So Tom Petty said the waiting was the hardest part. I'm pretty sure Tom was talking about getting into some American girl's button-fly jeans and not waiting on news from a doctor, but it works for me so I will agree with him.
The waiting is the hardest part. So is the misinformation. And the non-communication. And the pain.
I don't think I have ever been baffled by anything more in my life than the situation I find myself in now. Maybe the stabbing pain I feel at the base of my skull every minute of every day is all those questions marks trying to break free. Maybe they are digging tunnels like in the Great Escape. There's three tunnels now. Tom, Dick and Harry. Tom is going to come out somewhere around my neck. Harry will more than likely break free under my right ear. And Dick will...well...Dick will probably collapse and become useless.
GOD I'm so depressed and tired of all this.
So the new goal is to keep calling neurologists and wear them down. It's how I wound up being a contestant on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. Persistence. When I set my sights on something...well...there is no stopping me. I'm like an eagle eyeing a mouse running a serpentine pattern. Oh. It might zig. And it might zag. It might even weave...It might try a bob here and there...but just like that hawk...patient and determined...probably with a less feathers...I'm going to have some mouse for dinner.
Of course, by that I didn't mean I'm gonna eat a mouse, I just meant that I was really focused (or as focused as I can be right now)
Eating a mouse? Please. Who am I? Andrew Zimmern? Sorry. Andrew. Please. Have all the mouse, camel scrotum, and what-ever brains you can eat. I'll fix myself a chicken (and I mean chicken breast not chicken ankles or God forbid testicles...nuggets?) salad.
I'm good. Really. Thanks. What's that? Pig Snout? No. I can't. Really! I'm saving room for dessert.
So I will try to remain focused...keep my eyes on the prize...and stay on these doctors like a fungus. I'm gonna call every day and see if there are cancellations. I might even show up at the office with a sleeping bag and park myself behind a fern in the waiting room. Maybe I'll send postcards every day.
"Having a miserable time. Wish you were too so you would have a little empathy and speed this process up so that I don't have to wait til October to find out if I have an inoperable tumor that will eventually kill me. Love. You know who."
I'm sure that will do it.
Or I'll wind up on some post office watch list.
I wonder how the health care system is in federal prison?
and that's Jody with a "y"