I Love Healthcare

Especially HMOs. So I get a referral from Sutter Roseville's ER to a local ortho surgeon last Friday. Unfortunately that person is not contracted as a provider through my insurance---a company that shall remain nameless. So, my insurer, that has a shield and is blue, says even though I have a referral from the ER, I still need to see my family doctor to get a referral to a kosher orthopedists.

Sooo, Monday I am able to get an appointment with my PCP (that's insurance-speak for Primary Care Provider) and he concurs with the former diagnosis, that I have indeed broken a finger and wrenched a knee. He sends me home telling me that his practice will set up the appointment with a "sports medicine group" in Sac and get back to me. That sits well with my male ego, the whole "sports" thing and all. I envision myself at my future appointment, reading Sports Illustrated in the waiting room, overhearing the conversations of other testosterone-filled patients: "So, how did you tear your ACL, Joe?" "I stunted on a blitz and got blind-sided by the slotback." "Yeah, I was in the octagon Saturday night and didn't tap out of a leg lock quick enough." "Tough break, dude ... and how 'bout you, man?" I lower my magazine to discover they are looking at me. I can feel the visible flush to my face (and that's hard to do if you know me) as I weakly offer: "Um, I was fishing and slipped on a rock." Cricket, cricket ...

Tomorrow will be me and my accident's one week anniversary. I haven't heard a peep from the sports folks, my finger is still castless, and my knee is far from NFL ready. My one consolation is that the knee swelling has transitioned from grapefruit to cutie. It's a sore little citrus, though. Lesson here folks: Don't leave your house. Stay in your well-padded coccoon and watch Roland Martin reel in the big ones on TV.

Photo above: Lost glory days at the river of doom.