As a Matter of Fact, it's a Five-Leaf Clover

All I want to do in Prospect Park is relax. It’s August 18, about 75 degrees, not humid. Picture perfect. A day when everyone else seems to be able to relax on the freshly cut lawn. But when I lay down my sheet, I catch a glimpse of dozens of bees hovering atop the blades of grass. All kinds of bees – honey bees, yellow jackets, hornets, bees the size of hummingbirds. I resent them all for ruining my time at the park. I had to get up, finally, and move to a bench where I am now writing this. The bench is not safe territory, though. But the bees congregating here are mostly honey bees, those bees who Chris says “don’t sting.” I’m not sure if I believe him, but it is helping convince me to stay put. A woman just bent down and stuck her hand in the grass, right next to all the bees, just to see if there was a four-leaf clover. She didn’t find one, but tells her friend that she actually already has a five-leaf clover. They pass me by and continue on their walk:

“Are you serious—a five-leaf clover?”

“Yes. It was one of the first clovers I ever found.”

I don’t really understand what this means since within a five foot radius of my bench, there has to be close to a million clovers. How does one distinguish a “found” clover? Is it one that is picked? It’s a strange concept to me and I am skeptical that one of the “first clovers” this woman ever picker was a five-leaf clover. Don’t we first search for four-leaf clovers when we are about three feet tall? I never found a four-leaf clover so I would be insanely jealous of a fellow five year old picking a five-leaf clover upon her first trot across a clover-filled lawn. So, I’m a five-leaf clover virgin: jealous, hungry, and bitter.

During my yogatoday (www.yogatoday.com) class this afternoon, I spit up a hunk of mucus so big that I had trouble catching my breath as it lodged half-way between my throat and my mouth. “Is there such a place?” you ask. Yes and I discovered it today. Anyhow, with all the upward and downward dogs, I was expecting the dislodged mucus. I could feel the bubble crackling rumble after each inhale and knew by the end of the class that the sputum would make its entrance (or exit). I have a doctor’s appointment on September 12^th and I wonder if this mysterious “bronchitis” (diagnosed by two different doctors) will turn into tuberculosis or cancer by then. It will be my first appointment with my official Primary Care Physician with my new health insurance.

In choosing my PCP, I asked my landlord if she had a doctor that she recommended. As a matter of fact, she did. She even had a list of runners-up and OB/GYN candidates. I was legitimately excited about having full-on health insurance and about getting a doctor who came recommended. So, I called the doctor’s office to make my first appointment and as a matter of fact, she happens to be on maternity leave through November. She (her voicemail) suggests that I contact Dr. B____’s office (one of the runners-up from my landlord). So, I do. As a matter of fact, this doctor is also on maternity leave. I ask the receptionist if she can recommend another doctor and she says “no.” Click. End of phone conversation. So, I decide to ask a fellow dancer who has the same health plan about her doctor. She gives me her name and look up the info on the health insurance website. Voila, she’s listed. Her office is at Columbus Circle, but I figure if she comes recommended by a dancer, then the trip will be worth it. [Dancers are hypochondriacs: so in tune with physical sensations and overall system functioning that a leg cramp is a definite sign of a blood clot. Vice versa: the seven year clicking in the hip that causes severe limping and an awkward catapult out of bed each morning is ignored. Later to be discovered that is severe arthritis and a reason for hip replacement at age 40.] I call the 800 number on the back of my insurance card and ask them to change my PCP. As a matter of fact, Dr. I___ “doesn’t take your plan,” I am informed.

“Well, that’s funny because Elise is on my plan and she is her doctor.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am.”

“Thanks for your help. I’ll call back.”

Back to square one. I am living in Brooklyn with thousands of doctors within a five mile radius but some of these physicians are listed as “Eligible” under Board Certification on the website instead of “Certified.” To be fair, I don’t know the difference, but decide that “Certified” is probably best. I am at a loss. Do I close my eyes, slide my finger across the page and randomly choose whoever my finger lands on? I decide to do a PCP search within a three mile radius of my zip code. I discover a doctor right around the corner: a woman, a Family Physician. I google her name and locate her personal website. It’s fantastic: she looks friendly, posing with her children, telling readers that she wanted to start her own private practice so that she could get to know her patients better and give them better care and attention. Perfect! I’m psyched. I call back the insurance company and tell them I would like to change my PCP to Dr. C_____.

“Hmmmm. I seem to be getting blocked with my request.”

“OK. What does that mean?

“Well, I can put in a request and they will get back to you within five business days.”

“Ok. Sounds good.”

I hang up and decide that I will contact the doctor directly. I notice that on the appointment page on her website there is a posting from October 2006 that states she is not accepting new patients. Since it is August 2007, I decide that I will push my luck. I send her an email asking if there is any chance of getting an appointment with her. She responds the next day saying that she doesn’t expect being able to see new patients for “at least a few years.” I think google has changed everything. Dozens of other people just like me probably did the same google search, had the same thought process and decided that she had to be their doctor (just a year before I did). In her email, she recommends another doctor. I do yet another google search and find an obituary for this new doctor. Not a good sign. But after some more google research and a return to the insurance website, I see that the recommended doctor is alive and well in Brooklyn. Same name as the deceased, just 40 years younger. I call the insurance company, change my doctor, call my new doctor and make my first appointment.

Finding my new doctor was like finding that four-leaf clover.

It was that simple.

I’ll just be dry-heaving mucus onto my rug for the next three weeks.