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The Big K

I’ve spent the last couple of years defending the Kaiser Medical system, assuring people how much it’s changed. They’re so much more patient centered, I said. You never feel like cattle, I said.

I take it all back. Moo.

My trip down the chute went something like this: it took me at least fifteen minutes to find a parking space (in their garage) at the hospital, then another fifteen to twenty minutes to check in. I had a hospital bracelet put on me and was required to show photo ID. Different and time consuming. Bonus. I asked the receptionist if they were afraid someone else would come in and have my mammogram for me, but she didn’t think it was nearly as funny as I did. After a half-mile hike, I checked in again at mammography then had to wait a few more minutes until I was called. During this delightful sojourn I was asked my ethnic heritage, my marital status, and asked to confirm my birthdate at least three times. Maybe I look so young they couldn’t believe what year I was born.

Stop laughing. A girl can dream, can’t she?

The actual procedure, a call-back spot check, took about fifteen minutes, including a consultation with the radiologist. For that, they were awesome. But the beaurocracy to get into the little room and have my boob squished again was unreal. And, in my opinion, unnecessary. The clinic where I normally go is fabulous. I’ve never had to wait, people are friendly and kind, it’s easy to be seen or get your kids seen quickly.

But this hospital visit was not a good experience, echoing the days when my grandfather was ignored while he lay in pain because they thought he was too old to possibly have done what he said he did. That, however, is another story for another time.

Short version?

Bad trip to a Kaiser hospital.

Good technician and doctor. Good result (hooters are fine).

Have a moo-tiful Wednesday!

  Day 17 word count:



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