Worse than shopping for a new bra

Here's the thing. I had an appointment this morning at nine o'clock to listen to my options regarding the results of an ultrasound (no, I'm not pregnant). I already know that instead of finding the polyps that they expected to see, they got a three-fer: two cysts (one on each ovary) and a fibroid (in the ole uterus). All are normal -- I'm not harboring weapons of mass destruction. So I sat in the waiting room planning the cartoon I would draw. I pictured the fibroid as a George Bush character. It's small and inconsequential except for the fact that it managed to lodge itself in a position of power (something called the endometrial canal). The cysts I would liken to Irish dancers a la Lord of the Dance. They dance around, move back, and new ones move to the front on a regular basis. I've been staging that show since at least 1990. So imagine my disappointment when the doctor never showed up. I left at ten o'clock. Others in the waiting room were sticking it out. But when I'd gone up to the counter, I'd seen a State required notice that my doctor had elected not to carry malpractice insurance. I'd never noticed it before. SHOOT! I really liked him. I've never sued anybody in my life. But I'm a former attorney and I just can't recommend to myself, let alone anybody else, that I see a doctor who is not insured. And I don't like getting stood up. Crappity, crap, crap. Now I must find a new one. I hate that.