One Day My Rage Will Kill Me

Last Friday, my younger son was injured at work. He dropped a pallet on his foot, fracturing his big toe in three places.

His job sent him to the local Con***tra clinic (name obscured to prevent incompetent corporation with lots of lawyers from suing broke medical transcriptionist), where the x-ray was done. He came home with no cast or boot and no crutches. Just antibiotics and ibuprofen.  They scheduled him to see an orthopedist NINE DAYS LATER. I made him call Con***tra today and ask for an earlier appointment, but they said it was the best they could do.

Now, I don’t have a college education like the physician’s assistant from India who saw my son at the clinic (Yes, I’m mocking foreign-trained medical personnel. Get over it. They suck.), but I think three fractures in the weight-bearing toe deserve a cast or a boot, don’t you? Maybe a pair of crutches to get around on? And if the flunky on call can’t see him until the middle of next week, shouldn’t he be sent to an emergency room instead?

My son is not a minor, so I wasn’t allowed to speak to the PA personally.  I have some very choice words for this incompetent little twerp and even more for said twerp’s employer, but I’m not allowed to say them.  My son has been left with his injuries untreated, injuries that will be nearly two weeks old by the time he sees a doctor. He has no private insurance. We have no money to give him for a real doctor. What if the untreated injuries get worse?

Blind rage. That’s what I feel.

Maybe it’s just a mom thing.

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