After 6 and a half years, I finally took up my machete and hacked my way through the mind maze that is the American healthcare system. I found myself a primary care provider; today was my first appointment.
I told her to feel free to talk to me like I was five, because I didn’t know a single thing, and I immediately proved myself by not knowing that insurance companies categorize different types of visits differently. Would this be my annual? I literally only get one a year.
I don’t know, doc, you tell me.
So, they gave me two jabs, drew some blood, and sent me on my merry way. She also took my blood pressure, which I was worried would be elevated, given how uncomfortable I was being there, but she said it was great, which is nice to hear.
I had this appointment scheduled weeks ago. They had me fill out a depression index questionnaire as part of the in-take, and I stared at it for the longest time, trying to make sense of how badly I’d been feeling in the past 2 weeks on a scale of 1-5, before coming clean:
“I think I should tell you that my father passed away 8 days ago, so I’m not sure how accurate this will be.”
“Fill it out to the best of your ability.”
A beat.
“Sorry for your loss.”
The thing is, I wouldn’t be there if I didn’t have to be. But I promised my father that I wouldn’t be lax. Go to the doctor, he told me, don’t be like me.
Get screened. You probably have a predisposition. What did I know? Nobody taught us anything.