Boulevard Of Broken Ankles

He walks a lonely road

Only on one ankle he strode

Doesn't know where it goes

He sits at home and walks alone

 

[Boulevard of Broken Dreams]

 

No. That is NOT an uplifting song. No siree, Bob! But it's the tone of The Pony's current journey to obtain medical treatment for his broken ankle. Strap on a neck brace. You're going to get a spinny head.

 

I think The Pony might have developed Stockholm Syndrome. Sitting, sitting, earnestly waiting for a call, a text, an email scan... something that will propel him into an actual doctor's office for an exam and a cast. So trusting, our little Pony. "She said she would get back to me!"

 

No. She never does. I'm not implying that people are deliberately ignoring The Pony's pleas, or maliciously not responding. The office is down four carriers right now, after two broken ankles and two letting-goes. The acting supervisor and the union rep are still running mail routes, not just sitting around waiting for The Pony to contact them. It's more a matter of the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing. ON AN OCTOPUS!

 

When we last convened, all The Pony needed was a form saying the new doctor had permission to treat him, and bill his employer. Simple. A single form. That advice came from the new doctor's office, as a condition of them giving him an appointment. He was awaiting a reply (and the form with the new doctor's name and address) from his acting supervisor.

 

MONDAY night

1) Nothing after my 6:00 update. Pony sent a text to his union rep.

 

2) Union rep said the ACTUAL supervisor was back! [The one who filled out the disappearing form]

 

3) Pony sent a text to actual super. Nothing.

 

TUESDAY: all The Pony needs is that letter/form giving permission to treat and bill. 

 

1) Text to acting supervisor following up on request for form. No reply.

 

2) Text to union rep. No reply.

 

3) Call FROM office of worker's comp, (not the KC office, but a nurse he'd never talked to before) asking his condition, and where he'd sought treatment.

 

4) Call FROM the Urgent Care (15 minutes later), asking what specialist he was seeing, since they needed to complete paperwork, and send his records to the new doctor. [My belief is that the worker's comp people were pretty inquisitive as to why no paperwork filled out by them, so Urgent Care jumped right on that CYA situation. The Pony thinks it's because they can't get paid without that form.]

 

5) Call to actual super. Who said acting supervisor was handling it. And sent copy of original form.

 

6) Call back to actual super, saying that form was incorrect, needed new doctor on it.

 

7) Actual super advised Pony to call The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy.

 

8) The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy said they don't issue a second form like that, she'd fax the form to the new doctor for Thursday, but she didn't have their fax number. [I wonder if this is the form Urgent Care just completed, showing a referral to new doctor, or the old form.]

 

9) FARMER H called the new doctor, got the fact number, and called The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy with it.

10) Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy said she would fax them the form Wednesday morning.

Of course I think The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy will send the old form that is showing what Urgent Care did not fill out. Seriously. After all this, I don't think The Pony is one inch closer to having the right form to get treatment on Thursday.

Farmer H wanted ME to call the new doctor Wednesday morning, and ask if they had the form faxed to them. All his blustering while he was out west, and now he's still blustering, telling ME what to do. The Pony said it was Farmer H's idea, and he should deal with it. I asked why THE PONY didn't call them himself, and he said people don't understand him on the phone!

Anyhoo... Farmer H says he's dropping by that new doctor's office while he's over in Bill-Paying Town at Lowe's on Wednesday morning. To ask if they have the form, or WHAT EXACTLY THEY NEED to treat The Pony. If they don't have it, The Pony has to call back to The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy and specify THE FORM NEEDED BY THE NEW DOCTOR. 

Farmer H canceled his own appointment on Thursday, because he wants to take The Pony to this appointment and make sure he gets a cast! He's also planning to go to the post office Wednesday if the new doctor doesn't have what's needed, and not leave until he gets that form for treatment. "I'll be polite. But I won't leave without a form."

 

I hate to be a pessimist, but I have a feeling The Pony will be paying out-of-pocket for treatment on Thursday. IF the new doctor will treat him. At least The Pony has a pocketful of money. He's getting continuation of pay during his time off, 35 hours per week. That's one thing that has been completed. Supposedly...

There Is No Joy In Ankleville... The Farmer Has Struck Out

For those of you logging in to see the cascading waterfall of heads that rolled when Farmer H rode in on his white horse to get The Pony an appointment for his BROKEN ANKLE... the head-rolling has been postponed.

Day 11 of The Broken Ankle! Still no appointment! The Pony waited faithfully for his call from Urgent Care, who said they were following up with The Lady Named for a Part of the Female Anatomy on Monday morning. The Pony called The Lady Named for a Part of the Female Anatomy himself. She was unavailable, but returned his call 30 minutes later. Saying that THE PONY himself should be making that appointment. All he needed was the case number. AND she gave him a phone number for the Dept of Labor, which handles claims such as his. 

The Pony relayed this info to Farmer H, who said HE would deal with it. Well. An hour and multiple phone calls later, the best Farmer H could do was a THURSDAY appointment over in Bill-Paying Town. ONE office said it would be three weeks before they could work in The Pony! A major hospital network said they would return Farmer H's call if they could squeeze The Pony in this afternoon. Oh, they returned the call four hours later. Saying they DID NOT HANDLE any patients with claims from concerning workplace injuries and the Dept of Labor. I'm pretty sure that's a lie. The only hospital we have in this area is affiliated with this major hospital network. So they're saying they deny treatment to injured workers???

ALSO, the appointment that Farmer H WAS able to capture is contingent on The Pony bringing A SPECIFIC FORM before he will be treated. Does this sound familiar?

 

Farmer H has his own appointment on Thursday, in the opposite direction, with the clinic that is holding him hostage for that $920 anesthesia bill. I will be driving The Pony, and hopefully Farmer H can meet The Pony in Bill-Paying Town after his own appointment. We have instructed The Pony: 

 

"DO NOT LEAVE THAT OFFICE WITHOUT TREATMENT! If they won't take the (hopefully procured by then) newest form, pay with your insurance. OR we will pay by check or credit card if necessary, and deal with reimbursement later." 

That will be two weeks to the day since The Pony broke his ankle. I don't think it's unreasonable to demand treatment.

Since 11:00 a.m., The Pony has been waiting on his acting supervisor to complete that form and email it to him. As I type this, it's 6:00 p.m.

We only have two more days to get that form in our hot sweaty hands... and 11 days has proved insufficient time to get it so far.

The Pony Takes A Picture Of His Balls On The Footrest Of Farmer H's Recliner

Made you look! Okay, okay! Maybe that IS a little bit clickbaity. But it is LITERALLY the truth. Give me a break, I didn't even include the fact that The Pony took a picture of his BLUE balls!

Sweet Gummi Mary! I found the most interesting treat EVER! Well. Except for maybe those insects on a stick in some of the countries I've seen on The Amazing Race. But for around Hillmomba, these are quite a unique treat! I found them on a back aisle end cap in Save A Lot. I didn't even break stride. Just grabbed one as I wheeled by with my cart/walker.

 

Don't worry! That's The Pony's FINGER holding the lid of the plastic jar containing his balls. Don't they make your mouth water? I really thought The Pony would like this treat. After all, he loves the cheese balls version. But no. He ate ONE SINGLE BALL and almost spit it out! Not a fan. I'd like to be sad about it, but all I can think is MORE FOR ME!!!

The cashier saw them and said,

"Oh, you're getting the cotton candy balls! I got some for home, and they're over half gone already! We love them! They're really sweet in the beginning, but then they get better."

I don't know how she kept that plastic jar half-FULL in her house! I tried a few. Put the lid back on. Went to do other things, Came back after I made supper. Took the lid off again. Had 3 or 4. Gave the jar to Farmer H so he could try them. He poured out a handful and gave them back. I had another 3 or 4. Put the lid on. Farmer H wanted them back. I swear he was elbow-deep in that container!

"Pony. Look. Your dad probably has a ring of blue around his mouth. He's shoveling them in like movie theater popcorn! Just smashing a handful against his lips!"

We didn't have the living room light on, but I swear I could see a bit of a blue glow on Farmer H, from the kitchen light. 

I am definitely leaving these Cotton Candy Balls upstairs. They're addictive! If I go back to Save A Lot this week, I'm getting another jar of them. The Pony doesn't know what he's missing...

The Off-Putting, Self-Important Entitlement Of 40-Something Men

Excuse me. Could somebody give my ample rumpus a boost as I climb upon my soapbox? Hey, now! Don't go getting handsy! There's plenty o' rumpus to go around.

My speech is not about a quantity of 40-something men. It's only about TWO of them. Men in their 40s. I encountered them while out and about in Hillmomba on Saturday.

Even Steven is such a prankster.

The first 40-S walked into the Gas Station Chicken Store while I was fourth in line. A man was getting cigarettes and paying with a card at the counter. That takes so long! (Says the gal who cashes in scratchers ever day!)

The next customer was a woman whose husband was pumping gas. They had already paid, but had somehow locked themselves out of their fancy ride, which has keyless entry. I don't understand how those things work. The Pony has it for his Rogue. But the lady said they live 90 minutes away, and would have to borrow a car to drive home for the actual key to get it started. Man Owner suggested Triple A to unlock the car, but she didn't know if they could start it for her. She was just apologizing for blocking the pump for so long.

The next customer was the guy ahead of me, paying for gas and a 32 oz beverage (lightweight!) with cash. I knew I was next. I'd been standing behind him for quite a while, and had seen the 40-S in the red T-shirt come through the door as it made the DING sound. He had been standing on the other side of the aisle, behind where the stalled car woman waited.

As the cigarette buyer left, I stepped up to pay for my magical elixir, and of course trade in my scratchers. As I set my 44 oz Diet Coke on the counter, 40-S pierced my brain with his dagger-eyes. So blatant was he that I back-talked him. You know I rarely do such a thing in public. I don't like to cause a scene.

"I've been waiting for a while. I saw you come in while I was in line. So don't think I'm butting ahead of you."

40-S remained silent, which was the smartest thing he could do. Nobody ever needed a tourniquet for a dagger-eye incident. Surely 40-S knew that he hadn't seen me enter the store since he'd parked himself behind the car locker-outer. Obviously I was there before him.

My next stop was Country Mart. I was third in line there. Ahead of me were two guys who'd been sent to pick up some canning supplies. Some special kind of salt or something. I was shopping near them on the olive aisle. They were waiting on a customer who'd already paid, but had some malfunction. Something had not been charged right, and it involved cigarettes. A manager had to come over with a special card, and it didn't work. So back she went to the service desk.

A 40-Something guy in a faded blue T-shirt was in line behind me. I was leaning on my cart/walker, waving my ample rumpus around, because me right knee was stiffening up from the standing. The cigarette buyer looked at all of us, and said, "Sorry, guys." I'm pretty sure he included me as a guy. I don't blame him for the wait. Cigarette buyers are people, too. We all have our vices.

Anyhoo... a tall blond clerk came out of the service area, and said, "I can help somebody over on 4."

40-S2 shot in that direction as if out of Olympic starting blocks in the 100-meter dash! He was taking no chance on those of us ahead of him getting to that check-out lane before him! Heh, heh! Those Canning Dudes went around the FRONT of the check-out lanes, and came up the wrong way to the register, and BEAT 40-S2! I think I chortled.

As this scenario was playing out, as soon as 40-S2 took off, I muttered, "Sure! Hurry up and get there before the people ahead of you IN LINE get a chance!" I'm pretty sure he heard me. Because as the two Canning Dudes were paying, 40-S2 came slinking back down the main aisle. He went past me. As if he'd forgotten something. Which maybe he had. Serves him right! As I was loading my groceries in the cart, he pulled into line behind me.

Thanks, Even Steven, for helping me be more assertive...

We Ain't Havin' A Ball

 Here's a picture of The Ball That Held The Wings, for all you inquiring minds.

 

The pointy end is on the top. It got squooshed in the trash, because who would NOT try to compact that ball to take up less room? I tried to pop it back into shape, even opening the lid, but there was still a bunch of clingy garlic ranch sauce in there. I might pick through the trash for my loyal readers, to unearth this relic, but I draw the line at actually touching leftover sauce.

In other news, we're not having a ball this weekend.

THE PONY HAS STILL NOT SEEN AN ORTHOPEDIC DOC FOR HIS BROKEN ANKLE!

He called the Kansas City regional office himself, where a lady named for a part of the female anatomy told him that oh, yes, she remembered his claim, it was held up because of a missing form.

"That form was emailed to you on Wednesday afternoon!"

After a short time on muzak hold, The Pony was told that if they found it, they would put it in. He asked for a phone call or email for confirmation when it was, and she said, "If we remember."

As you might guess, nobody called. The Pony notified his supervisor and union rep, who said to keep them updated. The Pony decided to file that form himself, online (which the union rep had told him about) around 1:30. By 2:00, The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy called and told him it was kicked out, because she found his form, but it was not signed by the supervisor who took the info the night of the ankle-breaking, then went on vacation the next day.

SIGH... so the acting supervisor was out of the office, but said she'd look it over when she got back. Somehow this albatross took flight at 3:30 p.m. The Pony got a voice mail from The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy, and a case number. 

He called Urgent Care with that info, knowing that it would be impossible for them to schedule an appointment that late on a Friday. The gal there told him that "The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy said to send her all your info, and she would schedule an appointment with an orthopedic specialist."

So now it's hurry up and wait some more, until Monday morning. At which time Farmer H will be home, and there might be an avalanche of rolling heads if he takes it upon himself to get The Pony to a bone doctor. 

The Pony got the name of the doctor that the other ankle-breaker used. He's local, and a podiatrist working out of the hospital clinic. The Pony is going to call The Lady Named For a Part of the Female Anatomy, and tell her he's going to this doctor, unless she's already made an appointment. And maybe anyway, even if she has. Farmer H knows this guy, and says he's pretty sure they'll take The Pony as a WALK IN patient on Monday. 

The Pony objects to being called a WALK IN patient.

I'm About To Lose My Crap Sandwich

I'm a little queasy at the moment, and it's not from feasting on the crap sandwich Even Steven has somehow found necessary to feed me this week. Y'all could have helped me, you know, when I offered to share my treat with you. Then I wouldn't be so stuffed, and about to refund my crap sandwich due to this crazy roller coaster ride of a week. So many ups and downs! My head is spinning. Although that might be from scratching the inside of my ear with the tip of a Bic fine-point pen lid.

 

As I write this on Thursday night, ONE WEEK AFTER THE PONY BROKE HIS ANKLE AT WORK... he still has not been able to get an appointment with an orthopedic specialist. Still no cast, just the soft brace and wrap put on at Urgent Care last Thursday.

Every day, we get our hopes up that something is being done. And every day, we plummet to the depths of despair that it is not. FINALLY, after contact with the regional office that handles the workers' comp issues, The Pony's acting supervisor found out what paperwork was missing from the report they'd compiled. We stopped by and signed it Wednesday. It was submitted that evening to the regional office. 

The Pony has been in contact with his union rep. Everything seemed to be coalescing to lead to a NUMBER that was needed by Urgent Care to refer him to an orthopedic doctor. The union rep said The Pony should ask for a copy of that specific form, which should have been given to him, and to make sure everything on it was correct. If not, to submit one online.

Here's the roller coaster drop for the day. The Pony had put in a call and a text early in the morning. By noon, he still hadn't heard anything back about getting a copy to look at. THEN he got a response from his acting supervisor.

"Mom, she said she'd send me a copy as soon as she gets back to the office. She's at the doctor. She didn't say if it was MY doctor, or her own. Do you think she was over at Urgent Care giving them my stuff?"

"Um. NO. I'm pretty sure any doctor she's at would be for herself. Otherwise, she would have said 'your Urgent Care.' To get you off her back with the texting."

"Oh. Maybe something happened at work. I'll just have to wait."

"Yeah. You've waited THIS long. Obviously it's not getting done again today. One thing's for sure: SHE BETTER NOT SHOW UP FOR WORK WITH A FRESH CAST ON HER ANKLE!"

Sometimes, ya gotta laugh, or you'll cry.

________________________________________________________________________

The Pony got his copy of the form. It was indeed filled out correctly. It HAS been sent to the regional office, whose contact name and phone number he also got. He's calling Friday morning to see if a claim number has been issued. At which point he will call Urgent Care with the info.

Can't say I'm overly optimistic...

________________________________________________________________________

More Evidence That The Pony's Chromosomes Are Missing The Common Sense Gene

The Pony wanted lunch/supper from Pizza Hut on Wednesday. Since we were out taking his broken (and still uncasted) ankle for a drive, under the guise of seeking treatment. We were once again unsuccessful in that arena. Don't get me started!!!

The Pony wanted a Personal Pan Pizza, and also some boneless chicken wings. Which are basically breaded chicken nuggets at Pizza Hut. They come in a black plastic ball the size of a large cantaloupe. It reminds me of a Pokemon ball, since that's the era in which my boys were of toy age.

Anyhoo... I think this is the dumbest packaging ever. I've only had the wings there a couple times, and I hated that ball more than I hated the wings. So awkward. So much wasted space. The tiny wings lie on the bottom in some sauce. Sometimes you get a lot, sometimes almost none. I don't get the whole BALL concept for this container. Put it in Chinese Tupperware. Then it can be re-used. Not in some thin-plastic BALL, that takes up room in the trash, and is good for nothing.

Anyhoo... The Pony's nugget-wings were swimming in that white parmesan garlic sauce. He ate them with his FINGERS because we had no fork, but that's part of another story, to be told elsewhere, on Friday. When they were gone, and The Pony got the mail out of EmBee for me, he set the BALL on T-Hoe's dashboard. You can imagine how that went, since I turned directly onto our newly-potholed gravel road.

"Pony! It's not going to stay there!"

"Got it!"

The Pony turned it over, and set it right back where it had been. 

"Maybe that will work better," he said, flipping it upside down. Which was actually right-side up. There was a flat portion on the bottom of the BALL, whereas the top had 

A POINTY TIP!

"I can't believe you laid that BALL up there sitting on a POINT, and expected it to stay! When there was a flat side available."

"But all the sauce was in the pointy part. So I wanted it to stay there. Now the sauce is in the top, dripping down."

Like it mattered in a closed BALL. Which shortly slid over the edge anyway, as T-Hoe bounced across the Great Chasm gully left by recent rains. Good thing The Pony has quick reflexes. Which don't require common sense.