Oops

I've decided that despite my fear of depths, it would be really cool to learn to scuba dive. I mean, just the sound of the words 'scuba dive' is alluring. So in a step to becoming more awesome, I attended scuba orientation last week. Turns out that sufferers of migraines need doctor clearance prior to diving, on the perfectly logical reasoning that increased pressure may induce a migraine to be born. Well, okay.
It's not like my neurologist has ever witnessed the crowning of any of my migraines; she gives me abortive medications (really, that's what they're called. I love this analogy I have conceived here) and helps manage symptoms. And I like her. So I faxed over the PADI medical release form last week.
Today I got a call from her nurse saying she recommends me seeing a cardiologist [peanut gallery: Why? I saw a cardiologist something like 3 years ago and he said my heart was perfectly healthy. What's to add?]. I tried to reason with the nurse, but she said I needed to tell these things to my neurologist. So I called the front desk to get an appointment. After the receptionist asked me 3 times when my birthday was, she asked what I wanted to see the neurologist for. Slightly irritated, I responded, "an argument." Which got me transferred to the handle-difficult-patients person, who said she was trying to help me with my problem.
"What problem? I'm just trying to get an appointment. What's your problem?" I said this without malice; but really, what was the problem?
Once we cleared that up, I was able to get an appointment, and I'm prepared to discuss medical recommendations for scuba diving. So far, my argument is, "Look, I don't mind if I die down there, I just want to get down there."
Sometimes, how you phrase things is really important.