|I'm a man on the edge|
That being said, I have had a day of phone frustration. I have been on the horn with doctors' offices, nurses, medical records clerks, and medical equipment suppliers. I'm sick of people shifting blame and not doing anything to help me solve my dilemma. The last person I spoke to on the phone yet again told me it was somebody else's fault that I'm having trouble getting supplies for my insulin pump. (Yes, I am an insulin pump diabetic.) I wanted to tell "Kim" that I really didn't give a shit whose fault it was. I simply wanted the problem resolved. I did, however, stop short of profanity.
Now, I'm waiting for yet another phone call, and I have a sinking feeling it's not going to come before I have to leave for my dinner with Donald Hall and company. I'm looking forward to my night of poetry, sitting in a room with one of my favorite writers. This game of phone dodge ball has begun to sour my mood.
If the phone call I'm expecting doesn't come, I'm going to try to put the whole thing out of my head until tomorrow morning, when I will take up my quest for the Holy Grail yet again. I want to enjoy my evening. I do not want to spend dinner with Don brooding about the inadequacy of the medical establishment in this country. Believe me, I could go on for a while on that subject.
Saint Marty is seeking his happy place, where chicken cordon bleu and poetry roams.