March 19, 2010

Part 5: A Conversation

Scene: Interior. An office. There is a desk. There is one chair in front of the desk. I am at the desk.

There is a knock at the door.

Me: "Come in."

A man walks in carrying a manila envelope. He is dressed casually and has a confident manner about him. He also bears a remarkable resemblance to Christopher Walken. He is humming to himself.

Me: "Mr. Hurt?"

Mr. Hurt: "Yes."

Me: "Like the actor? John Hurt."

Mr. Hurt: "Yes. Like the actor."

Me: "I guess you get a lot of people coming up to you saying 'I'm not an animal...I'm not an animal'..."

Mr. Hurt: "No. Not really."

Me: "Jokes about aliens exploding out of your chest?"

Mr. Hurt: "Sorry. But no."

His demeanor remains calm. He smiles but it is forced and looks almost unnatural on his lean face.

Me: "So I guess that if I told you that you look like-"

Mr. Hurt: "Christopher Walken. Yes. I have heard that before."

Me: "And if I said 'Sounds like you need more-"

Mr. Hurt: "Cowbell? Yes. I've heard that once or twice. Very funny. Yes."

Me:" Well, don't I just feel like an asshole."

Mr. Hurt: "No. No. Really It's fine."

Me: "Alright. Then please...have a seat."

The tall man pulls the chair away from the desk and sits. He has the grace of a dancer and his movements are purposeful.

Me: "Comfy?"

Mr. Hurt: "As comfortable as I can be."

Me: "Can I get you some coffee? Tea?'

Mr. Hurt: "No. I'm good. Thanks for asking though."

Me: "Ready to get started then?"

Mr. Hurt: "No time like the present."

Me: "Excellent. So. I am slightly embarrassed to ask, but it seems I have forgotten why you are here."

Mr. Hurt: "Pain."

Me: "Excuse me?"

Mr. Hurt: "Pain."

Me: "I'm sorry. Did you say-"

Mr. Hurt: "Pain. As in discomfort...upset."

Me: "Yeah. I understand the word. I just don't understand why you're here. With-"

Mr. Hurt: "You? I am here with you because someone filled out a work order."

Me: "Somebody filled out a work order. Who-"

Mr. Hurt: "That really is irrelevant."

Me: "Perhaps to you."

Mr. Hurt: "Trust me."

Me: "Trust you? I don't even know you."

Mr. Hurt: "Actually we have worked together before. Many times in fact."

Me: "I don't remember."

Mr. Hurt: "Most people choose to forget me after we've spent time together."

Me: "Most people? So you've worked with others?"

Mr. Hurt: "Oh yes. I have years of experience. And as for references, I have far too many to name. Let me just say this. Those who have worked with me don't generally like to remember the experience. Oh sure, there are those who think that having dealt with me has made them stronger, but when it comes right down to it, if pushed, even those die hards wouldn't want to spend another minute with me."

Me: "Well okay then. I guess will have to take your word then."

Mr. Hurt: "You can trust me. When it comes to pain, there is no one better."

Me: "What if I said that I've changed my mind and would like you to leave now?"

Mr. Hurt: "Actually, it doesn't work that way."

Me: "Pardon me?"

Mr. Hurt: "It's not about what you want. It doesn't work that way."

Me: "I'm the one behind the desk. You're the one in front of the desk. I invited you in. And the guy behind the desk always gets to decide when the guy in front of the desk has to leave."

Mr. Hurt: "Unfortunately, inviting me in was your first mistake."

Me: "What the Hell does that mean?"

Mr. Hurt: "You invited me in. Even offered me coffee or tea."

Me: "I invited you in? What? Are you some sort of vampire?"

The man laughs "No. I'm not a vampire. I'm just a professional and I'm very good at what I do."

Me: "Well it seems you have me at a loss. WHAT exactly is it that you do?"

Mr. Hurt: "I bring discomfort."

Me: "Even more reason, then, why I would ask you to leave. Don't you think?"

Mr. Hurt: "Sorry. You can ask...beg...scream and curse me with all your might...you can even pray if you feel so inclined, but I'm not going anywhere."

Me: "How long-"

Mr. Hurt: "For as long as they let me. Until-"

Me: "They?"

Mr. Hurt: "The doctors you're seeing. When they do what they're supposed to do, that is when I will leave."

Me: "And I-"

Mr. Hurt: "Have no say in the matter."

Me: "Stop interrupting me. It's really-"

Mr. Hurt: "Annoying? Yes I imagine it is. Can't help myself, I'm afraid. Hazard of the job."

Me: "I'm very confused."

Mr. Hurt: "It's quite simple, really. You have a problem. You have a problem and I'm here as sort of a freelance contractor."

Me: "Freelance contractor? How very 'James Bond' of you."

Mr. Hurt: "James Bond? I kinda like that."

Me: "I'm glad you approve. Ummmm.....so where do we go from here."

Mr. Hurt: "Where we go from here is that I get to work."

Me: "And?"

Mr. Hurt: "And unfortunately life begins to suck for you."

Me: "And I-"

Mr. Hurt: "Just sit back and relax. Well, you know what I mean. Just sit back and let me do my work. The more you struggle-the harder I work and the more things will be more unpleasant for you."

Me: "Christ that's annoying."

Mr. Hurt: "How much it's going to hurt?'

Me: "NO! You interrupting me! It's really annoying."

Mr. Hurt: "And only the tip of the iceberg, I'm afraid. So.." He leans forward, unbuttoning his shirt sleeve and slowly rolling the crisp white shirt sleeves up his forearm "What say you? Ready to begin?"

Me: "No."

Mr. Hurt: "Unfortuna-"

Me: "I'd like to ask you a few more questions."

Mr. Hurt: "Really. There's no point in trying to-"

Me: "I think I have a right. Umm...Do I have a right?"

Mr. Hurt: "No. In fact you don't."

Me: "How about a game of paper-rock-scissors?"

Mr. Hurt: "Pleease."

Me: "Scrabble?"

Mr. Hurt: "Let's be men about this, shall we?"

Me: "I have no say in this at all?'

Mr. Hurt: "None whatsoever. And stalling is only going to prolong things."

Me: "So what happens next?'

Mr. Hurt: "Well, basically, life as you know it is gonna stop."

Me: "Well that sucks."

Mr. Hurt: "Yeah. I think I've already said that."

Me: "How does it start? I mean to say...what happens next?'

Mr. Hurt: Opens manila folder and reads for a second or two "Your head."

Me: "Shit. My head? Really?"

Mr. Hurt: "It will start in your head and then it will move down to the base of your skull and settle in the neck...Looks into folder once more "Discs C-3 and C-4 to be exact."

Me: "To be exact? Shit. Seems like you've got this whole thing worked out."

Mr. Hurt: Closing folder and placing neatly on his lap "It pays to be organized."

Me: "I'm happy for you. The guys in the Anal Retentive Over Achievers Club must be thrilled with you. About my head?"

Mr. Hurt: "It will start as a small concentrated pain behind your left eye."

Me: "Doesn't sound too bad."

Mr. Hurt: "I did say start. The pain behind your eye will worsen and soon you will begin to suffer from horrendous headaches."

Me: "Horrendous? Wow. You don't waste any time do you? Couldn't we work our way up slowly to horrendous? Like maybe a mild headache. And why did it have to be the head anyway? Why couldn't it-"

Mr. Hurt: "be a toe? A hangnail maybe? Or an ingrown toenail? Is that what you have in mind?"

Me: "Sure. I mean why-"

Mr. Hurt: "The work order is very specific. You are to suffer from headaches and then severe neck pain."

Me: "You know, your use of words like horrendous and severe are starting to-"

Mr. Hurt: "I can't help it. If you-"

Me: "Damn that is really starting to piss me off."

Mr. Hurt: "Yeah. I know."

Me: "You're beginning to give me a headache."

Mr. Hurt: "That is the idea."

Me: "Couldn't you just kick me in the balls and be done with it?'

Mr. Hurt: "I'm afraid it's not that easy. The work order is very specific. And 'balls' is certainly not mentioned. I could kick you in that area if you'd like....just for the Hell-of-it."

Me: "Just for the Hell of it? You really are a bastard aren't you?"

Mr. Hurt: "I guess I am. He laughs How's your head now, by the way?'

Me: "It feels like someone is rooting around behind my eye with a dental pick."

Mr. Hurt: "I can assure you things are going to get worse."

Me: "Well that's good to know.

Mr. Hurt: "Anything else you would like to know?'

Me: "Is this going to kill me?"

Mr. Hurt: "Sorry. That information is classified. Need-To Know Only Status. I'm sure you understand."

Me: "Actually I don't. We're not talking about plans for a nuclear missile or The President's pin number. We're talking about my head-which at the moment feels as if a rhinoceros is kicking it. If anyone needs to know if what I am experiencing right now is going to progress to the point where it kills me, I would think it's me."

Mr. Hurt: "Let me just say...there will be times when you are going to wish you were dead."

Me: "The pain is going to get that bad?"

Mr. Hurt: "Did you see Titanic?"

Me: "Yes."

Mr. Hurt: "Remember the scene where the ship has upended and Jack and Rose are hanging onto the railing and that guy falls, hits the propeller, bounces off it, and then slams into the freezing cold ocean below?'

Me: "Man. You really got a hard on for Titanic, don't you?"

Mr. Hurt: "What do you mean?"

Me: "Well, when you first walked in you were humming that Celine Dion song...you know..the theme song from the movie-"

Mr. hurt: "My Heart Will Go On."

Me: Yes. SEE! There you go again. Then you mentioned the tip of the iceberg earlier. Now you're talking about that scene with that propeller and you described it so well, like you've seen the movie-"

Mr. Hurt: "A time or two? Yeah. So? I've seen-"

Me: "Damnit! Stop interrupting me! I just want to know what your obsession with Titanic is?'

Mr. Hurt: "It's a great movie. It won 11 OSCARS, for Pete's Sake! And-hang on. You're stalling."

Me: "I am not. I'm curious. I hardly know about anything about you. Except that you really like Titanic."

Mr. Hurt: "Cameron is a great director. And the movie was so moving and-"

Me: "You're pouting. You're actually pouting."

Mr. Hurt: "I most certainly am not."

Me: "You are. You're pouting. See. There. You're little bottom lip is out. And it is sort of quivering."

Mr. Hurt: "My bottom lip isn't-I am not-AS I was saying...I am not pouting."

Me: "Okay. If you say so. So what about the scene with the guy slamming into the propeller? Are you saying I'm going to feel like I slammed into a propeller?'

Mr. Hurt: "Pretty close."

Me: "You paint a very lovely picture. Very descriptive."

Mr. Hurt: "It's my job."

Me: "Well you're very good at it because right now I feel like my head is in a vice and-"

Mr. Hurt: "Like that guy in Casino. Remember? Joe Pesci has this wise guy's head in a vice and is tightening it and tightening it and-"

Me: "Saw it. Got it. Head in a vice. Tighter and tighter. Eyeballs pop out. Wait a minute. Are you telling me that my eyeballs are going to pop out?"

Mr. Hurt: "I think it's safe to assume that won't happen."

Me: "Is that what it says in your folder there?'

Mr. Hurt: "No. It's just a gut instinct."

Me: "What else does your instinct tell you?"

Mr. Hurt: "Once again....it's-"

Me: "Classified. Yeah. I got it. Is there anything you can tell me?'

Mr. Hurt: "You're going to bounce around between doctors for a while....until they figure out what is wrong with you."

Me: "Doctors is good."

Mr. Hurt: "Not really. You don't have insurance remember? The doctor's you are going to be seeing are the kind of doctors people with no insurance see."

Me: "Bad doctors?"

Mr. Hurt: "The good news is that they are going to give you prescriptions for your pain."

Me: "The good news? What's the bad news?"

Mr. Hurt: "I wouldn't let these guys diagnose a dead cat."

Me: "That's reassuring. Lucky me. The hits keep on coming, don't they? Say. You wouldn't have any aspirin on you would you?'

Mr. Hurt: "Sorry. To be honest with you though, aspirin won't begin to touch the headaches you're going to have. Nothing over the counter will. No. Sadly you're going to need several prescriptions just to get through the day."

Me: "I changed my mind."

Mr. Hurt: "What's that you say?'

Me: "My nuts. Go ahead. Give me a kick. Go on. Anything to take my mind...off...of my mind."

Mr. Hurt begins to stand up

Me: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Mr. Hurt: "I'm going to kick you in the nuts."

Me: "THE HELL YOU ARE!" Don't you know sarcasm when you hear it?'

Mr. Hurt: "Don't really get a lot of sarcasm in my line of work."

Me: "Well. That was sarcasm. No man in his right mind would invite someone to kick him in the nuts."

Mr. Hurt: "I can assume then that you've never watched an episode of Jackass?"

Me: "Okay. Besides Johnny Knoxville and Chris Pontius and the rest of those masochists, no man would ever invite someone to kick him in his man-jigglies."

Mr. Hurt: "Thanks for clearing that up. But if you change your mind. I'm here for you."

Me: "Lucky me. Thanks so much. I'll keep that in mind. Ummm....Hey listen. You mentioned my neck earlier. And some discs-"

Mr. Hurt: "Yes I did. Discs C3 and C4...although Discs C5 and C6 are mentioned but that pain will seem mild compared to what is going to happen up above."

Me: "Am I going to be paralyzed?"

Mr. Hurt: "Safe to say...no."

Me: "Am I going to have a tumor or something."

His lips purse before he speaks "Can't really say."

Me: "You're lying."

Mr. Hurt: "I am most certainly not."

Me: "Bullshit! You made a face right before you spoke."

Mr. Hurt: "I did not."

Me: "I'm going to have a tumor? SERIOUSLY?"

Mr. Hurt: "I never said that. You did."

Me: "It makes sense though. The horrible headaches. The disc problems. It's a tumor. And of course if it's a tumor that means that-"

Mr. Hurt: "You're crazy. And you are letting your imagination take over."

Me: "Maybe it's the HEADACHE! Maybe it's the pain! Maybe it's the tumor! Maybe I've acquired some of telepathy like a character in a Stephen King novel."

Mr. hurt: "That's just stupid. You don't have telepathy."

Me: Laughing "I knew you were going to say that!"

Mr. Hurt: "This is just silly. You don't have telepathy."

Me: "But do I have a tumor?"

Mr. Hurt: "And if I say 'yes'?"

Me: "God. I don't know. I could tell my doctors."

Mr. Hurt: "Good luck. You'll be lucky if they can spell tumor."

Me: "You're an asshole. You know that, right?'

Mr. Hurt: "If I wanted a job where people were going to like me, I would have opened a free puppy and ice cream cone store."

Me: "My head is killing me. And my neck is starting to hurt."

Mr. Hurt: "As expected-" He looks at watch "And right on time, I might add."

Me: "Don't gloat. I hate people who gloat."

Mr. Hurt: "I'm not gloating. I'm stating a fact."

Me: "You really are a cold hearted sonofabitch aren't you?'

Mr. Hurt: "If calling me names makes you feel better, than by all means. But if you think you're going to hurt my feelings I assure you...I've worked with better. I've heard it all. Regardless, you're stuck with me for a while. So you might as well get used to it."

Me: "How could anybody get used to you?"

Mr. Hurt: "I guess it depends on the person. There are some who actually people who like me. They enjoy my presence."

Me: "And they would be freaks."

Mr. Hurt: "Freaks is such a harsh word. They're just different and have different tastes."

Me: "I'm not one of them. I don't want you here. I'm not enjoying this conversation."

Mr. Hurt: "I hoped you would have realized by now that this is not about what you want."

Me: "Titanic sucked you know. It was too long and too sappy. And it was nothing like how it really happened."

Mr. Hurt: "Excuse me? You wouldn't know anything about it. You wouldn't have any idea of the great lengths Mr. Cameron went through-to assure authenticity. Did you know they used the blueprints from the real Titanic? Every inch of that ship in the movie was an exact duplicate. Mr. Cameron spent years-It won 11 OSCARS!"

Me: "It still sucked. L.A. Confidential was up for Best Picture the same year and was a much better film. The only people seeing Titanic-and the only reason it made so much money-was because the same 13 year old girls were seeing it over and over again-"

Mr. Hurt: "OYMHGOD! You so don't know what you are talking about. First off I saw that movie 11 times. And I'm no 13 year old girl. And secondly-"

Me: "You saw Titanic eleven times? Loser. "

Mr. Hurt: "Excuse me?"

Me: "You're a loser. Do you have any idea how much of a loser that makes you? I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but you are a l-o-s-e-r."

Mr. Hurt: "I don't-"

Me: "Let me educate you on something, Mr. Hurt. The only movies people see eleven times are the Star Wars movies. Those movies are the movies people see over and over again. And dress up in costumes and bring in props and-hang on. You didn't dress up to see Titanic did you because that would take you so beyond loser it's not funny."

Mr. Hurt: "NO. I did not dress up to see-"

Me: "You sure you didn't dress up like Captain Smith...or Cal...or...oh my God. Jack. Please tell me that you didn't dress up like Jack to see Titanic eleven times?"

Mr. Hurt: "Of course not. That's just ridiculous! We are talking about Titanic here, not The Rocky Horror Picture Show, sir."

Me: "Suddenly you don't seem as intimidating Mr. Hurt."

Mr. Hurt: "I assure you. I'm very intimidating. I wouldn't be so smug if I were you. And it certainly won't serve you well to make me mad."

Me: "Why? You gonna turn into the Incredible Hulk? Or The Incredible LOSER?"

Mr. Hurt: "You've got quite the attitude."

Me: "Attitude? Did you expect me to just bend over and take it?'

Mr. Hurt: "You'd be surprised by how many people do."

Me: "I'm a fighter. I don't plan on-"

Mr. Hurt: "Excellent. I love a challenge. It makes it interesting."

Me: "I'm going to beat you."

Mr. Hurt: "That's the spirit!"

Me: "I can take you."

Mr. Hurt: "OF COURSE YOU CAN! KEEP THINKING THAT MAN!"

Me: "I mean...If I can't take someone who has seen Titanic eleven times..."

Mr. Hurt: "I don't like you."

Me: "I don't care."

Mr. Hurt: "I'm going to make things very bad for you."

Me: "Bring it on. Give me your best shot."

Mr. Hurt: "I intend to."

Me: "Did you know Cameron's first movie was Piranha II: The Spawing?"

Mr. Hurt: "I hate you."

Me: "Right back at you."

End Scene.

March 19, 2010

Part 4: Scrabble Mr. Escher?

The waiting is the hardest part Every day you see one more card You take it on faith You take it to the heart The waiting is the hardest part The Waiting, Tommy Petty

At times like this, I can't help but think of Dory, the regal tang from PIXAR's Finding Nemo with short term memory loss. Despite her mental lapses, Dory had the best attitude.

"Just keep swmmin'. Just keep swimmin."

And I guess that's the best way to approach to my situation. And so, like Dory, I am dog-paddling right now and keeping my head above water and hoping that the monkey doesn't steal my wallet. (If you haven't seen Finding Nemo-first off-shame on you! and second-that last statement about the monkey is gonna make no sense at all)

Every once, as I am treading water, I tread water, stopping, as it were, to catch my breath and maybe prick my ears to see if the phone is ringing.

"Just keep swimmin'. Just keep swimmin."

And laughin'. I think laughin' is just as important.

*** Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson go on a camping trip, set up their tent, and fall asleep. Some hours later, Holmes wakes his faithful friend. "Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see. "Watson replies, "I see millions of stars.""What does that tell you?" asks Holmes. Watson ponders for a minute. "Astronomically speaking, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Time-wise, it appears to be approximately a quarter past 3. Theologically, it's evident the Lord is all-powerful and we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, it seems we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. What does it tell you?" Holmes is silent for a moment, then speaks. "Watson, you idiot, someone has stolen our tent." ***

I don't know about you, but that cracked me up.

*** An elderly Florida couple, Sam and Bessie, are vacationing in Las Vegas. Sam always wanted a pair of authentic cowboy boots. Seeing some on sale one day, Sam buys them, and wears them back to the hotel, walking proudly.

He walks into their room and says to his wife, "Notice anything different about me?"

Bessie looks him over, "Nope."

Sam says excitedly, "Come on, Bessie, take a good look. Notice anything different about me?"

Bessie looks again, "Nope."

Frustrated, Sam storms off into the bathroom, undresses, and walks back into the room completely naked except for his boots. Again he asks, a little louder this time, "Notice anything different now?" Bessie looks up and says, "Sam, what's different? It's hanging down today, it was hanging down yesterday, it'll be hanging down again tomorrow."

Furious, Sam yells, "And do you know why it's hanging down, Bessie? It's hanging down because it's looking at my new boots!"

To which Bessie replies, "Shoulda bought a hat, Sam. Shoulda bought a hat." ***

Last night was rough. My pain, which is focused directly at the base of my skull, had been snowballing all day like in one of those Bugs Bunny cartoons. Around 8 P.M., it slammed into me, like a freight train, and kept going, growing bigger and bigger with every roll, my arms and legs and skis poking out. It was one of those nights where spasms of pain, like lightening strikes, shoot down my neck and spine. It's hard to ignore the pain when it is like that. It's hard to laugh it off, but I try.

Eventually I reach for my bottles of little pills and take two...last night I took three...and close my eyes and pray for relief. What was it that The Rolling Stones sang about? Mother's Little Helper?

"So go running for the shelter of a mother's little helper.
And four help you through the night, help to minimize your plight..."

I was talking about waiting earlier. Today I was informed that the neurosurgeon I had tried to call the other day for an appointment already had my information and a copy of the report from the radiologist. The doctor's assistant, I'll call her Jaime, is supposed to call me and let me know when my appointment is. So now I'm waiting for that phone call and wondering how long it will before I will actually be talking to a neurosurgeon and getting answers.

I'm grateful of course that it appears a neurosurgeon has my information. That means I'm one step closer. But to what? Biopsy? Surgery?

If biopsy is the next step, and seriously, it has to be. Right? It's only logical. so if I am going to have a biopsy, then more than likely it will be a FNB or Fine needle biopsy. FNB is a procedure in which a small-caliber needle is placed into a mass and then cellular material is removed. Afterwards, a cytologic (the analysis under a microscope of cells collected from a part of the body) diagnosis is rendered. It is widely accepted as one of the most useful diagnostic procedures in the evaluation of neck masses. I'm just hoping the phrase "We're gonna give you a local anesthetic, so just sit back and we will see you in a little bit. Chocolates and champagne, perhaps?"

I've had four tattoos. Needles don't scare me. Small caliber needles stuck in my neck are another story. Knock my ass out and wake me up before you go-go.

So basically they are gonna stick a long needle in my neck, root around, and them pull something out. Suddenly the game Operation comes to mind, and I can't deny it, if the person with said needle pokes something they're not supposed to with that long needle, my nose will probably turn red and I will probably buzz.

And before I continue, let me just say this: "Thank God for Google." Because without Google, I wouldn't know what the Hell was going on inside my body. I mean, Holy Crap!, some of the words these doctors use. Great for a game of Scrabble, but when you try to explain to the Average Joe why you have a huge white Lidocaine patch on your neck, the whole system breaks down.

Just so you know, if you were playing Scrabble and you put the word 'cytologic' down, double word, word, double letter and triple letter aside, you'd score a nice and easy 16 points. Not too shabby. Triple word would be 78 points. I'm just saying.

Some other words I've become familiar with:

Foraminal- 14 points

Encroachment- 21 points

Neural-6 points

Disc-7 points

Osteophyte-18 points

Stenosis- 8 points

Canal-9 points

Incompetent-17

Jerk-Off-24 (If anyone contests your use of 'jerkoff, may I suggest you use it in a sentence for them?)

I try to be a lemonade-out-of-lemons type person, so at the very least, after all I've been through these last few months, with these doctors and their reports, I'm gonna come out of this knowing some awesome Scrabble words. So watch out. I'm coming Scrabble challengers. I'm coming and I'm loaded for bear.

So, it seems that the next step in this process is to be stuck with a needle. Depending of course if my doctor, who I yet to have an appointment with, and it seems I won't find out until next week if I do in fact I have an appointment because it's Friday and I doubt very seriously I'm high priority to someone who just wants to get off work because it's Friday and wants to hurry to Capital Ale House and down a few with the girls.

"Just keep swmmin.' Just keep swimmin."

Things are moving along. And that is a good thing. It's shame that it takes repeated phone calls and repeated squeaking to get some grease on your wheel, but if the outcome is that I can see a neurosurgeon before ten weeks is up, then I will consider myself lucky, be grateful and wait my turn.

I have a whole shopping list of hopes right now. The biggest one is I'm hoping I won't have to deal with Frank anymore. I'm pretty sure that by now he's forgotten who I am anyway. I fee like I've been traded up to the Majors and don't ever want to go back to Double A Ball. I've had my fill of fast food. I'm looking forward to a nice sit-down meal with a waiter who is going to bring me bread sticks without me asking and who is going to stand by the window and make sure that my steak is just the way I ordered it.

I'm not any better than anybody else and I don't think I am. But in today's world of those with health insurance and those without health insurance I also know that nobody is going to look out for me like I will. So I am going to make phone calls and I'm going to Google those really long words on my radiology reports and I'm going to squeak and squeak and squeak and get my wheels greased.

I'd much rather be the annoying guy who called every day than the guy who was satisfied with being sucked into the machine...to become part of M.C.Escher's Relativity and spend an eternity walking up and down endless winding stairs...never truly getting anywhere until I have a tumor on my neck the size of a basketball.

Not me Mister. Not this guy.

and that's Jody with a "y"

March 18, 2010

Part 3: Wookie Arms

"There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great, and no tonic so powerful as expectation of something better tomorrow." Orison Sweet Marden.

“This is Major Tom to Ground Control I’m stepping through the door And I’m floating in a most peculiar way. And the stars look very different today For here...am I floating 'round my tin can Far above the world Planet Earth is blue And there’s nothing I can do." Space Oddity, David Bowie

As I sit here typing, I can't help but notice the hospital band around my left wrist. I have quite a collection of them now, in a variety of colors. And I also see the little cotton ball from the IV I was given. It's taped so tightly to my forearm. And I think to myself "Damnit. Why didn't I shave my arms?" and "Why did the nurse use so much tape for such a little piece of cotton?" and "WHY THE HELL DID SHE PRESS IT INTO MY SKIN SO HARD?"

Okay. So now you know. The secret is out. I have hairy arms. And yes. I have a hairy back. And yes, when I go to the beach, people ask me why I'm wearing a sweater. I recently traced my ancestry and discovered that I have some Wookie in me. On my father's side.

And with as many times that I have had needles stuck in my arms lately, I should have known to shave my arms. I guess it was the fear of looking like I was wearing a cardigan sweater that stopped me. I'll pay for that decision later today though when I go to peel this little cotton ball and the twelve feet of tape used to hold it in place off of my forearm.

I know it's better to just rip it off in one big pull but knowing that doesn't make it any easier. And in this case, it wouldn't work. The nurse actually wrapped the piece of tape around my forearm. I appreciate her attention to detail but it wasn't like I was going windsurfing. I was gonna be laying on my back in a tube.

Maybe she was an ex-girlfriend.

Maybe she just hated guys with hairy arms.

The IV I received was to introduce a contrast solution into my body so that the images on the MRI would be enhanced. Sort of like HD. Some common reasons a doctor would order an MRI with contrast are history of tumor/cancer/surgery, they are looking for infection/inflammation/cancer, they are evaluating blood vessels, or they are investigating a finding on the pre-contrast part of the scan.

Basically, to me, what that means is that they are looking for something. The fact that tumor is the first thing mentioned in reasons as to why contrast is given confirms my suspicions and Frank's statement about what might be growing on my spine. There's a lot of reasons on that list though. I can't automatically assume they're looking for a...well you know.

I had a rough time in the tube this time. Out of nowhere, I got a tickle in my throat. I hadn't had one all morning. I was fine. Not even a cough. But lying there on my back, as my throat slowly filled up with spit, this little tickle started. Scratching. Ever so slightly at first. scratch. scratch. scratch. Like a mouse trying to get out of a cardboard box. scratch. scratch. scratch.

Of course, before you are placed into the MRI machine, you are told not to move at all and "if you can help it, try not to swallow a great deal." Easier said than done actually because that mouse REALLY wanted to get out of the box this morning. So I tried to let out a little cough which of course started a whole chain reaction. It was like playing JENGA and in seconds, after the dam had burst, I was coughing and hacking and rocking the machine.

I finally couldn't take it anymore. I was drowning and needed to swallow. That damn tickle was driving me insane and I needed to cough. I squeezed the little black ball I had been given in case I needed assistance. After a second or two, I heard a voice, which sounded as if it was coming from all around me ask "Are you alright sir?"

Before I answered I thought to myself that wouldn't it be cool if the voice you heard when you squeezed the little black ball was the voice of the HAL 9000 from 2001: Space Oddity. (Are you okay Dave? Should I open the pod bay doors?") Or maybe the voice could be Morgan Freeman. He's narrating everything else these days. Why not my MRI?

Anyway, I digress. Big surprise right? So the MRI technician across the room behind the protective shielding was very patient. He was being very patient...very patient on the other side of the room...behind the wall of glass. I understand that the MRI is not like a regular X-RAY machine and no one is wearing lead aprons. Of course that is just what they want you to think. If you have an MRI, you will notice that the technician is not sitting right next to you, holding your hand. They're in the Fortress of Solitude 30 feet across the room, looking at screens. Sure you are.

Anyway, Larry, my technician and voice in the tube, was being very nice and patient and he said for me to go ahead and clear my throat. So I did. I also swallowed about a gallon of my own spit. Mmmmmm...yummy. After a second or two the voice asked if I was ready and I said I was. I apologized for holding up the procedure and he assured me it was fine.

Then the clicking sand banging started in again. My God an MRI is noisy! MRI's have been around since 1977 and yes it was an incredible invention. Great. As one article states, "MRI provides an unparalleled view inside the human body. The level of detail we can see is extraordinary compared with any other imaging modality. MRI is the method of choice for the diagnosis of many types of injuries and conditions because of the incredible ability to tailor the exam to the particular medical question being asked." Once again...congratulations Raymond Damadian, inventor of the4 MRI machine. Take a bow. Take two. Really. I'm very impressed. And grateful.

But seriously...what's with the noise? It's like being inside a video game. And I'm not talking about being in a video world like TRON. I'm talking about sticking your head inside a video game through a hole you kicked in the back.

There are extremely loud clicks and electronic clanks and clunks. I half expected the Mothership from Close Encounters of the Third Kind to land. But Thank God! I was given earplugs. Two little plugs made from soft rubber. A million dollar machine and the solution to the noise problem is two little rubber plugs I could buy at the Dollar Tree.
What happened Ray? Did you run out of funding? Just give up towards the end? Were you hoping for a second chance with the all new, quieter, now available in 3 different colors, MRI 500 Part II?

So for about 35 minutes I lay there, choking on my own spit, trying not to cough, blink, or breathe, all the while the 1812 Overture is blasting all around me. A million or so thoughts ran through my mind...

"I wonder what they'll find this time around."

"I wonder if they'll have an answer for me."

"I wonder if I will find a neurosurgeon within the next week."

"I wonder what I'll have for lunch."

"I wonder what it looks like under that flap of hair on Donald Trump's head."

"I wonder what happened to Meg Ryan's face. She used to look so pretty."

"I wonder where the word 'booger' came from."

"Why are there scratch n' sniff samples of unscented detergent in magazines?"

"Do people come up to Christopher Walken every day and tell him he needs more cowbell?"

"I wonder if Frank N' Berry was created from the body parts of other cereal characters."

"I wonder if Willy Wonka is diabetic."

"I wonder what Geronimo would say if he jumped out of an airplane."

35 minutes goes by slowly when you are squeezed into a tube and unable to move. I felt every heart beat. I was conscience of every breath. And it's not so much that I felt claustrophobic. Once they slide me in place, there isn't actually any room for claustrophobia. I'm a big guy. I'm an XL. And the tube, at the very least, is a Medium. So it's kinda like trying to squeeze yourself into your favorite sweater even though you've put on five...ten...oh okay...fifteen pounds, give or take a pound or two.

It's a tight fit and the second your shoulders brush against the sides of the machine as you glide backwards, right there and then you wish you hadn't had that second slice of pie for dessert the night before.

So I go to my happy place. I'm not sure where it is, but it's comfortable and tension free. It's kind of like the Chocolate Room in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, except there aren't any little orange people singing and dancing. I don't know about you, but those little guys freaked me out. They were creepy.

In my happy place I can watch any movie I want and I won't be bothered by people talking or the ringing of cellphones. In my happy place the pizza is New York-style and always hot and fresh. The sweet iced tea is just this side of perfect and I can wear footie pajamas and no one will judge me. In my happy place I can dance like Gene Kelly and sing like Josh Groban. The skies are bright blue and watercolor streaks of thin wispy clouds stretch across the green landscape until they disappear over the horizon. At night, the moon is crescent shaped and you can sit on it, back pressed into the curve, and dip your toes in the Milky Way. If I want it to rain in my happy place, it is a soft, summer's rain that dances on the tin roof over my head.

There is no fighting in my happy place. There is no shouting.

In my happy place, doctors care for their patients.
And there are no tumors. And there is no pain.

And when nurses tape a little cotton ball to your arm after you've received an IV, they use a magical tape that peels right off and doesn't leave a red mark...or rip off clumps of your hair.

That damn cotton ball with the tape all covered in my arm hair is sitting in the trash right now. It looks like a sick mouse.

Stupid, heavy-duty, super-sticky tape.

and that's Jody with a "y"

March 17, 2010

Part 2: Round and Round She Goes

Today is MRI day.

And it is also St. Patrick's Day.

So Happy St. Patrick's Day! everybody.

And, if like me, you're having an MRI done today, well then, HAPPY MRI DAY! And if you are celebrating MRI DAY like me and you're not wearing a hospital gown, expect to get pinched. Just thought I would give you a head's up.

I should actually say that this is MRI II Day. Yes. After waiting six months for my first MRI, I am now scheduled for a second one only eight days later. And there is a reason.

I have a tumor on my spine.

Oh. I'm sorry. Was that too abrupt? Should I have worked my way towards breaking that potentially scary news to you a little slower? Maybe started with good news first? Like "Good news everybody! I don't have leprosy." Or Hey! Guess what! I'm not possessed by the Devil! Let's go to church! It's bingo night!"

Well, trust me, I know how you feel because that is how my doctor, you remember me talking about him, don't you? Frank. Dr. Burns. Or as he is referred to in my house, Dr. Numbnuts.

Well, that's how he announced the news to me. Casually. As he was sorting through some papers on his desk. He didn't even look at me. He just said, "You have a tumor on your spine." He said it like he was saying "I need to pick up my shirts from the cleaners." The timber of his voice never changed. He sounded like he was ordering the side salad instead of the fries for lunch.

Now some of you might say, "Well Jody. Maybe he was saying it that way as to not alarm you." Or "Maybe he just said it that way because he knows there's nothing wrong with you." (And let's hope you're right!) But. Nah. You're...WRONG! Sorry. But you are.

You don't know Frank like I know Frank. The guy is a drone. A man devoid of compassion. He didn't give me that news that way because he cares about me. He said it like that because he doesn't have one of those little chips in his brain that regulates someone from 'being an asshole' and someone 'not being an asshole.'

Right now, though, all that pales in comparison to the fact that I'm scared shitless. I'm trying to stay positive, but I'm scared. I'm scared mostly because at this time, I have no clue what is going on and I have a doctor who was sitting on the information that I have a tumor (A FRIGGIN' TUMOR!!) on my spine and he was going to make me wait two months (TWO FRIGGIN' MONTHS!!) to tell me. You getting the picture on what kind of a guy-what kind of a doctor-good Ol' Frank is?

I'm scared mostly because you can't have someone say the word 'tumor' to you and not think of the other word. You know the one. The one that starts with the letter 'C.' But I'm not even going there yet. I can't.

We live in the age of The Internet and I am not one to sit around. Especially when someone tells me I have a tumor on my spine. Especially when I am in pain every day and my life, for the most part, has come to a screeching halt. So I have begun to do a little detective work.

I have the radiologist's report from my first MRI. I have the c.d. from the same MRI. And i'm trying to find an answer. Sure. It's not exactly the Da Vinci code, but if Tom Hanks wants to make some phone calls or do some digging around on my behalf, who am I to say "Tom. I've got this. Please. Don't concern yourself. And by the way, congratulations on The Pacific."

I have my own team of specialists and I've had them look at the c.d. from my first MRI. Now, granted, these people aren't medical professionals, but they've been around the cervical block, if you will, a time or two, and I trust their assessment. At the very least I can feel like I have someone in my corner who can see that there is a serious problem.

One of these folks, Alexis (not her real name) has been through Hell and back with back and neck surgeries. Alexis has been through the fire. She can walk the walk and talk the talk. She has the battle scars and knows what to look for on a c.d. from an MRI. She has certainly spent more time looking at mine than my own doctor did. And she supplied pizza and soda along with her diagnosis! Can it get better than that people? I think not.

Anyway, I showed her my c.d. and she pointed immediately to the area of my neck where the pain, and all my troubles, are originating. Actually, and with all respect to Alexis, anyone can look at the images from my MRI and point to the problem area. THAT'S how obvious it is. Alexis pointed right to it. Didn't take her longer than a second or two. It was like one of those picture pages in Highlights Magazine where you have to find all the hidden objects in a drawing. She looked at the image of my neck and said, "I see the spoon."

C3 and C4, the two discs at the base of my skull, and your skull for that matter, are the areas of concern. And yes, there is an area, a grayish mass, that could very well be a tumor. And since the word "tumor" was used by my doctor, that's what I'll say it is for now.

From my research I have discovered that there are basically two types of tumors which can form on the cervical area of the spine. A little area that I like to call my neck. These two types are tumors of the bone and tumors of the neural elements. Apparently both are very rare. Well, let's hope so.

There are also fatty tumors (Ok. So I went a little overboard with the Christmas cookies this year) and there are cysts. I have no idea which of these applies to the thing which is growing on my spine at the C3 and C4 levels. And it is apparent, neither does my neurologist, Dr. Frank Burns. He didn't use the word 'cyst' and he didn't mention 'fatty tumors.' So. Who knows? Seriously. Does anyone know anyone who knows?

I have now been referred to a neurosurgeon, because in the words of my neurologist, Dr. Shit-for-Brains (Sorry. New names for this guy just keep popping into my head. Gee. I hope they don't show up on the MRI today) because in the words of Dr. Dipshit (SEE?! I can't stop myself) "I just don't know what to do with you anymore."

Now there's a guy who cares way too much.

Thanks Frank. I'm leaving you now. Go back to your own stuff.

You know what they say, 'Malpractice makes for less than perfect.'

Before you get too happy for me readers, understand that just because I have been referred to a neurosurgeon, that doesn't mean I'm going to be sitting on a sheet of butcher paper in a little floral gown in front of one anytime soon.

No. For now I have been put back into the bingo hopper and 'Round and Round She Goes!' and who will I get? Shit. Nobody knows. I did ask what the time frame was for me being paired up with my dream date and I was told anywhere between three to eight weeks.

HELLO! Hi. Remember me? The guy with the tumor on my spine? The tumor that as we speak may be getting bigger. Eight weeks? By the time I actually see a neurosurgeon the tumor might be the size of a grapefruit and sitting on my shoulder. Sure. I could paint a face on it and call it Mini-Me...BUT I'D RATHER NOT. Okay? Jeepers Creepers, people! Get off the freakin' pot and let's get this train rolling! C'mon!

Sadly though, this is how it is. There is a limited number of neurosurgeons apparently in the State of Virginia. Sure. That figures. There's probably 1000 proctologists and only 5 neurosurgeons. Just my luck. If I want someone to stick their hand up my caboose, they'll apparently have to fight over me. Neurosurgeons? Not so much.

EVERYBODY has to wait three to eight weeks. Everybody. No exceptions. I'm nobody special and I have to wait my turn like a good boy.

"It's a fatty tumor. It's a fatty tumor." That's my mantra for right now. "It's a fatty tumor."

And as soon as I feel better I'm putting C3 and C4 on a low carb diet. And lots of cardio. Oh yes. There will be lots of cardio.

I'm staying positive for now. I'm really, really trying. 'And who knows?' a little voice inside my head whispers to me when I'm at my lowest, 'Maybe Frank was reading someone else's report.'

I actually wouldn't be too surprised if that was the case. Frank, after all, is a moron and morons do things like that. And of course, if that was the case, I would be very relieved and then I would drive to Ferret Face's office and staple his bottom lip to the back of his head.

I have a great support system and that is everything. It would be nice if my doctor was included in that group of people, but there's no crying over spilled milk. It's like my father said when I didn't get the bike I wanted one year for Christmas. "Quit your whining," he said, "If you know what's good for ya!"

I'm not whining. I like to think of it as squeaking. Because the squeaky wheel gets the...well...you know.

and that's Jody with a "y"

March 16, 2010

PART 1: Ticket Number 36

There is something wrong with me. It's taken six long months to figure that mystery out, but there is something wrong with me. My family and friends might tell you that they knew along something was wrong with me, but as far as this blog is concerned, I am referring to a medical problem. But I'll get into that in a minute...or I guess...in as long as it takes you to read. I'm certainly in no way imposing some sort of time limit on this. This isn't the SAT's. It's just my blog.

Yes. Sadly. There is something wrong with me. I knew that 6 months ago when the migraine I was suffering from didn't go away. I knew something was wrong with me when my vision blurred and I stuttered when I spoke.

What I didn't know was that it was going to take six months to figure out exactly what the something was. And sadly, as of today's date, March 16, 2010, I only know part of what is wrong with me. The other shoe hasn't dropped yet. It's the season finale of CSI: Miami and I won't know if Horatio is dead until next season. Gripping and dramatic for television, but when you're living the story in real life, it sucks. Sort of like David Caruso's voice in the above mentioned series. (Seriously Dave, did you and Christian Bale go to the same acting school? Gravelly doesn't say you're tough. It just means you need a lozenge)

So you probably have guessed my dilemma. Yep. You got it. I'm playing the waiting game. Which is not as fun as The Dating Game but not nearly as scary as The Crying Game. Although, if it is revealed, after all of this is over, that I have a penis and was secretly a man, honestly, I won't be that upset. Oh. My bad. *Crying Game SPOILER ALERT.*

So, it appears I am a victim of The American Health Care System right now. I am a victim of having no health insurance. And when you are in that position, you eventually find yourself in another position. One which involves you bending over while someone applies K-Y jelly to their gloved fingers.

When you have no health insurance, I have found, you are pretty much screwed.

Basically, you are assigned a doctor and you have no say in the matter. You have no choice in the matter. You are given no one's credentials. You're given a name and a number. You show up for an appointment. And you pray, the entire time, that your doctor is the pick of the litter. You pray that he looks like George Clooney, has a sense of humor, and will heal you with a touch of his hand. And you pray, over and over, that he or she, is good.

I'm not going to say that I was assigned a bad doctor, but if this guy was arrested some time down the road for illegal experiments on the homeless, let's just say I wouldn't be surprised.

I've always said, in regards to the medical profession, that when a class of 1200 graduates, someone graduates 1200th. And that moron, Number 1200, is out there practicing medicine. More than likely out of the trunk of his car in the parking lot of carnivals, but none-the-less practicing medicine.

I have no evidence that the doctor who was assigned to me graduated last in his class. I also have no evidence that he graduated at all. As far as I know, he draw a picture of a Skippy the Squirrel from the back of a matchbook, paid seventy-five dollars, and got a license in the mail six to eight weeks later.

My doctor, and I will now refer to him as Dr. Burns or Frank, from the television show M.A.S.H., is one the least compassionate people I have ever met in my life. His bed-side manner is horrible, if it exists at all. He is an escapee from DisneyWorld's Hall of Jerks, just going through the motions he was built to perform. I'm sure that if if I put the tip of a screwdriver under his chin, his face plate would pop right off and I could see a tired little squirrel limping along on a treadmill.

And I find myself asking, as I stare into Frank's blank, why-are-you-bothering-me? stare, "Where is the kindly doctor I have seen all my life? Where is Marcus Welby? Where is "Hawkeye" Pierce? Where is Dr. Greene from ER? Where is Jack from LOST?"

Okay. That last one was a bad example. Jack is still on the island...or not...who knows? Damn. There's one more question I'll have to wait to be answered.

I'd even put up with House's bullshit right now. Sure the guy is a dick, but he knows his stuff and always comes up with a diagnosis right before the last commercial in the last three minutes of the show.

The point is that we all have an image of what our doctor should look like...and act like. Sure it's unrealistic, but we're only human. And we're not always rational. Especially when we are sick. And when we're sick, we want someone to take care of us. If it's a cold or flu, we want mommy. I don't care how old you are, when you have a cold, you want it to be just like when you were five and mommy was taking care of you. Chicken and stars. Not just chicken soup. Chicken and stars with goldfish crackers. That's something only a mommy does. Because she cares. Mommy knows it's PUFFS for a runny nose and nothing else. She knows to bring you your favorite pillow or woobie...I mean blanket. Mommy made it all better when you were five. There's nothing wrong for wishing for that kind of compassion and concern and loving attention when you are sick as an adult.

Going on-line to craigslist.com to find a mommy is a completely different story however.

Sadly, when you are really sick and have to go to a doctor, the chances of getting that kind of attention are astronomical. You'd have a better chance of getting on American Idol and winning the show while only singing Vanilla Ice Songs.

My doctor is no doctor you would see on television, unless, that is, 20/20 was doing an investigative report on doctors who suck. Frank is a blank-faced, emotionless drone who is only seeing me because his name and my name were pulled out of the financial aid Bingo hopper. He doesn't know who I am. He doesn't care who I am.

The current Health Care System in this country has turned his office into a delicatessan and I'm the tall guy holding Ticket Number 36.

"NEXT! NUMBER 36!"

"Yep! That would be me," I'd shout, waving my ticket with the number 36 in bold, block letters, "That's me."

"So.What is it you want?," he asks in a tone that suggests I've either interrupted his nap or the money shot in the on-line porn he was watching.

"I'd like to know why I've had a headache for 6 months. I want to know why I'm losing the feeling in my hands and arms and why I can't turn my head. I'd like to know why I'm in constant pain. And while you're at it, I'd like a pound and a half of thinly sliced corned beef."

and that's Jody with a "y"