I called the surgeon's office this morning to let them know that my MRI appointment had moved from today to Friday, and they were not pleased. The woman I spoke to said, "Dr. Cornwell is going to be unavailable after Monday until August 11th."
My appointment to follow up after the MRI was supposed to be for Monday morning, and we all know that the results of the MRI won't be there by then (since my MRI was going to happen at 3:30 p.m. this Friday).
I explained to her that total disarray of the whole situation, and she was irritated. I could tell. She said, "Let me make some calls."
A little while later, she called back and said, "Jennifer, they can get you in at the clinic right now if you want."
I told her I had to talk to my husband because I have an 18-month-old toddler (they do not accommodate children). Luckily, Willi was able to take off and meet me. So, the MRI actually happened today.
The woman from the surgeon's office even answered my questions about insurance (whether my insurance would cover it, etc.), and we got that all cleared up right then and there. Now, that wasn't so hard. What the heck happened, I wonder? Weird. Totally weird.
In other news, I did learn today that if I do end up in Hell, I know exactly what it will be like: laying in an MRI machine—while eight months pregnant. Man. I do not want to go to there.
And yes. You read that right. I said, "I do not want to go to there."