I've never had a professional massage before today.

To tell the truth, I wasn't sure what to expect.

Therapeutic massage is a huge business these days but I think when most people hear the word massage, they immediately think of something naughty.

I did. For about a second.

But this massage was a gift from a very dear friend and I knew it was going to be okay. I do have to say that the massage therapist did look a lot like the older priest in The Exorcist. That could either be a good thing or a bad thing. After all, the older priest does kick the Devil's ass in the movie, but he dies in the end.

The massage therapist's office was decorated with the typical posters of the human body and other kind of Zen artwork you might expect to see in acupuncturist's office. I guess it's all about setting a mood and the mood in this room was the 'take off your clothes and get on this table so I can rub you all over.'

What? No dinner or drinks first?

The room where the long table was located was dimly lit and there was the kind of new-age music playing you would expect. You know the type of music I'm talking about. Lots of chimes and birds chirping and the sound of waterfalls, which is maddening because if you don't take the suggestion to use the bathroom before the massage, you wind up listening to falling water for the next 90 minutes.

The massage I was a scheduled for today was a full body massage with hot stones. Okay. I'm game. What do I do?

Strip down to whatever I feel comfortable stripping down to? Sure. I can do that. I'm not a prude. Plus, I wore my fire engine undies today. And they were clean!

Now lay face up on that long table? I can do that. So far so good.

I wasn't bothered by the fact that I was about to receive a massage from a man. And believe me, I had done some serious pondering on the subject.

Male massage therapist or female massage therapist?

It's a tough call.

There's all that touching and hot oils and close contact and Yanni music in the background. It's a weird dilemma to find yourself in. I can't begin to think what would be going through a woman's mind, but I can tell you, as a man, what was going through mine.

"Dear Lord. Please don't let me get an erection."

I'm sure it happens. It's only natural. It's just a response. And let me tell you, in case you don't know, sometimes Mr. Happy has a mind all his own and will decide to make an appearance-or not-and there's nothing you can do about it.

I was not about to let that happen. I haven't had an uncontrolled erection since I slid down that rope in gym class and it wasn't going to happen while I was being rubbed down with oil by the dead priest from The Exorcist.

The massage therapist, I'll just call him Jerry from this point on, asked me several times if I was okay, stating that I was awfully quiet.

Of course I'm quiet Jerry! I'm focused. Really, really focused right now. Trust me, Jerry. You'll be glad I did in the end.

Well. That last sentence was phrased so badly.

So for 90 minutes Jerry rubbed me with oiled hands and hot stones. It felt good. Really, really good. No. Not that good. But as bad as I have felt in the last year, it did feel good.

The only awkward moment during the whole session came about as I was lying on my stomach.

Don't get ahead of me, Dear Reader.

Jerry had been massaging my legs and at one point asked "Would you like me to massage your glutes?"

Glutes, just in case you aren't familiar with the term, are the muscles in your butt...your bottom...your posterior.

"Massage my glutes?" I heard my brain repeat.

Now, I do not consider myself a homophobe. I have many gay friends. None of whom have ever asked me the question "Can I massage your glutes?" however.

I told Jerry 'no.' My glutes are fine.

Probably not the smoothest of lines, but it wasn't a lie. My glutes were fine. Are fine...moving on!

Besides, the last person to rub oil on my butt was my mom. I was 2 and I remember it made me happy. Jerry is not my mom and I wasn't looking to prevent diaper rash today. So, No, Jerry, you may not massage my glutes today if you're okay with that.

I think Jerry understand. I can't imagine there's a large population of people who immediately jump on the whole 'rub my butt with oil' train.

Once again, a sentence that probably could have been worded a little better.

90 minutes goes fast when you are laying in a dark room listening to new age music and being rubbed by hot stones and before I knew it Jerry was slapping my ass and telling me to hit the road.

I'm kidding!

The very soft-spoken man simply said that he was done, he would leave the room (and turn off the video camera...I'm kidding again!) while I dressed and for me to come out when I was ready.

He told me to take it easy when I stood up, stating that some people get a little light-headed when the massage is over. I steadied myself, did one last check for any peep-holes I might have missed from my initial inspection of the avocado green walls and ceiling tiles, and dressed.

Then Jerry and I shook hands (What no hugs? After what we've just been through together? Oh Jerry.)

And then I was gone. Out into the brilliant sunlight. A little looser and a lot more oily than when I had gone in.

I don't know how I will feel tomorrow. I have been warned to drink a lot of water because deep massage breaks up the toxins in your body and some people actually get sick after their session.

I will drink lots of water today and pray that I will be able to walk tomorrow.

And I will remember Jerry fondly. Just not as fondly as if I had allowed him to rub my butt.

And that's Jody with a "y"

All Right Reserved

As most of you are aware, the last few days have been pretty hard for me. It was a Double-Bill this weekend with both a nasty, nasty intestinal virus hitting me like a Mack truck and then a kidney stone decided to show up since I was already doubled-over in the bathroom.

The intestinal virus has since worked itself out of my body. The exorcism helped a great deal. I'm slowly hydrating myself and feeling like my old self. Old being the operative word.

The kidney stone, a little bruiser weighing in at 4mm, has not passed yet and I'm trying to stay on top of all the pain with the right doses of prescribed med's. There's also a witch doctor stopping by on Friday, just for good measure. Yes. This is my second (18th total) kidney stone in about two months and I think the culprit is the medicines I am taking for my neck and head. Just a lousy side effect, I guess and one that is not listed as possible side effects.

The worse thing about a kidney stone, other than the constant feeling that you are being castrated from the inside out, is the constant sensation that you have to urinate and the up teem trips to the bathroom that only end in disappointment and frustration. Sort of like visiting New Jersey on vacation.

I'm kidding. I'm a Jersey boy and can joke about my home state.

On the WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH YOUR NECK AND HEAD front...

I have seen a chiropractor twice now and have received some much needed relief. Upon reviewing my X-Rays (notice I didn't say MRI's? That's important!) it was revealed that there is a problem in my spine. Although straight and showing no signs of curvature or degradation, there is a problem with C2. Which, as it turns out, is the exact spot where all of my pain is radiating from and causing my headaches.

It seems that C2 is rotated and turning slightly downward, thus pinching my greater occipital nerve. It really does explain everything I have been going through this last year and a half.

IN YOUR FACE MCV!!!

I'm not going to go into some rant about you missed that...because it would be embarrassing for you and me but....seriously...

IN YOUR FACE MCV!!!

Apparently this condition is quite common and can be repaired without surgery. In fact with some light traction and with the assistance of this little min-jackhammer device, the troublesome disc can be encouraged to move back into position.

So that's it.

The very latest.

I'm currently in the process of rethinking my diet and vitamin plan. This plan includes eliminating a lot of the bad things I have been indulging in for too long and hopefully losing some weight.

I've had a great start. I've lost almost 13 pounds over the course of the last three days.

Now...if I only I could pee...when I wanted to....ahhhhh....sweet victory!

And that's Jody with a "y"

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"