Buddy Goes to the Eye Doctor

 

by Pa Rock

When I retired from my civilian job with the US military back in 2014, I opted to keep my federal government health, vision, and dental insurance in force.  The health insurance portion of that equation was a smart move because for almost exactly the same money that a Medicare supplement policy would have cost, I got a second complete insurance policy to use as a supplement, and that policy also supplements the piss-poor Medicare Part D drug coverage - so I seldom had to pay any co-pays on medicines.  (But it's far from "free" because I pay insurance premiums out the wazoo.)

But the other two coverages that I had with the federal government - vision and dental - have not worked out as well, and it was hard finding providers who would take either one.  My current dentist, whom I really like, will accept the dental insurance, but while it would cover a major portion of the bill with the dentists of Phoenix, Arizona, I always wind up owing a respectable balance after the insurance settles with my local dentist here in West Plains.

And eye doctors have been a particular struggle.  I finally found one down in the wilds of Arkansas who would accept the plan and I was with him for several years, even after he quit accepting the plan with no warning, but eventually for a variety of reasons, I decided to change providers.  I found one in a Missouri community several miles away, and made my initial visit for a diabetic eye exam earlier this week.

The visit to the new provider was unremarkable in most respects.  My eyes were dilated and I was given basically the same battery of exams as with the previous provider - and this time there was no ugly co-pay.  But I ordered new glasses based on the new prescription, and I will judge the quality of the optometrist's work by how well I can see to read and work at the computer when the new glasses arrive next week.

There was, however, one aspect of the visit caught me off guard and left me feeling somewhat uncomfortable - and that had to do with the level of familiarity expressed by the staff.  The first woman who dealt with me called me "darlin'," and I was alright with that, but from that point on every employee of the practice except for the provider called me either "Buddy" or "Bud."  There was something about that constant drumbeat of a childlike appellation that made me feel like I was being treated as a child - and the more I heard it, the less I liked it.

I had a wonderful high school teacher named Buddy Powell.  He taught "Citizenship" and was truly inspirational.  But that Buddy spent a lifetime earning and burnishing his nickname.  It wasn't some shortcut stuck on him by people who were too busy or too lazy to learn and use his real name.  I also had a little black goat named Buddy who liked to ride shotgun in my old Chevy Cavalier convertible - and he truly was my buddy.   And I remember that the Clinton's acquired a puppy while they were in the White House that Bill named "Buddy" after and uncle of his by the same name - and Bill's Buddy was probably just as happy with his name as my little goat was with his.

But if the person you are dealing with hasn't said "Hey, please call me Buddy," or doesn't have a history of being your actual buddy, referring to them in that manner sounds more like you are talking to a two-year-old rather than as an adult who is trying to obtain a service through your business.

Maybe instead of "Buddy" they should call me "Crabby!"