Bye

Time for my next dose of pills. You know the drill by now, right? Unfortunately, as some ancient Greek philosopher (Heraclitus) once said, pantha rei - everything flows, nothing stays the same. I wish I could get my hands on that bastard...

The first change is a pleasant surprise. I no longer have to pay 30 euros for "administrative services" at the registration desk. Apparently, since April 1st, this fee is no longer collected for the procedure of getting the pills - and that's no April Fool's joke, either. Consequently, I no longer need to sign a bunch of silly forms, either, which is even better.

Next, I follow the predictable steps - go to the oncology department, state why I am here, provide a printed copy of my blood test results, and am told to go to the hall that the doctors use as their cabinet and wait for my doctor to arrive.

So, I go there and wait. And wait. And wait... There are few patients there besides me, but unlike me, they are attended by their doctors, while I keep overhearing parts of the conversations. Some of the patients are at the earlier stage of treatment than me, so the doctors explain them stuff that I know all too well. Others are at later stages and I fervently wish that I didn't hear what the doctors are telling them... because it is not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.

I keep waiting. After an hour of waiting, my patience wears thin and my irritation increases enough to make me stand up and walk to the receptionist's desk to ask WTF is happening and where is my doctor. "You'll have to wait," is the only reply I get. So, I walk back to my chair and wait. And wait. And then wait some more...

After a second hour of waiting, I go back to the receptionst's desk and politely inquire why my doctor isn't here yet. Is he in surgery? Is surgery being done on him? Is he drunk? Did he oversleep? Did his car break down? Did he have a car crash accident? Is he under arrest for patient neglect? Or all of the above? The receptionist politely declines to answer, so I'm left to assume that it's "all of the above" and return back to my chair.

After a third hour of waiting, I can take it no more. I go back to the receptionist and inform her that I have another appointment, to another doctor, on whom my documents for medical leave depend, and I can't afford to be there several hours late, unlike, apparently, the doctors of some hospital I could name can be to the appointments with their patients. Well, this sounds like a problem. But not like the receptionist's problem.

Still, she assures me that the doctor is here, working. "Working on what?," I inquire. "On writing your prescription," she lies without batting an eye. Lady, he doesn't "write" my prescrition. All he has to do is to enter my social security number into his computer, select a prescription that has already been issued in the past, and click the "Print" button. I have to write more than him after I get it - I need to sign the document for the pills twice and also write my full name on it.

I again stress that I have an urgent appointment with another doctor that can't wait because my next month of medical leave depends on it - and, consequently, the pitiful 70% of my salary that the retirement insurance pays during my medical leave (which appears marked as "matternity leave" on my bank statement, I kid you not), because my employer no longer has a budget for my salary. The receptionist politely informs me that the decision what to do is entirely mine. I politely inform her that this is not quite the case, because I don't have a gun, so at least some options are foreclosed to me. So, I decide to wait additional 15 minutes and then leave, and damn the torpedoes. Or the doctors. Or the cancers. Or my life.

At the end of these 15 minutes, spot, the head nurse weakly calls my name from the other end of the (long) corridor. Thankfully, while I might be dying of cancer, I'm not quite deaf yet, so I manage to hear her and run towards her along the (long) corridor, expecting to finally see my doctor. No such luck, however. Instead, the head nurse hands me the printed prescription for the pills, with a yellow PostIt note slapped on it. Something vaguely ressembling a date is scribbled on the note - which, I presume, is the next date on which I have to come for the next dose of pills.

Isn't it nice when you're treated with care and respect by the doctors treating you from a deadly disease? Well, is it? I don't know, I have yet to experience it. Besides the deadly disease part, that is.

The nurse graciously informs me that, unlike other times, once I get the pills from the basement bunker, I don't have to return to the 8^th floor to sign the form that I've got the pills. Thank nurse for small favors, I guess.

So, I run downstairs to the basement bunker, get the pills, take the bus home, grab a quick bite, and run to my personal physician. I arrive just in time for the appointment. He fills a bunch of forms that I'll have to bring tomorrow to the bureaucrats of the doctors concilium who will decide whether to grant me yet another month of medical leave. Then I return home and go to sleep, because I'm exhausted like a dog.

I'll update this page if there are any important changes and I am still able to do so.