I seem to be in the general minority in that I'm one of the people who enjoys filling out paperwork. Not all paperwork, mind you - nothing resume-related that makes me regret that 3-month bender I did in college rather than volunteering or interning at the Pentagon or, you know, actually going to class. Also, the paperwork that asks you your income I am definitely not a fan of. I look fondly upon my under-18 days when I could put down my parents' income, checking off that salary box with zest and feeling smug, as if that were truly a reflection of my performance in the world. Now I usually just check the lowest box, or whatever is closest to "just shoot me in the face."
Anyway, aside from those exceptions, I very much enjoy filling out paperwork. It's something I always know the answer to, and who doesn't like saying their name in print? (No matter how pathetic and/or desperate that is.) However, as I mentioned previously, I seem to be in the minority with this. If there's one thing that I've learned so far in my job, above everything else, it's that patients loathe paperwork. My favorite is when a patient arrives 15+ minutes later, hasn't had an appointment with us since 2002 (or better yet, is a new patient all together), and starts off on their rant of "Wait, I have to fill out paperwork now?!?!?!"
No, sir or ma'am, you don't have to fill out any paperwork, I just really enjoy getting yelled at by strangers. In fact, these papers aren't even real! We all collaborated on them in the office one day, while drinking bum wine out of a yahtzee shaker and skipping around a bonfire lit by our patients' medical records. The best is when they come back, which they always do, and say something clever and super original like "What, am I signing my life over to you guys?" or "It's like I'm filling out a mortgage!" with resentment in their voices. Sir, how about next you say "What, do you want me to give you my first born child, too?" because I've definitely never heard that one. But no, sir, you can keep your snotty brat, the 10 minutes it spends in the office is more than enough for me, thanks.
Though really, even more than I enjoy filling out paperwork, I love love love reading the paperwork. After all, it is I who enters it into our ridiculous EMR (electronic medical records) system. I mean these are patients' medical histories we're talking about, so while I'm entering them into the computer I get to read every misspelled medication they're taking, how many cigarettes they smoke a day (while surmising about the real amount - seriously, 1-15 or 20 is not an acceptable range for daily cigarettes smoked), and whatever case of bad gas they might have had. My favorite is when a patient brings in the typed 20page list of all the medications they're on, half of which bring up a warning message in our computer reading CONFLICT! with the other half. I also love the painstakingly clear omissions - like filling out everything else but the "do you drink?" question and the "if yes, how much?" If they do fill it out, you can spot the alchys right away. "Socially" is a dead giveaway. "A few beers" is another. I still haven't figured out why the forms ask you when your last drink was, probably to make you feel instantly guilty and like a raging alcoholic. I'm still waiting for someone to put something in the range of "10 hours ago."
Showing posts with label Paperwork. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paperwork. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
It's the small stuff
I usually drive to work but due to an ice-related car accident, I am now enjoying all the fruitful joy that is the NJ Transit system. It's so nice not having to drive, just traveling slowly through Manhattan early in the morning, soaking in all that the city has to offer. Ah, is that urine I smell? Oh look, it's coming from that questionably alive guy slumped over in the corner there. Or perhaps it's that mystery smell that seems to linger in New Yorkers' hair and clothing for much longer than would be deemed acceptable.
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Wait a minute, did I actually say that I was enjoying taking the train to the train to the bus to work? No. Not when it takes me 2 1/2 hours to get there. Not when the bus stops at every. single. fucking. stop. And you start to question if having a job and making money is really all that worth it anyway. I should just develop [more of] a drinking problem, never wash my hair and become a hipster or an arteest or something that would give me a good excuse to sleep til three and chain smoke all night.
Here's a tip: try at all costs to avoid getting stuck in the elevator at my work. It goes at the rate of 0.0000000001 mph, so you might falsely think you are stuck. Also the heavy AC blowing at you from above does not help to warm your fingers and toes from the FREEZING WEATHER OUTSIDE. But mostly, don't get stuck in the elevator, like a couple of old ladies did today, because we will leave you in there for over 30 minutes, while my manager is feigning concern while reading her latest issue of People or Parenting Magazine or Jersey Weekly or whatever she pretends is the stuff that she's actually supposed to be reading. Also, don't call the office to ask if we can call the fire department, because my manager will flat out say "no" and dial 6 numbers on her phone and talk to the dead air.
In fact, I haven't quite figured out what she exactly does do. There's a large stack of charts on her desk, all from post-op surgery patients, waiting to be sent to insurance companies. Some of them are from December, she told me as she was haphazardly rummaging through them for a lost chart the other day. We are horrendously understaffed, and we're all dying as we are juggling going through charts and answering the incessant phones and talking to patients about "omg i might be dying! oh wait it was just gas," and she wanders about all day saying things she thinks are hip and cool like "wuzzup."
One thing I have figured out though, is that people are out of shape. With the elevator broken, people actually had to walk. Up stairs. Not an escalator. Everyone comes into the office, grabbing for air like one would grab Hennessey while looting a liquor store in Detroit, collapsing onto the front desk, and almost fainting when we tell them they have to exert themselves once more: to fill out some paperwork.
----
Wait a minute, did I actually say that I was enjoying taking the train to the train to the bus to work? No. Not when it takes me 2 1/2 hours to get there. Not when the bus stops at every. single. fucking. stop. And you start to question if having a job and making money is really all that worth it anyway. I should just develop [more of] a drinking problem, never wash my hair and become a hipster or an arteest or something that would give me a good excuse to sleep til three and chain smoke all night.
Here's a tip: try at all costs to avoid getting stuck in the elevator at my work. It goes at the rate of 0.0000000001 mph, so you might falsely think you are stuck. Also the heavy AC blowing at you from above does not help to warm your fingers and toes from the FREEZING WEATHER OUTSIDE. But mostly, don't get stuck in the elevator, like a couple of old ladies did today, because we will leave you in there for over 30 minutes, while my manager is feigning concern while reading her latest issue of People or Parenting Magazine or Jersey Weekly or whatever she pretends is the stuff that she's actually supposed to be reading. Also, don't call the office to ask if we can call the fire department, because my manager will flat out say "no" and dial 6 numbers on her phone and talk to the dead air.
In fact, I haven't quite figured out what she exactly does do. There's a large stack of charts on her desk, all from post-op surgery patients, waiting to be sent to insurance companies. Some of them are from December, she told me as she was haphazardly rummaging through them for a lost chart the other day. We are horrendously understaffed, and we're all dying as we are juggling going through charts and answering the incessant phones and talking to patients about "omg i might be dying! oh wait it was just gas," and she wanders about all day saying things she thinks are hip and cool like "wuzzup."
One thing I have figured out though, is that people are out of shape. With the elevator broken, people actually had to walk. Up stairs. Not an escalator. Everyone comes into the office, grabbing for air like one would grab Hennessey while looting a liquor store in Detroit, collapsing onto the front desk, and almost fainting when we tell them they have to exert themselves once more: to fill out some paperwork.
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