I had a mammogram yesterday. I know TMI, but the check-in
was rather delightful. I sat down and the receptionist asked me if it was OK to
discuss my personal information out loud. “Sure,” I said looking around the empty
room. “You’d be surprised at how many
people say ‘No’,” she whispered. She
asked for my driver’s license and insurance card. I handed them to her. She
handed me back the insurance card. “I
think this is the wrong one.” It was my
dental insurance card. As I was rifling
through my purse to find my medical card she asked me to spell my first name,
last name, and date of birth. I don’t actually know if she asked me to spell my
date of birth I was still looking for the right card. I must have looked up with a blank stare,
because she smiled and repeated the instructions. After I passed the
spelling/DOB test, I said, “Whew, now when you go home and tell your family
about the crazy woman who gave you a dental card, you can at least tell them
she could spell her name.” She laughed and we continued discussing my personal
information. She handed back my driver’s
license saying “here’s your photo ID.” I
looked at her and said, “I can’t imagine anyone sneaking in here to have a
mammogram for someone else.” “You’d be
surprise.” She paused, “but it isn’t like plastic surgery.” Just then someone came in. Now the waiting room had ears! She grinned
and whispered the next question. Soon it was time to sign the permission to
treat form. Who knew? I kind of figured scheduling
the appointment meant the same thing. Later as I was signing the privacy form,
I reminded her it meant she couldn’t tell her family the name of the crazy lady
who came in for a tooth removal. By this
time we were both laughing at everything. “Why are things so much funnier on
Friday afternoons?” she asked. Whew, she
is blaming it on TGIF syndrome not crazy lady syndrome. She finished up with my personal
information. I had a bit of a problem
letting her know my new insurance—medical—kicked in September 2015, not
September 15. It might have been better
if I spelled it. “Do you want to
schedule your next appointment?” I know it was a routine question, so she wasn’t
planning to take a day off in say a year from now. “No thanks.”
“I’ll take you back then.”
On the way out, she looked up at me and grinned. “Keep
smiling!” I said. She laughed. The
people in the waiting room gave us a blank stare. Maybe we should have whispered.
