Another Letter (beware, this one will probably get a little mean)

To the grovelly voiced receptionist at the dr's office:

Would it really have killed you to pry yourself away from your People magazine for 5 extra seconds to pay enough attention to my sheet and note that I had just found out I miscarried?  Isn't it your job to at least take note and make sure you cancel my next check up?  If it had been just the isolated incident of you not being a little more sympathetic when I left the office that day, maybe I wouldn't be so angry.  But guess what?  It wouldn't have been that hard to actually look at the damn sheet and say, "oh, I'm sorry," or something, over a rude, abrasive, "K, you're done!"  Yeah? No shit?  I wanted to scream at you, "Yeah I guess I am fucking done you stupid bitch my baby is dead!"  But I was so shocked that you didn't even seem to notice what had happened and that my mom was with me bawling her eyes out that I just left, I couldn't stand being in there for another second, anyway. 

I KNEW, I just KNEW it was going to happen, but I honestly was shocked and heartbroken 10 days later when your STUPID ass called me, reminding me of my appointment at 10:30 a.m. the next day.  When I called you back to remind you that I had miscarried (was it really that unreasonable for me to assume that if I CAME IN TO THE OFFICE to find out that the baby died, you guys would note that and cancel any future appointments I might have scheduled?  I mean, seriously?), I wanted to jump through the phone and strangle you.  You apologized for the call and I could hear in your voice that you knew it was your f up, but still.  I hate you.