When It Rains, It Pours.

Last week at work, I ran into one of the P.A.s in the hallway with whom I work in our clinic’s office. I knew that she’d had a deposition the previous week for a work-related case, but I hadn’t had a chance to ask her about it, so I stopped her and inquired about her experience.

“Almost, it was the worst three and a half hours of my life. I mean, this guy was insanely rude, sarcastic, and he tried to trick me and trip me up the entire time,” she answered as she sagged against the wall.

Since I’ve been in panic mode for several weeks, this didn’t serve to quell the Category 5 hurricane that’s been taking a tour of my G.I. tract for so long, but I wanted to know what I’ll be facing so I asked for details. She told me that one of the doctors deposed actually stood up and told the attorney that he refused to be treated with that kind of disrespect and left the room. The ugly specifics of her experience, which I obviously can’t discuss for HIPAA and legal reasons, made my hair stand on end. I was pretty sure I looked like one of those people with their hand on the electricity ball at the science museum.

When Lawyer called Friday morning to confirm the deposition for Monday, I was immediately seized with terror. Filling him in briefly on what the P.A. had undergone, I asked him if I’d be dealing with the same kind of trickery, even though I have nothing to hide.

“No, that’s a totally different situation. I know you’re nervous, but I’m right there, and if there’s a question I don’t want you to answer, I’ll direct you not to answer, “ he replied.

With a promise that he’d call me Sunday night to talk about a few last-minute details, we said goodbye. At 4:40 in the afternoon Friday (of a holiday weekend, no less), I received an email from Lawyer’s paralegal with a rider from Ex’s Greasy Attorney demanding a Mount McKinley of documents for Monday’s deposition, including my medical records, specifically mentioning Plastic Surgeon and The Doc, the latter of whom is only a friend and doesn’t even treat me. Not only were his demands entirely impossible for time reasons, but I was also really pissed at the part about my medical records.

I called Lawyer, and he actually laughed through my whole rant about how my medical records aren’t any of Ex's f*cking business, not to mention that it violates doctor-patient confidentiality and HIPAA, and what the f*ck does he think he’s doing, since The Doc has never treated me and did treat Ex for his f*cked up mental health?

“Almost, take a breath!” he exclaimed. “He knows that you can’t produce those documents, and he’s in a load of hot water because we made our document demands months ago, but he’s dropping the ball in doing this to you at the 11th hour. The court will see it, too, and as for the medical records? Don’t even worry about it, that’s none of their business, and it’s irrelevant.”

My heart rate began to drop down, and I hung up with him. I was still angrier than a bodybuilder in the midst of ‘roid rage, though, because I can produce some of the documents, and that leaves me with a crapload of work to do tonight.

I would have gotten to work on it sooner, but I’ve had to work at the hospital all weekend on this ridiculously large project and haven’t had time until just now. This morning, my coworker called me and asked me to pick her up on my way. I agreed, picked her up, and we set off for work.

On the way, I found myself in a predicament. I had the choice of hitting a pothole the size of Rhode Island or hitting the person driving next to me. I chose the former and immediately got a flat tire, the second one I’ve had in the span of 6 weeks because the potholes here have proliferated faster than rabbits in heat. Thankfully, my coworker’s husband came and changed the flat for us, so now I’m driving on a super sexy doughnut for God knows how long, since the rim of the wheel in question is clearly bent. At least Lawyer is driving both of us to the dep.

So tomorrow, Monday, I guess I’ll be grilled and tricked and tripped. There’s an Argentinean television show called “El Peor Dia de Tu Vida,” (The Worst Day of Your Life) in which they play all kinds of horrible tricks on someone and it’s literally the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, even though I feel sorry for the poor victim. Tomorrow may just be my personal Peor Dia de Mi Vida, though I haven’t gone to trial yet, so that kind of leaves the door open to more sh*tastic experiences. And I don't think being deposed will be nearly as amusing to me as the show.

The cosmos must have wanted to make the day both metaphorical and literal, because when my coworker and I finally made it to the hospital, the skies opened in a downpour of rain, sleet and hail like I’ve never seen.