Don't Call Us, We'll Call You: And the SurgeonWatch Continues

There are some things in this crazy world that you can rely on: the earth is round, the sky is blue (unless you live in Vancouver), the delicious taste of beef brisket cures all manners of ailments and afflictions, and my surgeon will not freaking call. Yup, it's been nearly three weeks since my doctor received my MRI reports and a week since my family doctor told me about the torn gluteus medius, and still Dr. ___ is still playing hard to get.

Have I left messages? Yes indeed. Has anyone called back? Absolutely not. So, as time ticks by and my phone does not ring, I'm turning to the power of the internets for answers. Usually, the internet is a divine source of all knowledge, wisdom and pictures of cats using bad grammar. (I am, after all, the woman who beefed up a 30-page graduate-level essay by wikipedia-ing various lit-crit scholars and tossing in a few quotes. Academia: ur doing it wrong). In this case, however, the internet seems only to be a source of confusion.

Most sites I've visited say that a torn gluteus medius is usually repaired surgically. Some, however, say that surgery is often unsuccessful and can only be done in some cases. (Though, why some cases are operate-able and some are not is unclear. Is it based on the severity of the tear or the time elapsed between the tear and when it's discovered?). One site even bucked the trend and said that a torn gluteus medius never requires surgery. Medical writers of the internets: you people need to have a conference call and get your story straight because this shit is ridiculous.

Now, of course, this whole labryinth of confusion could be prevented if the doctor would pick up the phone and/or schedule me an appointment so we could have a little chit-chat about what is to be done. Instead, I'm watching episode after episode of "House," which is like medical porn to me because everything happens very quickly. People get sick, tests are performed, diagnoses are made and revised and re-made, someone has an "aha!" moment at exacly the right time to save a patient's life, and everything is wrapped up with a bow in an hour. No one waits three weeks for a phone call. No one resorts to google to see what's wrong with them. A lot of people run around frantically, House makes a few caustic remarks and does something borderline unethical, and happy endings abound.

See, at the end of the day, I don't mind if my doctor is a douche-kabob as long as he gets shit done. We don't have to bond over martinis or have a meaningful heart-to-heart over tea and scones. I just want prompt medical attention. Or, if there's a good reason why I can't have prompt medical attention, I want to know that reason so that I don't find myself trying to decipher the medical-ese of some internet article at 3 a.m. Because, believe me, the number of medical articles I read at 3 a.m. is directly proportional to the amount of cranky phone messages Dr. ___'s office will receive the next day, which isn't good for anyone involved.