Fine Line between Tragedy and Farce
Jun. 29th, 2004 12:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thessalianEver since the new office manager showed up, things have been going rapidly fucked. Dr Slater (one of my three consultants) and Dr Gallagher (her singular consultant) seem to have this thing going where Dr Gallagher receives pancreatic, oesophageal or general GI cancer patients and refers them to Dr Slevin's clinic, as Dr Slevin and his happy band of party pals are the experts. This loses me control over the clinics so I never have any idea who's going where when. Not even when Friday afternoon rolls around and she drops sets of notes on my desk saying, "These need to go to clinic". What the bloody fuck? Those things are supposed to be assembled and brought through to clinic on Wednesday afternoons! If she sat down and discussed procedure with me for three seconds, she'd know that. But no; I tried to tell her routine so she'd know to ask for notes earlier, and her reaction was, nearly in so many words, "Well, I don't care; this is how it's being done". So I'm putting together the notes, letters and general patient bumf twice a week instead of the general once, and hauling notes and film packets to clinic with Dr Slevin's Dictaphone. Worse, I'm forced to leave the notes at the front desk and hope they get to the consultant or registrar who needs them because, since I didn't book the fucking appointment (or indeed even know about it until Friday afternoon), I have no damn clue who the patient's seeing.
This came back to bite me in the arse this morning, when the office manager secretary bitch (OMSB) turned up to me and said, "Do you have [patient]'s notes?" I remembered this patient -- this was the one whose King George notes she dumped on me Friday. Unfortunately, only the Barts ones had come back from clinic, and I told her so. Cue huff: "So where are the King George notes? I need those notes!" I told her I didn't know where they were and managed not to say, "Well, if you've got such a wild hair up your butt about those notes, maybe you should be keeping better track of them, finding them your own damn self and stop wasting my time".
Since I was in the middle of typing a letter for that patient, I at least knew what consultant the patient had seen, so I asked her if she'd seen them. She said the notes had never got to her, so I rang the clinic front desk. They said those notes had never come up and weren't there. Suspicious (after all, I dropped them on the desk yesterday morning and they're bright fucking orange), I went out to the clinic. Guess what I saw as soon as I walked in the door? Bright fucking orange and three feet from the phone, and the ijits who man the clinic desk still couldn't see them.
Triumphant, I bring the notes back to the office and put them on the OMSB's desk. She gives me this patronising little smirk -- but at least she said thank you, no matter how smarmy it was. I swear, this woman's got it in for me. I don't know what her problem is -- my clothes, my youth, my nationality, the fact that I could do her job in my sleep and everybody knows it -- but it seems like she really likes rubbing it in that she can order me around. One of these days I really am going to have to tell her that I haven't got time or inclination to do her file-monkeying and if she doesn't like it, she is cordially invited to talk to the hand that is currently balled up into a fist and travelling towards her nose at high speed.
And then dear Dr Slater comes in to talk to me, puts one hand on the buttons of the transcription machine as she leans across the desk and manages to screw up her whole tape. It's farce.
This came back to bite me in the arse this morning, when the office manager secretary bitch (OMSB) turned up to me and said, "Do you have [patient]'s notes?" I remembered this patient -- this was the one whose King George notes she dumped on me Friday. Unfortunately, only the Barts ones had come back from clinic, and I told her so. Cue huff: "So where are the King George notes? I need those notes!" I told her I didn't know where they were and managed not to say, "Well, if you've got such a wild hair up your butt about those notes, maybe you should be keeping better track of them, finding them your own damn self and stop wasting my time".
Since I was in the middle of typing a letter for that patient, I at least knew what consultant the patient had seen, so I asked her if she'd seen them. She said the notes had never got to her, so I rang the clinic front desk. They said those notes had never come up and weren't there. Suspicious (after all, I dropped them on the desk yesterday morning and they're bright fucking orange), I went out to the clinic. Guess what I saw as soon as I walked in the door? Bright fucking orange and three feet from the phone, and the ijits who man the clinic desk still couldn't see them.
Triumphant, I bring the notes back to the office and put them on the OMSB's desk. She gives me this patronising little smirk -- but at least she said thank you, no matter how smarmy it was. I swear, this woman's got it in for me. I don't know what her problem is -- my clothes, my youth, my nationality, the fact that I could do her job in my sleep and everybody knows it -- but it seems like she really likes rubbing it in that she can order me around. One of these days I really am going to have to tell her that I haven't got time or inclination to do her file-monkeying and if she doesn't like it, she is cordially invited to talk to the hand that is currently balled up into a fist and travelling towards her nose at high speed.
And then dear Dr Slater comes in to talk to me, puts one hand on the buttons of the transcription machine as she leans across the desk and manages to screw up her whole tape. It's farce.