Thursday, June 24, 2010

"And So I cry sometimes when I'm lying in bed
JUST To get it all out what's in my head
AND I, I Am feeling a little peculiar
AND So I wake in the morning and I step
Outside AND I take deep breath
AND I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs
What's goin' on?

I said hey! what's goin' on
I said hey! what's goin' on?

"What's going on" 4 Non Blondes

So yesterday was a pretty big day for me.
Strike that!
So...yesterday was supposed to be a pretty big day for me.
As it turned out, it was nothing more than a long day.

My last doctor's appointment was a little over three months ago. Over the last three months, I envisioned yesterday as the day when all my questions would be answered. Once again, I got myself all excited about nothing. Sort of like when Star Wars: The Phantom Menace was being promoted. Lots of hype-no payoff.

Needless to say I was more than crushed when I left MCV yesterday. Crushed and angry. Crushed, angry, and still feeling horrible. Not at all what I had been hoping for. It was like the ending to the television series Lost. I'm still not sure what happened, but I'm pretty sure I'm not happy about it.

The MRI went fine. I've got several punches on my MRI card now and only three more and I got a t-shirt or a sub sandwich. I can't remember. I've gotten quite used to the cramped confines of the MRI machine now and my only worry is that I will choke on my own spit. I don't know why, but as soon as I lay down, ear plugs in place, as soon as they begin to slide me backwards, my throat starts to itch and I start producing large amounts of drool. It's why I sleep with a beach towel under my head at bedtime. It all starts with a tickle at the back of my throat and then the swallowing and then I start to back up and before you know I'm drowning in drool.

Sexy right? You're just a little turned on, aren't you?

So, there I am. Unable to move in the tube of bangs and clanks, and I'm trying not to swallow and my throat is filling up with spit and drool and God knows what else and I've got that little ball in my left hand to squeeze if there are any problems but I know that if I squeeze it the voice in the machine will ask me what the problem is and then I will have to open my mouth to explain and then the dam walls will open and before you know it there is I'm covered in a drool and when they pull me out of the machine to find out why they lost contact with me, I look like a freaking glazed doughnut.

I survived. I swallowed my pride and a lot of other fluids and got through the 45 minutes of metallic bangs and rattling...all the while knowing that this series of film was going to be the answer to all my problems.

Little did I know it would only be the Maltese Falcon...the stuff that dreams are made of..but totally useless to me.

Next up was a follow up visit with my neurosurgeon. Who, by the way, is no longer my new best friend. He's just a doctor. Just a guy. Just a man who knows about as much as I do about what is going on with me.

He really had this annoying "I have no fucking clue" look on his face yesterday and I wanted to slap him with his own clipboard. Several times. Hard. All over.

He did tell me that Orville has not gotten any bigger.
What does that mean?
Don't know.
He did tell me that he is doubtful now if Orville is the cause of a lot of my problems.
But what does that mean?
Don't know.
He also told me that I probably should have been sent to neurologist and not a neurosurgeon. He figures that people panicked when they saw this thing in my spinal column and figured a surgeon was the best way to go.
"So does that mean you're going to send me to neurosurgeon," asks I.
"No" says he.
(At least he was emphatic about that last little tidbit of info)

It seems that because I'm on financial assistance, no neurosurgeon will see me. Apparently, they have amended the Hippocratic Oath to include a credit check of all patients.

There is good news to that part of the story though. It seems that someone in my doctor's office, after months of phone calls, has been able to secure me an appointment with a neurologist...for October. 5 months. That seems about right.

My doctor did tell me that if I didn't feel any better or if my symptoms worsened (Worsened?!! HELLOO???!!! My arms and legs are going numb! I'm on constant pain! I have tremors and I stutter!! Worse? Really? Like...oh I don't penis falls off? I cough up a lung? I go blind? Listen, Jackass, if things get worse I'm not going to the ER. I'm coming to your house, going into your garage, grabbing the nearest tool I can find-with my luck it will be a garden rake-and forcing you take me to the hospital and fix me damnit!!)

And breeeeeeathe.

So my neurosurgeon can't be any help to me and I have to wait until October to meet with a neurologist who more than likely is going to make me wash dishes to pay off my bill. THAT was the result of my three month wait and my six hours down at the hospital yesterday. Nothing. Zip. Bupkis. Nada. A big freaking goose egg. A steaming pile of poo in my hands and a big "Don't the let door hit you on the way out" handshake from my doctor.

Oh wait. I'm sorry. I neglected to mention the cool psychedelic ear plugs they gave me for the MRI which look so much like candy that I just know that one of these days I am going to pop them in my mouth and swallow them. Then I will be rushed to the emergency room where they will perform emergency surgery. Yes. I did get something out of my trip to the hospital yesterday. A potential choking hazard.

Thank you. Thank you very much.


  1. That.really.stinks. You could have gotten more help from a chiropractor, for heaven's sake!

  2. You realize, of course, you've just described the plot of a very frightening horror movie, the kind of movie where the audience keeps waiting for the lights to come on so they can get out of their seats and leave, but the lights never come on and the movie just keeps going on and on, deeper and deeper, darker and darker. Sam Raimi would love to talk to you.

    Meanwhile, I'm praying to God that someone turns the lights on.