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thessalian*sigh* This morning already hasn't started well. When I came in, Barbara the ward clerk from Hades was wandering around the place and told me that a patient's husband was in complaining that I had been "extremely unhelpful" with regards to a letter about their son's travel insurance claim. Apparently not being precognitive and/or psychic is construed as "extremely unhelpful" in the modern secretary.
See, the patient herself became very ill recently and had to go in for treatment, which meant that her son had to cancel his holiday and come home early. This has incurred some fairly nasty rebooking fees and the insurance company needed a letter from the consultant before they could reimburse. So the husband wrote to the consultant (my annoying one) asking for such a letter. A week later, I got a phone call from the husband asking me where this letter was. I hadn't seen it, I certainly hadn't typed it and had no way of knowing if my consultant had handed it off to a registrar, in which case I wouldn't have typed it. In short, I had no idea where this letter was. In the most diplomatic terms possible, I told him that and promised to make enquiries. He kept badgering me about "Well, surely you must know something about this; we've been waiting a week and it's not an inconsiderable amount of money, you know..." Unfortunately, this is not going to make me know anything more, so I just repeated what I had originally said, as well as my promise to make enquiries. Apparently, though, I "have to know something about this letter". No, I really don't. And while I will cheerfully accept that insurance claims are important, when you weigh it up against all the other letters an oncology consultant has to dictate, they're kind of small potatoes. Not that I said any of this, but seriously, if I were a consultant, I'd be taking the letter making sure that a patient gets the appropriate treatment for their condition -- or Social Services support, or their family brought over from wherever-the-hell so they can spend that last little while with the patient and help them through the very hard time they're facing -- a lot more seriously than the piddling insurance claim. Sure, that letter gets done, but it's not priority. Instead, I suggested that they get in touch with me within the next couple of days and promised an answer to the query by then.
However, oddly enough, I never had to make these enquiries. I had three clinic tapes from Monday and two extraneous tapes; one from the nice bustly lady consultant and one from the annoying consultant with the drugs trials. That latter's extraneous tape contained, lo and behold, the letter regarding the insurance claim. I typed it, it got signed, it got posted and, as requested, the patient's husband rang up to enquire as to its whereabouts. I told him cheerfully that as it turned out, I had just typed it and it was on its way. He said thank you and hung up. End of problem, I think. Apparently, I think wrong.
And Barbara took such nasty, schadenfreude-laden pleasure in telling me this. You'd think she'd get over the notes on the floor thing by now, particularly since I cleared my floor entirely yesterday morning. No, apparently she's more than happy to stick the boot in whenever humanly possible. As I was saying to Linda the other day, I wish Barbara could do my job for just one day, see how well she manages and how helpful she is when a patient or their family member asks for information that she doesn't have.
But of course, me being me, there's that naggy self-doubt feeling. Was I unhelpful? Dr Propper was out of the office, so he wasn't around to ask. He could have handed off that letter to his reg or any of the SHOs who knew the case. I could not for the life of me think of anyone to ask about the whereabouts of that letter, and really didn't have time to go around the entire SHO rota trying to find out. My only real option was to wait for Dr Propper to come in and ask him about it. I offered to do the only thing I could; how is that unhelpful?
So grateful that it's Friday...
See, the patient herself became very ill recently and had to go in for treatment, which meant that her son had to cancel his holiday and come home early. This has incurred some fairly nasty rebooking fees and the insurance company needed a letter from the consultant before they could reimburse. So the husband wrote to the consultant (my annoying one) asking for such a letter. A week later, I got a phone call from the husband asking me where this letter was. I hadn't seen it, I certainly hadn't typed it and had no way of knowing if my consultant had handed it off to a registrar, in which case I wouldn't have typed it. In short, I had no idea where this letter was. In the most diplomatic terms possible, I told him that and promised to make enquiries. He kept badgering me about "Well, surely you must know something about this; we've been waiting a week and it's not an inconsiderable amount of money, you know..." Unfortunately, this is not going to make me know anything more, so I just repeated what I had originally said, as well as my promise to make enquiries. Apparently, though, I "have to know something about this letter". No, I really don't. And while I will cheerfully accept that insurance claims are important, when you weigh it up against all the other letters an oncology consultant has to dictate, they're kind of small potatoes. Not that I said any of this, but seriously, if I were a consultant, I'd be taking the letter making sure that a patient gets the appropriate treatment for their condition -- or Social Services support, or their family brought over from wherever-the-hell so they can spend that last little while with the patient and help them through the very hard time they're facing -- a lot more seriously than the piddling insurance claim. Sure, that letter gets done, but it's not priority. Instead, I suggested that they get in touch with me within the next couple of days and promised an answer to the query by then.
However, oddly enough, I never had to make these enquiries. I had three clinic tapes from Monday and two extraneous tapes; one from the nice bustly lady consultant and one from the annoying consultant with the drugs trials. That latter's extraneous tape contained, lo and behold, the letter regarding the insurance claim. I typed it, it got signed, it got posted and, as requested, the patient's husband rang up to enquire as to its whereabouts. I told him cheerfully that as it turned out, I had just typed it and it was on its way. He said thank you and hung up. End of problem, I think. Apparently, I think wrong.
And Barbara took such nasty, schadenfreude-laden pleasure in telling me this. You'd think she'd get over the notes on the floor thing by now, particularly since I cleared my floor entirely yesterday morning. No, apparently she's more than happy to stick the boot in whenever humanly possible. As I was saying to Linda the other day, I wish Barbara could do my job for just one day, see how well she manages and how helpful she is when a patient or their family member asks for information that she doesn't have.
But of course, me being me, there's that naggy self-doubt feeling. Was I unhelpful? Dr Propper was out of the office, so he wasn't around to ask. He could have handed off that letter to his reg or any of the SHOs who knew the case. I could not for the life of me think of anyone to ask about the whereabouts of that letter, and really didn't have time to go around the entire SHO rota trying to find out. My only real option was to wait for Dr Propper to come in and ask him about it. I offered to do the only thing I could; how is that unhelpful?
So grateful that it's Friday...