You gotta be kidding me
If I actually get a call, it's rarely. No one ever wants to talk to medical records unless they need their medical records. And even then, they really don't want to talk to medical records. The majority of my calls that come in on my line are from my mom. Or Kim, especially if she's on her way to work and Bonnie Tyler is on WALK 97.5.
But I've come to realize, when people need something from me, it tends to be an afterthought. The person goes through their entire day and then at like a quarter to five, they suddenly get the urge to call me and ask for their pathology report for their colonoscopy. Because honestly, who's thinking about the day they got their butt scoped? I'm like that dreaded call people have on their To Do list. The one they save for the last possible moment. And these people do not realize that I too have a job and leave it at 5. But for some reason, they do not care. And this hurts my feelings.
The call comes in at 411. I already know what kind of call it is before I pick up the phone for Dorrette to tell me who’s on the line. Doctors offices tend to call me before 9 if they need anything for that day. How they found out I get here way before 9 is beyond me. I tried to make a rule that I refused to take calls anytime before 9 because technically I'm not supposed be here yet, but dad would not allow this irrationally logical explanation. Between 930-945, I receive Steve's ten minute break call. I have a range for this because his break is coordinated with when the roach coach shows up in his parking lot indicating breakfast for his fellow machinists. At noon on the dot, I receive his lunch call. Any call inbetween these two calls are mom or Kim. Even my Calls Received Schedule has OCD.
I'm really not surprised when I pick up to hear a pleasant female voice on the other line asking for her records. She's laying on the charm thick and I give it right back. She has no idea the f word came out of my mouth four times before picking up line 67. She tells me she was here a few years ago so I lean back in my chair, reaching up to my card catalogue to find her file number. We're not computerized so we have a Dewey Decimal System to find charts. I'm not kidding. This is what it looks like:
Would you believe me if I told you I find many cards not in alphabetical order?
I find her card and pull it out. Yeah it's not a few years ago. It's like five years ago. Old enough that the labels for the charts are handwritten. Old enough that the receptionists have not started printing out labels on the computer they don't have yet. So old that the yellowing card has my brother's handwriting on it from when he worked here one summer during college. Ancient times here at the Surge.
I tell her the deal on how to retrieve the records and she chooses the come-in-an-get-them-myself method. Which honestly, is my favorite. I hate hearing patients screech in my ear, "I have to get a notarized letter?! They're MY medical records!" Apparently HIPAA laws are lost on these folks. I will see her tomorrow, when? I'm not sure, but I have to assume it will be 9 and I need to have the chart ready.
We hang up and I slide down in my chair, resting my head on the back and groan. Daniela wants the reason for the groan.
Dad's been on my case for two weeks now to ask Cassandra to box up another year of charts to bring them downstairs so I can fit the newer charts in back. I can only fit three years in the room up here and the rest are condemned to the awful basement. I've been avoiding packing them up for a variety of reasons but the main one is I do not want to ask Cassandra to do it for me because I feel guilty. I'm not really authoritative when I ask someone that ranks lower than me on The Surge food chain to do something. It's always like, "Um...I was wondering, if you could, you know, do this for me? But when you have time. No rush! Whenever you feel like it. You know, whatever." I'm the worst. This is why I'll never advance in my career. I'm not even passive. I'm beyond passive. I'm totally the floor.
So basically, what it comes down to is Daniela asks Cassandra to do it because dad starts leaning on her instead of me. On Wednesday, Cassandra happily boxed up three drawers worth of 2003. She squeezed as many as she could into two humungous boxes by my desk, one on top of the other. They are so heavy, even the males here don't want to move them until there are two of them free to handle the quest. It's going to take man power to get them over my desk. But this is why I groan.
"She's a 2003 patient," I say. My eyes flick to the boxes as Daniela says, so? "Well she's an earlier 2003 patient. She's in the bottom box."
First thing this morning is me throwing my hip into the boxes to move them as far as I can into the medical records room, thus leaving enough room to slide the top box off the bottom and onto its side by my desk. I plant my converse into the bottom box to keep it still as I tug the top one toward me. I pull too hard, sending it flying at me and spiraling down. Somehow I control its decent until I realize the searing pain in my arm. I look down to see my forearm wedged between the corner of my desk and the heavy box. It hurts. A lot. But I do nothing but stare at it. If I let go of the box, my arm seriously might break. Here I am, in a squatting position, holding a box almost as heavy as my co-worker down the hall, the only one here to rescue me, and I consider breaking my arm better than having to ask her for help. The box slips more, digging my arm further into the sharp corner and I literally say, "ouch this hurts" to no one. And then I laugh and say it again in an English accent. This is because Jeanette showed me this video on her iPhone the other day:
Anyway, I decide yanking my left arm out and dropping the box at the same time will work. It does. I grab the chart out of the box to go Xerox it. But now I have a red dot of broken blood vessels on my arm.
And it still hurts.
I took photo evidence. This time, I'm getting that workers comp.
But I've come to realize, when people need something from me, it tends to be an afterthought. The person goes through their entire day and then at like a quarter to five, they suddenly get the urge to call me and ask for their pathology report for their colonoscopy. Because honestly, who's thinking about the day they got their butt scoped? I'm like that dreaded call people have on their To Do list. The one they save for the last possible moment. And these people do not realize that I too have a job and leave it at 5. But for some reason, they do not care. And this hurts my feelings.
The call comes in at 411. I already know what kind of call it is before I pick up the phone for Dorrette to tell me who’s on the line. Doctors offices tend to call me before 9 if they need anything for that day. How they found out I get here way before 9 is beyond me. I tried to make a rule that I refused to take calls anytime before 9 because technically I'm not supposed be here yet, but dad would not allow this irrationally logical explanation. Between 930-945, I receive Steve's ten minute break call. I have a range for this because his break is coordinated with when the roach coach shows up in his parking lot indicating breakfast for his fellow machinists. At noon on the dot, I receive his lunch call. Any call inbetween these two calls are mom or Kim. Even my Calls Received Schedule has OCD.
I'm really not surprised when I pick up to hear a pleasant female voice on the other line asking for her records. She's laying on the charm thick and I give it right back. She has no idea the f word came out of my mouth four times before picking up line 67. She tells me she was here a few years ago so I lean back in my chair, reaching up to my card catalogue to find her file number. We're not computerized so we have a Dewey Decimal System to find charts. I'm not kidding. This is what it looks like:
Would you believe me if I told you I find many cards not in alphabetical order?
I find her card and pull it out. Yeah it's not a few years ago. It's like five years ago. Old enough that the labels for the charts are handwritten. Old enough that the receptionists have not started printing out labels on the computer they don't have yet. So old that the yellowing card has my brother's handwriting on it from when he worked here one summer during college. Ancient times here at the Surge.
I tell her the deal on how to retrieve the records and she chooses the come-in-an-get-them-myself method. Which honestly, is my favorite. I hate hearing patients screech in my ear, "I have to get a notarized letter?! They're MY medical records!" Apparently HIPAA laws are lost on these folks. I will see her tomorrow, when? I'm not sure, but I have to assume it will be 9 and I need to have the chart ready.
We hang up and I slide down in my chair, resting my head on the back and groan. Daniela wants the reason for the groan.
Dad's been on my case for two weeks now to ask Cassandra to box up another year of charts to bring them downstairs so I can fit the newer charts in back. I can only fit three years in the room up here and the rest are condemned to the awful basement. I've been avoiding packing them up for a variety of reasons but the main one is I do not want to ask Cassandra to do it for me because I feel guilty. I'm not really authoritative when I ask someone that ranks lower than me on The Surge food chain to do something. It's always like, "Um...I was wondering, if you could, you know, do this for me? But when you have time. No rush! Whenever you feel like it. You know, whatever." I'm the worst. This is why I'll never advance in my career. I'm not even passive. I'm beyond passive. I'm totally the floor.
So basically, what it comes down to is Daniela asks Cassandra to do it because dad starts leaning on her instead of me. On Wednesday, Cassandra happily boxed up three drawers worth of 2003. She squeezed as many as she could into two humungous boxes by my desk, one on top of the other. They are so heavy, even the males here don't want to move them until there are two of them free to handle the quest. It's going to take man power to get them over my desk. But this is why I groan.
"She's a 2003 patient," I say. My eyes flick to the boxes as Daniela says, so? "Well she's an earlier 2003 patient. She's in the bottom box."
First thing this morning is me throwing my hip into the boxes to move them as far as I can into the medical records room, thus leaving enough room to slide the top box off the bottom and onto its side by my desk. I plant my converse into the bottom box to keep it still as I tug the top one toward me. I pull too hard, sending it flying at me and spiraling down. Somehow I control its decent until I realize the searing pain in my arm. I look down to see my forearm wedged between the corner of my desk and the heavy box. It hurts. A lot. But I do nothing but stare at it. If I let go of the box, my arm seriously might break. Here I am, in a squatting position, holding a box almost as heavy as my co-worker down the hall, the only one here to rescue me, and I consider breaking my arm better than having to ask her for help. The box slips more, digging my arm further into the sharp corner and I literally say, "ouch this hurts" to no one. And then I laugh and say it again in an English accent. This is because Jeanette showed me this video on her iPhone the other day:
Click to viewAnyway, I decide yanking my left arm out and dropping the box at the same time will work. It does. I grab the chart out of the box to go Xerox it. But now I have a red dot of broken blood vessels on my arm.
And it still hurts.
I took photo evidence. This time, I'm getting that workers comp.