#Patientfail

"So, you're telling me I'm at the wrong office?" I said with a sigh, immediately feeling guilty for not having listened more attentively to my voicemail or triple checked the electronic appointment reminder. I mean seriously, that's why they have those tools. And hello - I spend half my career helping Radiology and Ambulatory leaders sort through why their patients are late, at the wrong clinic and the downfall it causes for providers and patients in the office. I blame the baby brain. Lack of sleep. And maybe, just maybe the sugar-filled red stuff I had just downed for the day's glucose test.

Friendly and patient, the intake coordinator sends me back for the diabetes screen that I'd fasted for despite my husband's sweet gesture to prepare a plateful of delicious chocolate chip cookies. I'm met with a loud spoken, slightly smoky smelling lab tech who immediately grills me on how I followed the instructions on the sheet since I  wasn't on her schedule and the front desk had coded my test wrong, who quickly informed me of my second failure: not doing the test correctly.

This Master's degree of mine is clearly not paying off at all.

Despite my best efforts to chart the times I was supposed to x,y,z and interpret the instructions to the best of my ability, something about the words "Begin drinking 45 minutes before your appointment time. Drink within five minutes of starting" was too much for this girl to process. A debate ensued as nearby the gals waiting for sono shook their head in sympathy for me (from my lack of intelligence or the need for now a four-person pow wow I'm not sure) and I prepared to leave, the option to drown my body in more of the sugary substance not an option for getting a good read on the test.

After several attempts to lighten the situation with humor (reminder: this never works with most hospital personnel), I rescheduled, listing out the time and location four times verbally and noting it in three different places and walked away with an extra hour in my day, though induced by whatever is in that bottle of weirdness.

So another 48 hours pass that I'm unsure if gestational diabetes is in my future, yet a whole day lives in between where those chocolate chip cookies can be mine.

Pass the milk, will ya?