Sometimes You Just Want to Scream.

Bitching and moaning, but I am doing OK.

Today, I had to make a doctor's appointment for a routine yearly test to be followed by a annual  physical.  Truly, I put these off as long as possible and unless blood is coming out of every oracle of my body, I don't want to be around anyone wearing a white coat and a stethoscope. Finally I decided that I had stalled too long and it was time, so I called the hospital to schedule a date. Then I waited, and waited, and waited for someone to answer while listening to drive-you-crazy music interrupted by a voice telling me how important I am.  At last (about five or so minutes), a young lady answered.  I told her what I wanted - stressing that it was not an emergency, just a routine test.  Fine, we understood each other.  Good start!  Before giving me an appointment they needed dates and numbers and more information than I thought unnecessary but, OK, I understand that they need to get paid.  When I told her that I had a Medicare card, that led to another long string of questions. I tried to not sound frustrated, but then my Retired Man came into the room and looked quizzically at my face. Apparently it might have been red and twisted at that point, and he was concerned I might be having a stroke. It was going on way too long so I finally sat down. I answered about 20 more questions that had nothing to do with the type of test I would be having, then she  asked me why I was using a Medicare card. Was it this, was it that,  and then finally, "is it because of age!!!!!!! What the heck!!!!!! For the vast majority of Medicare users, you have to be 65 and over.  One of the first questions she asked me was my date of birth. Perhaps she could not count past 50, so I took a deep breath and told her how very old I was.

Her next question to me, "Are you pregnant."