You know what really frosts my flakes? Making medical appointments.
You’ve gotta schedule them weeks in advance, which is really helpful if you’re planning to get sick later.
And half the time, you’re not even calling the clinic anymore. You’re talking to some outsourced call center halfway around the world.
You try to explain your problem and they respond like a confused parrot. They speak English, but somehow don’t understand a word of it.
And before they even know your name, they want your credit card number. That’s comforting.
Then, they tell you to show up 30 minutes early to fill out the same paperwork you already filled out three months ago. Same questions. Same answers. Different clipboard.
Or, better yet, you check in on a kiosk. There’s nothing like entering your personal medical history while the guy behind you reads along like it’s a menu.
Now, if YOU’RE late? There’s a fee. But, if THEY’RE running 45 minutes behind? That’s just “part of the process.”
Then they make you step on a scale fully dressed, with shoes and jacket on, and car keys in your pocket. So, later, the doctor can tell you you’ve gained a few pounds. No kidding.
Then they stick you in a tiny room and ask you to explain your problem — again — so someone can type it into a computer.
By the time they take your blood pressure, you’re ready to explode. And they look at the numbers like YOU’RE the problem.
Then, you wait another 30 minutes for your seven-minute visit with the doctor, who listens just long enough to prescribe something for the symptoms and tells you to come back in 90 days. Because, heaven forbid, anything actually gets solved.
A cured patient is a lost customer.
I’m Grandpa Grumpy and I’m way too old for this nonsense.