|Not the hospital I visited. VAH at Salem, MA.|
“You’re going to need a pre-op x-ray/MRI,” Dr. Man said, releasing my knee. For an old guy who specialized in joints, he handled mine brutally. I instinctively clutched the knee, which throbbed more from his two-minute examination than in the three weeks since it my fall.
“Pre-op?” I asked. I did not like the sound of that. It sounded like an ‘op’ was inevitable. I couldn’t afford any ops right now.
“Yeah,” he said. He took up a pad and scrawled something out, not looking at me. Apparently there was nothing more to tell me.
It’s difficult for me to ask people questions when they clearly don’t want to talk– I feel guilty for desiring the information. Only as he looked at the door did I squeeze out,
1. “Do you know how much this is going to cost?”
He asked, “The MRI or the surgery?”
“Either. Both. I’m uninsured.”
“Oh.” He looked at me like I’d farted. “No, I don’t know. It’ll be bad. You can talk to billing.”