared at him.

He kept staring at me.

I kept staring at him.

I wanted in the worst way for music by Ennio Morricone to be playing and for Sergio Leone to film us in his best Once Upon a Time in the West circular, quick-cut style, but alas, I got neither.

Finally, he motioned me to come inside. He did not speak.

I entered and went to the test room.

He showed me the vials, holding them far from his body as if they were snarling beasts. "You?"

"Yes, but my address is still wrong."

He nodded. "Vial lady, she no fix. She never fix."

I couldn't argue with that, so I sat, he administered the tests, and neither of us spoke as he did his job.

"Ten minutes," he said as he set the timer.

I went to the waiting room and sat.

He came out spot on ten minutes later, checked me, nodded once, handed me the vials, and backed away, never losing sight of me until he was safely behind the thick wooden door.

I waited until he was out of sight, then left.

I consider this great progress. We've reached a cease-fire, and that's good enough for me. If the next appointment goes this well, I will not report on it.

He may hate me, but now he also either respects or fears me--and I can work with either one of those.

The Vial Wars continue

As long-time readers know, I've been at war for some time now with my allergy serum provider. It's a quiet war, no shots fired (yet), but the sides are clear and the conflict is ongoing.

Each of our goals is simple. I want to continue to pick up my serum at their office seven minutes from my house. They want me to abandon this desire and agree to drive to their location a solid half hour away.

What I really want is for them to go back to what they used to do and simply mail my serum to me. They will not do that, however, for my own protection. After all, as the receptionist at the local office once explained to me, her face set in an earnest and sincere expression, terrorists might intercept my serum.

I wonder what the Homeland Security budget is for screening allergy serum mailings. I sure hope it's adequate.

The allergy clinic obviously holds all the real power. They could simply close the local office, or admit publicly that they do not provide allergy serum vial tests at that location. They're the only local firm that will let me give myself the shots, so they know they have me over a barrel.

They will not, however, abaondon that pretense. As best I can tell, the ability to claim to provide the serum from multiple locations is sufficiently valuable that they're willing to go to great lengths to maintain the facade.

They had already reduced the times when I could go to the local office to a single hour a week, and they'd told me that hour would move around. Fine, said I; I will come when I must.

Last week, they unveiled the latest wrinkle in the plan: As the young woman who left me voicemail explained, the only hour available this week would be Tuesday (today) morning from 8:30 to 9:30. The technician, however, needed the first 15 minutes for setup, and to accommodate paperwork and check-out requirements, he would give the last vial test 20 minutes before he had to go.

So, my window was from 8:45 to 9:10. They'd reduced the hour to 25 minutes.

The message concluded by cheerily telling me that having informed me, they would not call again. I was, though, free to go at any normal business hour to the other location. I had one day to inform them of my intent.

Screw that. I will not surrender. I called back that same day and cheerily announced that I would be at the local location within the 25-minute window. The woman who answered the phone only grunted in response.

And so it was that this morning my alarm rang less than three hours after I crawled into bed. I rolled out and began my countermeasures. I didn't brush my hair. I didn't brush my teeth. I pawed through the dirty clothes, sniffed the gym short options, and chose the smelliest candidate, a fine old pair whose liner was completely rotted in the crotch. I stuffed the dirtiest handkerchief in my pocket. I selected the ripest of the shirts in the basket, added my walking socks and shoes, and drove off.

I arrived at 8:55 sharp.

When I walked through the door, the receptionist's face fell, as if she were a bartender seeing the gunslinger enter her dusty establishment in a Sergio Leone movie.

"Mr. Van Name," she said.

I walked to her window and leaned in, so we could both appreciate my manly stench. "Yes," I said. "I'm ready."

"So is he," she said. "Go on back."

Through that window I could see the technician, a small Asian man, pacing back and forth, his expression grim. He nodded once in my direction and vanished.

I walked to his room, sat in the one chair, rolled up my left sleeve, and with my right hand pointed to the exposed skin.

He showed me the two vials, the printing facing away from me. "You?"

I turned them so I could read them. They were mine; he was an honorable adversary. "Yes."

We spoke no more. We both knew how it worked. He stuck me twice, set the timer, and left. So did I.

In the waiting room, I learned that the Queen Mother's love affairs were available for my reading pleasure. I declined to investigate them. Some things are not for waiting rooms.

At precisely ten minutes, the technician emerged. He glanced at my arm, barely caring what the serum had done to me, and said, "Pass."

As I checked out, the receptionist said, "I suppose we'll see you again."

I only nodded.

Hell, yeah, they will.