During the last year and a half, I have dealt with fear like no other time in my life. I have dealt with the fear of paralysis and of death, the fear of never feeling good again, of never-ending pain, and the fear of being unable to ever draw or paint again. There have been some pretty scary times.

Today I dealt with another type of fear. One that is just as personal, but one that perhaps we all have experienced at one time or another.

Let me back-track a little.

I went to a chiropractor today.

I've been to a chiropractor before. About 10 years ago actually. It was a weird experience and I was pretty certain I would never go again. Suffice to say I don't think the experience went as it was supposed to go and I felt worse afterwards rather than better. I'm still shocked that I haven't seen that guy on a DATELINE expose.

These last few months have caused me to reevaluate my opinion of that profession though, and in my quest to seek alternative methods for relief-notice I'm no longer saying 'cure' ?-I have decided to include chiropractic medicine as a viable possible solution.

Besides we had a coupon.

So I drove to the office, file folder containing all my documents from the last year in hand and hard as I try to stay positive, a little dubious. I've been disappointed so many times in the last year it's a little hard not to be jaded.

As to the issue of a chiropractor being a real doctor, I wasn't too concerned. And whatever the answer, to the question of chiropractors being real doctors is, the truth is this. I've been seeing doctors for the last year and a half and have wanted to punch every single one of them. Maybe the fact that this guy wasn't going to be a real doctor was a good thing.

The real truth is, though, the difference between the education of an MD and that of a chiropractor lies in the fact an MD trains in pharmacology and surgical procedures and and a chiropractor trains in the care of the spine. In other words, chiropractic doctors work just as hard and are okay in my book. Seriously, if someone told me that they could help me feel better by rubbing a chicken on my naked body I would consider it.

Chiropractic medicine isn't voodoo and I was willing to give it a chance today. What's the worse that could happen? Pain? Please. Numbness and tingling? Been there done that.

Besides...did I mention we had a coupon?

I got out of the car and walked into the offices of...oh..let's call him Dr. Backbender.

The office was nice. Very clean.

The receptionist was friendly.

So far so good.

But there was a problem.

Yes. That fear I was talking about earlier. It's time to talk about it.

Now, unlike the fear I was experiencing a few weeks ago, sitting in my neurosurgeon's exam room, waiting to hear whether or not I would undergo a surgery that would either paralyze me or kill me (Note: They never really went into detail in which order that might occur, but I sure as Hell know which order I would have preferred it to happen in) this fear was a different fear. A fear that more people have experienced...probably almost every minute of every day, somewhere in the world and therefore my story might reach other people.

Walking into that office today I was scared to death that I would fart when the chiropractor was working on me. And the thing that really sucks about a fear like that is, is that no matter how hard you try and put the thought of passing gas with every push and massage, and bend and twist, the thought is still there.

And unfortunately, that's what starts to happen, the very last thing you need, your brain goes into overdrive and you begin to worry. You can't help it. It;s a human thing. And sooner or later, usually sooner than later, the worry gets your stomach churning. Churning leads to bubbles. Bubbles lead to...well...you know where.

So there I was. In my head. Working up myself to a nice bubbly frothy gassy worried state of mind. And the chiropractor hadn't even laid a hand on me yet. "Don't fart. Don't fart." I'm sure there have been more spiritual mantras, but for today, that was mine. "Don't fart. Don't fart."

I'm not ashamed to say it. I fart.

Oh please. Everyone farts. Although, the sad fact is, everyone doesn't admit to it.

I was once in an elevator with one other person. All of a sudden the elevator filled with a noxious odor that reeked of onion, a two day old fish sandwich and corduroy. I know I didn't break wind. That left only other suspect. The guy two feet away from me. When I caught his eye, for some sense of remorse (and saw what can only be described,most likely, as pride) he shot back a blank stare that seemed to say "Wasn't me?"

Everyone farts, breaks wind, passes gas, ass burps...Go ahead, pick a euphemism.

And those people who claim to have never baked an ass biscuit are the same people who claim to have never masterbated, voted Republican, or watched one full episode of Real Housewives of Wherever.

And as I prepared for my appointment, in which I just knew I would end up face down on a padded table with someone pressing into my body, kneading me like 255 pounds of bread dough, I knew I was going to fart. It was inevitable.

I tried to assure myself that it must happen fifty times a day in a chiropractor's office. I even created some statistics to back up this idea and a mental bar graph comparing episodes of gaseous interuptus in a chiropractor's office to those in a proctologist's office. Just in case you were wondering, it happens an astounding 97% of the time in a chiropractor's office and only 52% of the time during a proctology exam. Guess you could say the proctologists are little behind.

Or...maybe not.

Luckily, I discovered that my appointment today was more of an interview to evaluate my condition and see what the best course of action should be. There would be a discussion of my history (How much time you got Doc?) some testing of my flexibility (Touch my toes? I can't even see my toes!) and then some X-rays to get a peek at my insides.

Just for those of you who are keeping count, this is my 5th set of X-Rays (plus almost twice as many MRI's) in a year and half. My man jigglies now glow in the dark and if I'm ever lost as sea, all I need to pull down my shorts and moon the night sky.

From the sound of it, there wouldn't be too much massaging and squeezing and pressing sensitive areas that might result in a blow back. Thank GOD. Nonetheless, my stomach was in full emergency mode. I had just worried myself too much.

I noticed a bathroom down the hall and asked to be excused in between my interview and my X-Rays. THIS was my chance. If I could muster a controlled release (sort of like how firefighters start a smaller fire to help extinguish a larger fire) I might be able to save myself from some embarrassment.

I studied the small bathroom like a master thief casing a jewelry store.

The bathroom was small but there was an exhaust fan. I prayed that it would be loud enough. I prayed it would roar like a jet engine. It didn't. It was one of those quiet models. WHO THE HELL WANTS A QUIET EXHAUST FAN IN THEIR BATHROOM?!

There was also a small sink and I checked the water pressure. If my luck continued, the pipes would rattle as the water wheezed from the faucet. Damn. No such luck. New pipes. Nice and quiet. There was the muzak playing in the hallway right outside the door, and maybe it would provide some cover.

Unfortunately, there was no new construction going on in the neighborhood. Where's a bull dozer scraping up asphalt when you need one?

Okay. There was always the cough and flush maneuver. A little over the top, yes, but a desperate man doesn't stop to ask questions like that.

There's also "Oops! I've kicked over the trashcan," the "Spastically Loud Magazine Page Turn" and the "Playing With the Sounds On Your Cellphone."

My phone was in my coat, so option Number 3 was out, as was calling in a bomb threat. And just for the record, "The Bomb Threat Call" really is a last resort and should really only be utilized in the case of three events: 1) You're in the private bathroom of someone who is interviewing you for a job 2) You're in the bathroom of a girl you're about to make out with and who insisted you have Mexican for dinner and 3) You're at the Playboy mansion and Miss November is right outside the door because she has to tinkle.

The moment came and went and there was no release of pressure. I couldn't stay in there all day. People imagine much worse things when you stay in a bathroom for over twenty minutes. I had missed my chance, Call it stage fright. Performance anxiety. I guess we, as the human race, and not the cast of Jackass, spend so much of our lives trying not to fart unless we are in the comfort of our own car, am empty hotel room we are staying in alone or the dressing rooms at JC Penneys, that when the time comes to actually do it to save a little face, our bodies don't know what to do.

But I needed to release the pressure somehow and walking back to the room where the tables and exercise balls were, I took extra long sliding steps with the hopes that one little fanny burp would slip out. None did and now I felt like a human crock pot.

I could hear myself now. "Sorry, Doc."

I prayed that he would understand.

I prayed that I wouldn't sneeze.

I prayed that if I did and I farted one second later, someone would have the decency to say "GOD bless you."

The appointment ended with me being hooked up to a machine that delivered low voltage massage to my neck. An ice bag was also draped over my extremely tense shoulders. It was the best I have felt in months...MONTHS!...and I wondered if a portable unit was available for lease.

I even got the remote for the device the buzzed and whirred behind me into the sticky cold patches that had been stuck to my neck. Heck! Give a guy a remote to anything and he's a happy camper.

Over the course of the next half an hour, I slowly turned the power up on the machine and slipped into a state of euphoria as little electric pulses shot into my neck.

An appointment was made for next week in which I would get the results of my X-Rays and hopefully sit in the tingling chair with an icepack on my neck. I paid, thanked everyone and slid my appointment card into my wallet.

Then I walked out into the crisp January air and headed towards my car. Somewhere someone's car alarm was going off and from the sound it, they were out of ear shot and it would be minutes before they stuck their head out the store's front door to zap it with their remote.

Minutes.

I only needed a few seconds. It was after all, sooner than later.

It was a nice ride home. All tension seemed to have left my body.

Yes. All tension.

And that's "Jody" with a "y"

January 12, 2011.

Happy New Year.

The confetti has been swept away and Dick Clark has been sealed back into his air-tight box to await for next year's Times Square Party or Rockin' New Years (or whatever they call it now) where he will once again fend off Ryan Seacrest's attempt to overtake the throne. Most of the news shows and sports shows have already broadcast their meticulously edited "Best of the Year" montages complete with the funniest moments and tragic moments and a mention and maybe a video clip or two honoring those who passed away.

It's 2011. It's a new year and that means that at some point in the last few weeks everyone-everyone-has reflected on the year that has passed.

I'm no different than anybody else in that sense and I have done my reflecting.

There are plenty of websites touting the Top Stories of 2010 and I'm sure there are varied opinions. What was the biggest story? Oil pouring into the Gulf?

I do know that we sank a little lower this past year in regards to what it is laughingly called reality television. I think there is actually now a show on about ice sculptors. I predict there will be a backlash in the next year or two against this silliness (reality tv and not ice sculpture). Otherwise, if we don't pull ourselves out of this tailspin, we are going to find ourselves watching Richard Dawson hosting a little something called The Running Man.

Enough about that. That's another ball of wax completely. I will say this though. "DIE JERSEY SHORE! DIE!!"

Anyway...

I have been in a bubble this past year and a half and most of the year seems like a hazy blur.

Someone might say I was a little 'self-absorbed' in 2010 and that's okay. I have been preoccupied with myself what is going on inside my body.

I feel as if I have aged 10 years in the eighteen months and 2010 seemed to crawl by as I awaited news and relief regarding my medical condition.

Yeah. I said it. Big surprise right?

The runner up for my biggest story of 2010 is the story of this little kernel of mystery inside my spinal cord at the base of my skull.

I spent a lot of 2010 in waiting rooms and squeezed into the confines of MRI imagers (so many times in fact that I can now bake a potato by just holding it in my hands-you should what I can do with a pot roast!) and worrying that the little cotton gown I was wearing was long enough to cover my ass.

2010 was all about covering my ass though and I learned the lesson all too well that if you don't have insurance in this country you're screwed and in order to get anything done you have to be your own advocate. YOU HAVE TO BE! And you have to be polite and kiss a little ass until it is time to not be nice and polite. Sometimes the squeaky wheel really does get the grease.

Sometimes the wheel, squeaky or not, has to rub over someone, again and again, grinding rubber onto thick and narrow minds, to get noticed.

I spent entirely too much of 2010 in parking decks of hospitals, circling like a shark, looking for parking spaces and cursing the idiots who took up too many spaces by parking their SUV's across the bright yellow lines.

I gave too much blood in 2010 and waited patiently, at first, while my body adjusted and then readjusted to all the medications I was being given.

2010 was the year in which I learned that a lot of doctors are just people with some exceptional medical techniques and very poor people skills.

I didn't punch any doctors in 2010 but I sure wanted to.

I wish I could say something profound about the biggest lesson I learned in 2010. I wish I could say something that might inspire people to face their own demons-their own pain-with a new strength and courage-but my views on pain aren't brave or strong.

Pain sucks and you do get to a point where you would make a deal with the Devil if he would take it away. Pain ages you and drags you into depression. Pain is a four hundred pound gorilla.

Pain and I went toe-to-toe this past year. And although it kicked my ass and took my lunch money almost every day, I'm still here. I look like I've been dragged behind a truck, but I'm still here shaking my fist, kicking and screaming.

Sure I took my medicines and watched as one day slipped into another, sometimes three days at a time but I always stayed on course. There was a bigger picture and no matter how hard that damn gorilla punched, and no matter how my knees buckled and my vision blurred, I stayed focused and firm.

I'm not better. I'm the same-if not worse-than I was over eighteen months ago. Through sheer stubbornness I refuse to give in...to give up. Because my biggest story of 2010 is that I got engaged in October to a woman who makes my heart sing.

Love is a great motivator.

And it reminds me that I am not defined by some annoying tumor in my spinal column or migraines and neck pain. I am a person with a great deal to offer and who has yet to meet my maximum potential. More importantly, I am person who is loved and I have friends who can raise me up and enable me to walk through the fire if needed. And believe me, if someone told me that walking through fire would fix me, I would take off my socks and shoes and moonwalk across the coals.

No. Sorry Magilla. I'm far from done. In fact, I'm just starting.

%$#@ the mass at the base of my skull and %$#@ the doctors who say I'm just going to have to live with it. No sir, not me. Not this guy.

I'm going to design, manufacture a t-shirt for people in my shoes to wear to their doctor's office. It's will be a black t-shirt with white letters that say "I'm sorry. That doesn't work for me."

And speaking of the medical field, I will also design and market a hospital gown for men. You know. One that doesn't look like it was made to be worn at a six year old girl's slumber party. Maybe it will be made of denim and have fire engines on it. I don't know. It's still in the planning stages.

I'm going to keep writing.

I'm going to draw (http://matzerillustration.blogspot.com)

I look at 2011 as a blank canvas that I am going to throw paint at and scratch into with bare hands and, dragging my fingers into the wet paint, and create-or reveal-whatever I want to.

You want to see a forty-five year old guy kick a 400 pound gorilla's ass?

Stick around.

And that's Jody with a "y"

All Rights Reserved

It's been a while since I have written anything. In fact, I think two holidays have come and gone.

Sadly, not much has changed. I've probably gained a little weight but in my defense it is hard to do sit-ups when it feels you have one of those long handled barbecue forks stuck in your neck.

I've also gained a little more real estate in my forehead region. I'll attribute that to stress. None of the medications I'm taking list "Hair Loss" as a possible side effect. Possible death, loss of hearing, explosive diarrhea and tingling in the extremities, yes! But not hair loss.

I've got dark circles under my eyes and I feel like I have aged 20 years this past year and a half.

Sexy, huh?

I had an MRI today. I guess that's why I'm writing this post on a blog where I said there was nothing else to say. I feel a little like Stephen King, right now. "I'm retiring from writing. This is my last book. Okay. This is my last book. Okay. I really mean it. THIS is my LAST book..."

It was a hard day today and I am guess I'm just typing away here to try and exorcise some demons.

"I CAST YOU OUT EVIL SPIRITS! GO INTO THE LIGHT!!"

After all the MRI's I have endured, you think I would mastered the art of the throat tickle by now, but gosh darn it if as soon as they slid me into the tube today my throat filled with spit and a feather appeared at the back of my throat. Tickle! Tickle! Tickle! It was torture. Torture that kept having to be stopped and restarted.

I swear. If I even see a Tickle Me Elmo in the next day or two, I'm drop kicking his little red butt across the city.

I guess that's all I have to say.

The only thing left to do is rip off this cotton ball that has been triple wrapped with some industrial surgical tape around my ape arm. If you think you hear a scream in the next hour or two, it's just me. Don't call 911 or anything. I'll be fine. I'm sure the skin on the portion of my arm will eventually regenerate.

Sorry I wasted your time. And once again provided you with no answers to your questions.

Gee. I wish the folks at MCV would say that to me...just once.

This house is clean.

Goodnight friends.

and that's Jody with a "y"

#$%@.

I think that says everything about how I am feeling right now.

My appointment went horribly today. I'm hurting too much to go into any detail.

Suffice to say, I am done. I have nothing left in me. There is no fight left. There is no hope of ever feeling better. And there is nothing left to say.

I thank you all for reading this blog, sharing in my drama, venting with me, and most importantly, sending me your constant support and love.

I don't know what I am going to do but writing about nothing is better done by people named Seinfeld.

I am sad. I am in pain. And there's no point talking about it anymore.

If, at some point, I happen to cross over the rainbow and meet the man behind the curtain who just so happens to have what I need in a pocket of his worn overcoat, I might jot down a few words.

Fly and be free, friends.

Be good.

Be good to one another.

Live long...and prosper.

TACK: (n) a course of action or conduct, esp. one differing from some preceding or other course; one of the movements of a zigzag course on land; a course run against the wind

"Breaking all of the rules that would bend I began to find myself searching Searching for shelter again and again..."

Against the Wind, Bob Seger

Everyone gets to that point. The point where something slaps you awake and you realize that just saying "I'm sorry that doesn't work for me" just doesn't cut it.

I'm at that point. The point where I need to change my tack. In other words, I'm zig-zagging all over the damn place.

I've had a few really bad days. And sadly, for me, these increased pain levels came as a result of me making myself work in my studio, which by now, has startled to resemble a ghost town. I just need a few tumbleweeds to complete the look. I've ordered a few from IKEA. They'll be here in a few weeks. I hope they're easy to assemble. I know how those Dutch are though.

So, anyway, I made myself work and I got two pieces done.

If you'd like, you can see them here.

(You'll have to 'click' on the word 'here')

And for the record, all through my previous blog posts, starting some time back, I have hidden links to some other sites. Some of the links appear as underlined words. Some words appear darker than others. It depends on the link, I suppose. I'm not sure why, really, just look for something different I guess.

For instance, if you go back to my last post, I made mention there of giving someone a good slapping. There's a hidden link there that will take you to a youtube video of The 3 Stooges.

Some of these 'Easter eggs' are bits of information. There's only with The 3 Stooges though. While telling my story, I talk about a lot of medical procedures and thought I would supply relevant information pertaining to those treatments.

I'm the least technical person I know. I wouldn't even think about reading instructions, for let's say, "How To Assemble Solar Panels', so I'm not going to make you read them just to be able to tell you how I'm feeling.

Some are informative. Some are just simple little mental pallet cleansers.

I'm changing my tack.

I've gone outside my MCV discomfort zone. In my quest to find new eyes, a new perspective, I've contacted another hospital here in Richmond and also John Hopkins in Baltimore.

I do have an EMG scheduled in October at MCV. I will keep that appointment. If only to satisfy my curiosity. This will be the only sort of test that MCV has done.

Amazing isn't it?

They've told me exactly what is wrong with me but this is the first time they're going to be sticking a needle in me other than to take blood. This is the first action they've taken to figure out what is wrong with me. Usually I get to watch them stare at a screen and then wait three months to hear what they've decided.

Granted they are doing the test in October and making me wait til' November to tell me the results.

I swear doctors write for television.

Tune in NEXT SEASON to see if MacGyver survives the mine shaft collapse!

So. Say it with me...

"I'm sorry. That doesn't work for me."

Does it really take that long to read the results from an EMG? I'm asking. I don't know. I'm not a doctor. It's electronic. And computerized!

We're not talking the camera from The Flintstones here, where there's a bird inside carving a picture with it's beak! It's the year 2010! We've gone digital! For Pete's Sake! I CAN GET PHOTOS BACK FROM WALMART IN TWO DAYS!!

The EMG might be the one "AHA!!" test in which they finally admit that, "Yes. There is something seriously wrong with you. Sorry we had our heads in our asses for a year."

I'm not going to hold my breath though. I'm just going to remain optimistically skeptical. Kind of like my parents were the four years I was in high school.

and that's 'Jody' with a "y"

"I AM NOT ANIMAL!"

Okay. So today, for the first time, I heard it. Maybe because nowadays I am more attuned to what is being said to me in regards to medical treatment, or maybe it's just that my bullshit detector has become more sensitive. I'm like Peter Parker these days. My spider sense is tingling and I don't like what I am feeling...or hearing.

I called MCV today to find an orthopedic surgeon.

Let me give you a little background because the last time you read something I was going the non-traditional route with acupuncture and before that I had been seen by neurosurgery and neurology.

I have a theory based on a friend's health problems and experiences. My friend was experiencing almost identical symptoms as I and as it turned out, had a shattered disc in his neck. This disc was showing up as a ghost image (I know. Spooky right?) on his X-rays and MRI's. Once they actually went in and took a look they found very little of the actual disc left.

After three acupuncture sessions, this theory is becoming a little more probable. To me. If Dr. Wang has accomplished anything in these last three sessions, she has relieved some of the stress and pain in my shoulders and neck. Without this additional pain as a distraction, it is clearer TO ME from where the pain is radiating.

It's like getting rid of static on a radio and hearing the music loud and clear. And the music is coming through LOUD and CLEAR. Unfortunately, it's Yoko Ono singing In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.

Yes. I still have headaches. I have a headache every day I wake up. Bad, ugly, kick-you-in-the-gut headaches. The pain, though, that horrible railroad spike at the base of my skull is there too and everyday it feels like John Henry is driving it home with a 75 lb. hammer.

It feels like bone pain. Bone pain like someone has a crochet needle in between my disc and they're digging into me...digging into me like they're trying to get a piece of corn out from between two back teeth.

Bone means discs. I'm no doctor, but that just makes sense to me and what else is making more and more sense to me is the whole shattered disc theory. Which is like the Lone Gunman Theory because...well...okay..actually...my "Shattered Disc Theory" is nothing at all like "The Lone Gunman Theory" but my other choices were The Theory of Relativity, The Theory of Flight and The Chaos Theory, which I was going to use just because I love the way Jeff Goldblum says 'dinosaur' in Jurassic Park.

So, now I have a theory. I just need a doctor to either prove it or disprove it.

After some research I decided an orthopedic surgeon would be the best way to go. So I called down to my favorite place in the whole wide world, MCV.

And this dear reader, is where the start of my post picks up.

I called the Department of Orthopedics to share my Shattered Disc Theory and to ascertain who would be best to help me. Everything was going swimmingly. The girl, who might have said her name was Sparkle, was pleasant and helpful. She listened without interruption as I explained my problems. She even gave me the name of the doctor who could best help me.

Things were going so well!

Then she asked the question.

"And what type of insurance do you have, sir?"

Bom. Bom. Bommmmm!!

So I told her. I couldn't lie. They would find out. They would. They may not be great about helping you down there at MCV, but when it comes to payment, they're all over the situation.

There was a pause when I told her what type of insurance I had. A pause of two or three seconds. Then I got an answer I hadn't heard yet.

"Well, you are gonna have to get a referral. I can't just make an appointment for you sir."

Sparkle was beginning to lose a little of her twinkle.

Or maybe Twinkle was beginning to lose a little of her sparkle. That's neither here nor there.

This was the first time I've really experienced insurance prejudice. Obvious insurance prejudice.

And then it all became clear. I'd been such a fool. Such a blind fool thinking that there would be someone who would want to help me because that's why they chose this profession. It's why they're wearing the white coats and get to park closer to the building than anybody save the handicapped.

It is all about money and big business.

And because of the financial aid I am on, I am going to be doomed to live in pain.

Screw that.

Do they have any idea of who they are messing with here? No.

I can't change my insurance but I can stay on them like...well...like Rosie O'Donell on a stack of pancakes.

If they give me any flack, I will tell they what I've been saying all along.

"I'm sorry. That doesn't work for me."

and that's Jody with a "y"

Acupuncture II

UPDATE

So it's been a few days since Dr. Wang laid me on my stomach and stuck me with acupuncture needles. The initial tenderness and soreness have eased. There are still several large, perfectly round hickeys from the cupping on my neck and back-there would have been more but the deforestation of my back hair will not commence until Monday night.

I did dream I was a dartboard but other than that I haven't had any serious side-effects.

I would love to say that I am all cured and doing cartwheels (I haven't done a somersault since the 4th grade so that more than likely wouldn't happen even if I was in perfect health.) Truth be known, I am hurting today.

Granted I worked hard yesterday. I mowed the backyard, did a load of laundry, and cooked dinner.

Whew! Calgon take me away!

But I'm feeling bad. In other words, status quo. It's sad that's what my life has come to. That even the simplest things wear me down and make me hurt worse. It also scares the shit out of me. I don't want to be unproductive. There are things I need to do.

I have a life to live.

I do have faith in Dr.Wang. You can't help but feel confident. She exudes quiet confidence. And unless she is the World's Great Bullshitter-and in that case needs to be on late night television hawking things that chop and dice-I believe in her faith and her ability that she can-at the very least-provide some relief for me that up until now has been hit and miss and which came from little plastic pill bottles lined up like good little soldiers on my nightstand.

I've been dealing with my health issues for over a year now. I have seen doctors and have gotten my hopes up. There's a fine line between having faith and getting your hopes up, I might.

I have put my faith in people who should have been there for me. I'm speaking of course of the medical professionals who have given me misinformation, withheld information from me, kept me waiting for answers they didn't have, who have been glib about their inability to help me and who have flat out told me they can't do anything for me.

I'm speaking of the medical professionals who are far too comfortable telling me that there is nothing they can do for me and to send me on my way with a pat on the head and a pocket full of pills. Bastards.

And, yes, even though the HEAD of NEUROLOGY told me that it is perfectly normal for a man of 45 to have herniated and ruptured discs in his neck, I am more convinced now that the crux of the problem lies somewhere in the areas of C2 and C3 and possibly even C4.

I can feel it. I know my body. I know what aches and where it aches.

The more time goes on, I can feel that there is something terribly wrong in my neck and that problem is causing the headaches. Perhaps the bulging disc is putting pressure on the nerves that go into my brain. I don't know. I'm not a doctor. I don't even play one on television. But I know my body. Maybe not the mechanics, but I am in pain and there has to be a reason.

I still have this lingering urge to punch someone in a white lab coat. Maybe not a punch. Maybe a good slapping. Something to knock the smugness out of them and bring them back to the reality of "Guess what. You're a doctor. Fix me."

I'm sorry if you think that sounds unrealistic, but it's simple. It comes down to customer service. And I got to tell you, the customer service I have been receiving has been atrocious.

"I would like to speak to the manager please."

This is no way to run a business and frankly that is all medicine has become these days. Big Business. Big business run by the pharamacutical companies. Don't fix the problem, just give the patient more of our medicines. Get him to take 7 different pills and you get the set of steak knives.

Screw your steak knives and while you're at it, screw you too.

I know there are good doctors out there who work miracles every day.

I am just down on the whole industry right now and if I could, I would boycott. I would love to say that I'm taking my business elsewhere, and I guess, in a sense, I have.

I do believe acupuncture is going to help. If anything, it has relieved a lot of the tension in my neck and shoulders. Who knows? Maybe a few more appointments and the pain will go away too.

My Apologies

This wasn't a particularly funny post. Sorry. I'm not feeling particularly funny today. I'm hurting and I'm tired. I don't ever want this blog to be a downer, but it will be honest and, unfortunately, sometimes there is an ugly, sad side to what I am going through.

I try to stay positive. I really do. I think I keep a fairly positive attitude despite the fact that most days I feel like driving my car into a cinderblock wall. It's hard right now.

Have no worries. I'm not suicidal. Really. I've got too much to live for. A beautiful woman to share my life, family and great friends. I'm not checking out any time soon.

I'm going to beat whatever this. I am.

And if not's acupuncture then it will be something else. I won't stop looking for an answer.

And so this isn't a complete downer of a post, please enjoy the following.

Oh Richard Simmons. You scamp. You slay me.

and that's jody with a "y"