No Pill's Gonna Cure My Chill

In California, I've been putting off a visit to the doctor. A number of small clues have suggested that I should probably let someone take a look-see at me, but I'd convinced myself that I'd be home soon enough to see my own Tennessee doctor and that it could wait. However, after spending a 75-degree day bundled up in blankets and unable to shake a violent chill, I decided it was time. I would look for a doctor.

The closet full of San Diego Yellow Pages was daunting: how could one possibly choose from so many names? I abandoned that tack pretty quickly and referred myself to the internet. There, my insurance company's website could direct me to a provider in my area. One who would accept my coverage. Easy as pie, right? Well... maybe not. The web is a wonderful thing, but it has its limitations.

Blue Cross Blue Shield did, in fact, provide a list of San Diego doctors. All, reportedly, general practitioners.

The first, Marvin Benson, turned out to be an anesthesiologist. I'm pretty sure the girl in his office put me on hold so that she could laugh when I asked for an appointment.

The next, William Macmaster, could not be reached. The telephone number was either incorrect or had been disconnected, so I looked for an updated number in those daunting Yellow Pages. No dice. He didn't exist. Not under GP, anyway. When I found him online, I was glad I hadn't gotten through. The girl in his office would have died laughing when I called for a thyroid check at a psychiatrist's office. Odds are good, though, that such a request would have inspired her to make an appointment for me anyway.

The third time was the charm. With the Yellow Pages in hand to confirm that the doctor I chose would be a GP and not, say, a veterinarian, I called the office of Jeffrey Dysart and landed an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.

Now I just have to hope he speaks English.