I Assure You, I Know I Have an Appointment

The first time I was on my own after the Navy, I quickly realized two things: my tiny attic apartment was hotter than hell, and boredom is a very real form of psychological warfare.

That summer in the 90s, I learned the importance of box fans, nighttime cross-breezes, and pulling shades before the sun turned your home into an Easy-Bake Oven.

Back then, if you wanted cable TV, you didn’t shop around. There was one provider. The cable companies had long ago carved up the map of America like the Allies carving up Germany after World War II. Territory assigned. Monopoly secured.

So I called the provider. Gave them my address. Scheduled an install.

Cable appointments, for those too young to remember, came with a generous four-to-six-hour window. Mine was Thursday, one to five in the goddamned afternoon.

Fine.

I worked out coverage with my boss. Burned a half day. Prepared to sit on the floor of my empty apartment and wait for a technician to connect a magic coaxial cable to a magic box that would unscramble invisible signals and attach it to another magic box called a television.

Thursday came.

And I forgot.

I got sucked into rebuilding critical production equipment at work, lost track of time, and walked through my door eight hours later thinking: “Fuck.”

That was my introduction to the missed appointment fee. Back then, it was $25.

The cable company could miss their window and blame a “busy technician,” but you miss it? You pay.

Fast forward thirty-something years. Guess who else loves missed appointment fees?

That’s right, the medical system. They absolutely adore them.

But here’s the modern twist: unlike the cable company of 1995, hospitals have embraced automation with a level of enthusiasm typically reserved for billing.

It’s Saturday. I have a doctor’s appointment on Monday. How do I know? Because I made it. Because I put it in my calendar. Because I requested time off. Because I’m the one whose heart stopped three times in 2022 and whose life now revolves around cardiology, imaging, interrogations of implanted devices, and follow-ups.

Trust me. I’m aware.

And yet, since Thursday, I have received:

-          Two automated phone calls.

-          Three more automated phone calls.

-          Three text messages.

All informing me: “Reminder that Katelyn Sjostrand has an appointment on Monday, March 2, 2026 at 10:00 AM.”

Thank you.

I was under the impression that survival was a fairly motivating factor.

Now look, I understand why they do it. Liability. No-shows cost money. Data shows reminders reduce cancellations. I get it.

But there is something deeply ironic about a system that treats patients like forgetful toddlers while simultaneously charging them for missed appointments. There is something absurd about receiving an automated reminder five times in forty-eight hours about an appointment you scheduled to keep yourself alive.

After three cardiac arrests, I assure you: If I’m not there, it won’t be because I forgot. It’ll be because something much bigger than your reminder system intervened.

So please. You can dial it back. I promise, this one’s on my calendar.