Monday, March 22, 2010

March 23, 2010
PART 7: Where Are The Keys To My Tractor?

I'm really out of it today. I feel like I'm wading through a world of cotton balls while wearing cement slippers. I'm dizzy. I'm wobbly. This is probably one of those days when I shouldn't operate farm equipment.

I guess the plowing will just have to wait. Sorry Ma.

The pain was horrendous yesterday, and I may have overdone with my medication. On top of the pain at the base of my skull, I have extreme numbness in my forearms and hands. Typing, I must say, is quite an interesting experience. You know that tingly sensation you feel when the doctor taps your knee with that little hammer that looks like a shark's tooth? I feel that tingly little jolt every time I hit a key. It's not necessarily a bad thing...or's just weird.

I imagine, that like me, most people don't like weird feelings in their body. They want either nice feelings-like tickling or sensuous massage-or bad feelings-and I say bad feelings because with pain you can identify that it's pain. It hurts, therefore you have a pretty good idea what it is and you can more than likely fix it.

Wow. I wish you could feel what I feel as I am typing this blog.
This is so bizarre. It's like each of my fingertips has somehow been connected to the buzzer from the game Operation and with every tap it's as if I'm removing the funny bone...and I'm hitting the sides....

BUZZZZ! BUZZZZZ! BUZZZZZ! I was saying, there are good feelings which are nice. Then there are bad feelings which aren't nice but at least they tell you that there is a problem.

Then there are weird feelings and you don't know what the Hell to do with them. You just feel off and you can't put your finger on it. I can put my finger on my weird feelings. That's the problem! My fingertips are all tingly and bubbly like the sides of a glass of really cold 7-Up.

I guess it's better than being in pain, but as artist-as a creative person-I don't like feeling like I'm not on my game. My brain is working fine, its just that on the way from my brain to my hands, the little bright, white electric spark stops at a Thanksgiving dinner stand and pigs out at the tryptophan buffet. My creative brain feels sluggish. I'm probably going to read this on a sober day and think to myself "What the Hell were you thinking?'

I had a doctor's appointment today.
An interesting happened as I was waiting for the elevator.
I had gone into Frank's office to request copies of the last MRI had done. As I was waiting for the elevator, a young woman, who I had seen in Frank's office, approached me.
"Do you like him?," she asked.
There was only one person him could be.
"No," I said matter of factly.
She proceeded to tell me her war stories. And even though our elevators dinged several times we compared our horror stories of having been treated by Dr. Mengala.
I couldn't have written her description of him any better. Cold. Not interested in the slightest as to whether or not her medications were working. He didn't seem to care that one of the drugs he had prescribed made her hands swell. Apparently, in the land where he is from, women with big, cartoon clown hands are considered sexy.

Sorry, Pal! This is the United States and we like for our women to be able to dial a rotary phone if needed. The ability for a woman to catch a watermelon in one hand is not one that is admired here.

Yes. It's seems Frank wasn't just rude...or indifferent...or incompetent with me. He's like that with everybody. Can we please look at Frank's chart, and in the "Positive" column, where there are no other marks, can we please check "Consistent" ?

After a short ride down to the first floor, I headed for my truck, hoping to myself, that I would never have to step foot in that building again.

Good-bye, Dr. Burns. Take two of anything that will make you a better doctor and call me when you have some humanity.

I had a doctor's appointment today.
(WHAT? Is there an echo in here?)
It was with my General Practitioner. I'll call him Dr. Bob. Dr. Bob is an okay doctor. If he was on a scale of good/bad doctors and Frank on at ONE and Dr. House was at TEN, then Dr. Bob would be somewhere around 4. Dr.Bob's office on the other hand, would be somewhere in a third world country....on one of those rickety buses....where people are holding make-shift cages to transport their chickens. It is a cramped, suffocating office and every time I leave, I find myself gasping for air. Dr. Bob looks as if he is wearing a toupee. He's not. He just looks like he is.

Dr. Bob had the results of all the blood work he's had done. And he's had a lot done. Then I had to remind him just how much he had drained from my body. I'm sitting on one of those half tables with the butcher block table...what's up with those anyway? All that money doctors make and they can't afford a whole table. Give me a break. Sitting there on my little exam table-mini, dangling my legs like a school girl behind her desk, I actually had to remind him of the tests he had ordered.
Hey. I've got my shit together. Glad one of us did.

Anyway, long story short, he tells me my blood sugar is on, my cholesterol is high, and that I need to lose some weight and watch my sugar intake. Easier said than done, Doc. you're talking to a guy whose father was a baker. Everyone in my family has a sweet tooth! This was a family that had a Carvel Ice Cream cake for Thanksgiving...then had the pumpkin pie for dessert! I teethed on a Baby Ruth Bar. Sugar? Why did it have to be sugar?

Some good news today. I have an appointment at 8:30 A.M. at my neurosurgeons. I don't really know what to expect, but I do know what to pray for. Answers.

and that's Jody with a "y"


  1. Prayers are coming your way. You have been a warrior through this honey, and squeaked your way to a consult in days instead of months, then a neurosurgeon appt today instead of 2 weeks from now. The light at the end of the tunnel is near.. (NO, not THAT one, silly!) I love you <3

  2. You're amazing. How you can stand to type (though you're probably sitting) while your fingers are buzzing, it's unfathomable. I would've given up and switched to a tape recorder (remember those?) and handed it off to Cheryl to convert to MP3 and upload to the website. Then she would ask me, Why don't you just use the built-in microphone on your laptop? And I'd shrug, being the doofus that I am, and say something very (un)intelligent, like, "I go with what I know."

    Then I'd beg for ice cream.

    Prayers are definitely coming your way. Every day.

    Oh, and tell those goofy doctors to straighten up their act, or your friend "Guido" from New Joisey is gonna pay 'em a visit. (snarl when you say that) He won't be bringing concrete overshoes, either. He's got something much worse. CATS WITH ATTITUDE (and sharp claws).

    Now where'd I put that Fedora???