Pimple Popper, M.D.

I went to the dermatologist for the first time in my life. I always think of the Seinfeld episode where Jerry dates a dermatologist, but can't seem to respect her because, in his opinion, she's only a "pimple popper". Love it.



Naturally, I had to get a referral. And so the story begins:

I did my part in the matter by calling my primary care physician (PCP) over 72 hours prior to my dermatologist appointment. Everything seemed fine.

Two days before the appointment, I call their office to double check that they received the referral. "We don't accept electronic referrals. We need a fax." (What century are you living in??)

"Whew!" I thought. Thank goodness I checked. Called the PCP to relay the message. All is well, or so I thought. Dun, dun, dun!

This morning, Matt suggests that I triple-check the referral to make sure the fax went through. (As Generation X (or Y?) children, we don't trust "fax machines" as they call them.) It was about 8:30am and the appointment was for 10am. I call, and they tell me: "Yes, we received the referral, but it has the wrong NPI number and the wrong address. We need another one. We called your PCP but haven't heard back."

So I call my PCP to inform them of the error, and then everything gets complicated. I'm on the phone for the next hour, going back and forth between the doctors offices:
--"She needs to change the referral so that the practice name and NPI number show."
--"When she enters the NPI number, it comes up invalid. When she enters the doctor's name, the information comes up as is: wrong address, wrong practice. She cannot change it."
--"That's the wrong adress. Change it."
--"She has no control over that. She said you need to contact the insurance company."
--"We did."
--"No, you didn't."
--"What's the NPI number again?"
I get two different ones, from two different secretaries. Both don't get me anywhere. Finally, my PCP secretary calls the dermatologist secretaries, who gets the same nonsense. When she talks to the manager, she gets yet a third NPI number. We figure out that because they had moved locations, and the doctor I happen to be scheduled with is entirely new to the practice, all that NPI number/referral nonsense is all screwed up. I hate American health care. All I want is to be checked out without being charged some astronomical amount because of some behind the scenes paperwork. It's not my business! No one understands referrals, but everyone points to the next person telling him that he's doing it all wrong. WHATEVER!

All of that just to be told that the mysterious skin patches on my legs "do not come up as fungus under the microscope, but that doesn't mean it still isn't." Riiiiight. Oh yeah, and the good ol' make-me-feel-guilty-for-not-wearing-30spf-sunscreen-every-day-of-the-year-spiel.

I come home with the fungal news, and Matt announces "a fungus among us!" Hilarious. Later, I'm in the kitchen getting food ready. Matt is working on his once-a-year organization of all papers and notebooks that have erupted all over his study. He joins me in the kitchen, sniffing, saying "Do you smell that? It smells like, it smells... musty in here. Like a fungus!"

I'm taking bets on how long he'll beat this joke into the ground. Anyone?