The one where I’ll get lots of interesting search hits…

Thus far, I’ve tried to not be too heavy with my posts on this new blog. You know, so as not to scare off any new visitors or any old commenters too. And, I will try to keep this light—light and airy, airy, airy.

OK, let’s cut the crap. Let me just spit this out in my all-too-blunt manner…

Parents! Can’t live with them. And, can’t get them to take care of themselves when they live on their own. GRR!

This is a cry out to anyone who has parents who are like mine. First, let me point out that my parents are loving and wonderful people who I fully recognize completely spoiled me, making me into the obnoxious blogging brat I am today. They loved me unconditionally, and hopefully still will if they ever read this blog post.

But, dang it! Why won’t they take care of themselves? Honestly!

Was there some manual that went out to all generations before my own that basically brainwashed people into complete passivity when it comes to healthcare and other important life issues? Did my grandparents play tapes during my parent’s early years while they slept that ingrained in them to never ask questions, believe the doctor and his staff always have your best interest at heart and never, ever make mistakes? Will Obama the Great be able to cure this problem while he works on racial harmony and the environment? Or is he, like my parents, just not wired to ever ask simple things such as–Why? When? Are you sure? And the unthinkable–can I get a second opinion?

My father lives with a very serious health condition and is very overweight to boot. He was recently told of a very serious complication that may require surgery. Surgery on anyone with his condition and his weight is very scary and probably risky as well. Ok, I should back-track here and say this was NOT recently. This diagnosis was back in AUGUST.

The surgery was originally delayed because of a reunion trip he had for which he really wanted attend. The doctors, at that time, said this wasn’t an emergency, but it MUST be done fairly soon.

Cut forward to where we are today…four long months later. My father calls several times a week to find out when this surgery is going to be scheduled. He’s shuttled every couple of weeks back and forth to his specialist and the surgeon as they get approval from one another to scratch the other one’s ass, basically. And, he waits.

Now, I should point out here that I did get my incredibly powerful impatience gene from my father. The man can’t wait for an egg to boil half of the time. Seriously, the only thing he has patience with are his grandkids and smoked brisket–both of which he adores and dotes on with the patience of a saint. So, he’s calling and calling while those doctors take turn scratching their nether regions.

And, now I’m starting to wonder if they’re also scratching their heads. (Mental thought–gross image of older doctor scratching himself down there and then scratching his head. Yeah, sigh…that about fits.)

Finally, oh finally, after three weeks of no response, he gets a call. Not from a doctor, but from a nurse who is letting him know that, oh, by the way his problem may be quite a lot more serious than they originally guessed. Also, they may have to run one of the major tests again. And, oh, if the problem is as bad as they suspect? Well, they’ll need to bring in a whole other kind of surgeon. And, if they bring in that surgeon, the process will start all over again with getting approval from the other two ass scratchers and then getting on this surgeons calendar, while he itches his, and yadda, yadda, yadda.

I don’t know how my Dad hasn’t blown a gasket. I would have completely lost it by now!

So, I get this news third hand, then finally get call with a very watered down version from my mother, who loves to either not tell me things at all so “I won’t worry” or will dilute things so “I won’t worry.” (Can you tell I worry a lot?)

Well, she tells me in a roundabout way that the dance with doctors continues and that a whole other dance partner may be in the mix and I think my reaction shocks her. I mean, it isn’t often that I let some f-bombs drop when I’m speaking with my mother on the phone. And, I really meant her  no disrespect.

But, I’m ready to go and open up a can of Texas size whoop-ass on these MDs. Because while they are doing all of this scheduling and slowly coming to all of these conclusions, my father’s health is deteriorating and I know he’s growing depressed. Can’t they SEE this? And, wouldn’t you think a major medical issue that could suddenly end his life at any time would be the kind of thing that, oh, you’d want to get right on and take care of, already?

“Well, I’ll have to ask your father. I don’t know if he’d want me calling and complaining about this. We’ll probably just wait and see what happens again…”

Then, my mother adds, “they can’t get him in to do that re-test on him until the 16th either–that’s their earliest appointment.”

After I pull my brains from the ceiling where my head has shot them, I go back onto my soapbox and rant and rant about being in charge of your own health care. I tell her that someone has to put their foot down. I offer to call (which scares the living hell out of her, I can tell) and offer to house my father for months if it takes and be his personal shuttle service to and from doctor’s appointments in the city in which we live, just to GET some competency and get this issue resolved already!

I’ve sat on this information for two days, and I’m just as mad today as I was when she called me. I do not understand this mentality of not questioning things. I am not a rude person. If my service is bad at a restaurant, we might tip a little less, but I never complain to management or my waiter. I don’t like causing a scene.

But, my father’s life is at stake here. And, a part of me wants to scream that until someone can hear me over all the ass-scratching of the white coats! Can anyone relate???