Bureaucracy 1—Me, Nothing

    It was back last October, I believe it was, when I got notice I needed to renew my Commercial Driver’s License medical certificate.  On October 26, I got a three-month extension instead of the usual two-year certificate.  High blood pressure, the examiner said, 150 something over 80 something.

     In November, I called on the family physician.  He said three things about my blood pressure: these pills will lower it, get a blood pressure duff and check your pressure often.  Don’t take the pills unless you need to.  “And, I’m sending you for a sleep apnea test.” 

      “What?” I protested.  “I took one of those years back.  They told me I didn’t have it, that I breathed through my nose all night.  People who breathe through their nose don’t have sleep apnea.”

     Not necessarily true, he assured me.  There have been some changes since last I took it.  I had visions of packing an overnight kit, being wired up like a Howdy Doody and trying to sleep in a strange bed.  Before I could voice any further objections, he told me I didn’t have to visit a sleep lab, that now I would just take a small machine home with me, hook myself up, and sleep in my own bed, and return the machine the following morning.

     That sounded better, but still not good.  “Why am I taking this test?  Does sleep apnea cause high blood pressure?”  Very definitely, he said.

      The sleep study people were slow, as the doctor warned me.  It was nearly a month before I heard from them, even though I called them a week after my visit with the doctor, as instructed.  It was December when I reported to the sleep study office and got my “in-service” on how to use the machine. 

     It was pretty easy—put on a head strap that held small square sensor between my eyebrows and two small probes in my nostrils.  The sensor tracked brain activity and the probes my breathing.  I returned the machine to the office the next morning.  Ten days later, I got a call from my doctor’s office informing me I had severe sleep apnea.

      The consultant asked me how many times I woke up during my sleep test.  I said four or five.  He showed me a graph that showed me waking up 48 times an hour.  He said I would feel like a new man after using a CPAP machine for a while. 

      How about trying a mouthpiece instead, I asked.  He said that would get me into the moderate area at best, still below normal sleep patterns.  Once again I gave in and scheduled a date to pick up and learn how to use a CPAP machine.

      October 26 + 3 months = January 26.

      My three-month extension was drawing near.  The first week of January, I scheduled a January 20 appointment with the CDL examiner who had given me the original CDOT physical.  It took three phone calls to make the appointment.  Did I have to retake the entire physical?  No, just a follow up.  The charge?  A normal office call.

      My job was to show up with my blood pressure in control.  That was the plan.  When I got there, the person who had administered the physical wasn’t “in” on that day.  What!?  I called three weeks ago.  It took three phone calls, but I thought we had it all set up.

      The person who actually visited with me wouldn’t sign off on my physical, this time because of my eye.  But I gave them the phone number of my ophthalmologist at the first exam.  Did they call?  No record that they did, the first examiner never recorded any notes to that effect.  By now, my blood pressure had risen quite a bit.  My 120-mile trip was for naught.  I would be charged for an office call for a perfectly useless visit.

      I protested vehemently, to no avail.  I could see the original examiner on Monday or Tuesday.  I was already scheduled elsewhere for Monday and Tuesday.  Well, Wednesday then.  Wednesday was January 25.  Cutting it close.

     On Tuesday January 24, the clinic office called to say the original examiner person was out, sick, would be out for at least two days. 

     The hand writing on the wall, the one I had been glancing at (and ignoring?) for three months, began to switch from cursive to print, from Hebrew to English, in bolder font.

     Instead of a road trip, January 25 found me on the phone, first with DVM CDL physical branch.  My medical and license would expire on January 26.  I would have a ten-day grace period to get my physical up to date, however. 

      I called a clinic about thirty miles distant that did nothing but CDL physicals.  Blood pressure?  I had to be below 140 on the high end.  (Mine was right at 140 at home, probably higher in a clinical setting.)  Sleep apnea?  You have to bring a read-out from the CPAP machine.  I didn’t even get to Myasthenia Gravis.   The voice on the phone asked where I lived, then referred me to a Loveland clinic, a competitor.  Do I know when I am getting the brush-off? 

     January 26 was fully scheduled for us, a therapist appointment in Greeley for the Goodwife, an appointment with the taxman for me.  Then, to Denver to pick up Duke the dog.  No time to deal with an expiring CDL.

     Friday, January 27 arrived.  My wallet did not get destroyed by an exploding CDL at the stroke of midnight.  It did find me dealing with another section of the bureaucracy, the Driver’s License Examiner’s office.

       “Take a book,” the Goodwife advised.  I didn’t get past the front desk.  “What can I do for you?”

     “I need to trade my CDL in for a regular license.”

     “Giving up driving?”

     “Can’t pass the physical.”

     “Let’s see your license.”  I handed it over.  She studied it a few seconds.   “What’s your address?”

      “Oh, I need to change that.”  It had the farm address on it.  Slap, whap, a sheet of paper on the counter topped by my invalid CDL.

     “You need to have two documents to prove your address, like utility bill or credit card statement.  Refer to the list on this paper,” indicating the paper beneath my CDL.

     Off I went.  Well, they won again, I reflected as I headed home for the required documents.  I had to make two trips, at least, to get my business done. 

     When I returned with bank statement and utility bill in hand, the greeter was perfectly friendly and happy.  Why not?  She had fulfilled her duty, the duty of every bureaucrat, to make sure the “customer” (victim?) has to return at least once to get the business done.

    To give the devil his dues, the rest of the visit went smoothly.  I didn’t have time to read anything.  The lady who processed me informed me I had till January 26, 2018 to pass my physical and reinstate my CDL without going through the arduous test.  The photograph lady even made a joke.

      In Charles Dickens’ Little Dorrit, he spends a lot of time detailing what he terms “The Office of Circumlocution”.  It is an official government bureaucracy through which all new businesses must go before they can legally go into business.  Its number one priority is to keep itself alive and well, its operators and their families employed and well paid.  Slowing or stopping all progress, all new and productive enterprises from happening is its next priority.

      Some things don’t change very much.

     I guess I should be glad I took the physical and addressed the blood pressure issue.  I have some evidence that I might feel better having spent a few nights with my new bed partner.  (The Goodwife approves my new partner since I haven’t snored once since she (it?) moved in.)  I have three hundred and sixty-three days to retake and pass the CDOT physical.

     I probably won’t do it.  Why would I subject myself to another bruising session with the office of circumlocution?