So...I'm sitting here...with this stupid, florescent green band-aid wrapped around my arm over the spot where they took more blood today. It's my prize for enduring another long day at MCV. There's a Snoopy motif on the gauze-like material, so it's not a total loss.

And at least there was air conditioning in the hospital. My guess is that it is probably a law. Good Lord. It had to have been 150 degrees outside today. I actually saw a pigeon burst into flame as I walked through the parking deck on my way to my appointment. The poor thing landed on the smoldering pavement, staggered for a second, and then just disappeared in a flash of flame and smoke. It was spectacular. Kinda like the Death Star exploding at the end of Star Wars.

The day was like all the others I have had over this very long year.

I waited in the waiting room on the 5th floor, sitting in those God-forsaken uncomfortable chairs, reading the same lame magazines (Sean Connery was People Magazine's Sexiest Man of the Year in 1989...I'm just saying) that were there the last time I was there and wait for my name to be called.

And I waited. And I waited. And I waited. All the while thinking back to the night I was in the emergency room weeks ago when I was told how imperative it was I see a neurologist.

Within 5 days. Famous last words.

The memory of the voice reverbs in my head like the screeching voice of Carrie's mom in CARRIE.

"They're all gonna laugh at you! They're all gonna laugh at you!"

That sense of urgency rang in my ears. So I was anxious. I just wanted to get into an exam room and have answers. Having learned my lesson from my last visit, I was going to get my hope up too much.

I sat there fingering the straps of my knapsack and staring at the faces of all the people around me, trying to figure out what was wrong with them. And they were doing the same. Sometimes our eyes would meet and we would smile and then look elsewhere.

Finally I heard my name. Or something that sounded like my name.

I am 45 years old and have heard my last name pronounced pretty much every way it can be pronounced. Well, at least I thought I had. I'm not sure what nationality the woman who was calling my name. Maybe she was Chinese. Maybe she was Vietnamese. Tibetan? I'm not sure. All I know is that she took mispronouncing my last name to a whole new level. It's only because I recognized "Jody" that I answered. Even though I was still in the middle of filling out my five pages of forms, I walked towards the back with her.

After we walked back to the little cubbyhole located in the middle of the long corridor of exam rooms she had me step on a scale. Next was the blood pressure cuff. Then 20 questions. All the while I continued to fill out the paperwork I had been given by the receptionist.

As I starting checking 'yes' or 'no' the little woman to my left starting asking me questions. Normally I wouldn't mind someone asking me questions about myself but these were the same questions I was answering on the forms on the clipboard on my lap. Word for word. THE EXACT SAME QUESTIONS!

This is the stupid shit that drives me crazy. Besides, of course, my doctors not being able to help me. It's the insane things like that that make me think I'm in an episode of SEINFELD.

"These pretzels are making me thirsty!"

I would see a question on the form in front of me:

"What medications are you currently taking?"

And the nurse standing a foot away would ask me:

"What medications are you currently taking?"

"Hello Newman."

I would see a question on the form in front of me:

"List any allergies you may have to any medications:"

And the nurse standing a foot away would ask me:

"Do you have any allergies to any of the medications you are taking?"

"NO SOUP FOR YOU!!"

Fun is fun but I was eventually taken to an exam room to meet with a doctor. Or a resident. Or an attending. Or The Head of Neurology. Or Professor Plum in the Library with the rope. I don't even know any more. I've met far too many people in white coats.

Maybe I would remember them better if I felt like they were helping me more. Instead it's just been an endless line of white coats and faces. I kinda felt like a chicken at the Perdue plant. Without the plucking of course.

So the doctor came in and it was more of the same "blah blah blah" and "let's look at your last MRI and talk about what we can't do for you blah blah blah blah nonsense."

For added drama and frustration, The Head of Neurology was brought in to look at the images of my last MRI.

He squinted. He shrugged his shoulders. He sighed. Then he turned his body to face mine and told me that he couldn't tell me conclusively what was wrong with me.

I wanted to punch him. And I almost did. But I figured prison medical services are worse than what I am experiencing now. So I just there and nodded. And I listened to reasons as to why they couldn't help me. A minute into the conversation, my own inner monologue was already running.

Here's what I heard when I was listening.

Which means...here's what they said they think they know:

1. Orville has not gotten any bigger. And, depending on what slice of my MRI you are looking at, he is either there or he is not. (I don't want to be the one to speculate that Orville is capable of movement or that he is camera-shy, I'm just relaying the information I've been given.)

He's shy. Isn't that just a-d-o-r-a-b-l-e?

2. Orville is located in a very dangerous spot in my spinal column. The same spot which regulates all of my really important life functions. Like breathing. And my heartbeat.

3. Unless, my life is in danger (ie. Orville's growth is impeding on my breathing and other life functions and I'm going to die any way) no one at MCV is going to be cutting me open any time soon. It's just too dangerous. Too risky. I risk either being a quadriplegic or dead. And yes. Those are my only two options. There are no other options. None. No! Don't ask me again. I'm serious. I'll slap you if you even look like you're gonna ask me if there are other options. There are no other options.

It's like going to a restaurant and being asked by the waiter "Chicken or fish?" and then finding out that those are really the only things in the kitchen. Chicken and fish. Nothing else. There's chicken and there is fish. There's a stove, some utensils, a sweaty guy in an apron named Jose, a can of Old Bay seasoning and... that's it!

"We got nothing else! CHICKEN OR FISH! WE GOT NOTHING ELSE!!"

Dead or a quadriplegic. GOD.

Whatever happened to Door Number 3?

So here's what they are speculating on:

1. I may have had Orville all my life.

2. Drugs may be the answer. We (and I say 'we' but seriously...I didn't go to medical school so I'm not sure I should be included) don't know what the question is, really, but drugs may...Shit!...let's go out on a limb here...drugs are the answer to your problems.

And finally here's what they are going to do:

1. They're going to prescribe me more drugs.

2. They're going to perform an EEG.

3. They're going to see me in a few months.* (please see below)

*I was initially told that my appointment would be in December. I'm sorry but that doesn't work for me.

(And...by the way...that's going to be a t-shirt I am going to have made. I'M SORRY BUT THAT DOESN'T WORK FOR ME. I'm going to have thousands printed and make millions. I can see it now! There will people lined up in doctor's offices all wearing my t-shirt. It's genius. Pure genius.)

Anyway, the young girl then told me there was good news. I didn't say anything, but I had that look on my face. You know the one. The "you've-got-to-be-kidding" face. She told me a new doctor was coming on board and he was going to be taking on some of the patient load. I feel bad for her because she was excited and was trying to get me excited like she had circus tickets for me but unless she was going to tell me she had an appointment for me for next week, nothing was going to float my boat or pop my cork. Undaunted she added, that with any luck, I would be seeing a doctor some time in September. The 'sometime in September' part was where she lost she lost me for good.

This is what our medical industry has become. A deli.

You go medical help and they give you some baloney and a number.

It doesn't matter that you're standing there with your spleen in your hand. Here's your number. There's your chair. We'll see you in September.

"What's that you say? You've had a headache for a year? You're losing feeling in your hands? We're so sorry to hear that. Here. Take this plastic number. And these drugs. We'll see you in September.

NEXT!!"

and that's jody with a 'y'

So Tom Petty said the waiting was the hardest part. I'm pretty sure Tom was talking about getting into some American girl's button-fly jeans and not waiting on news from a doctor, but it works for me so I will agree with him.

The waiting is the hardest part. So is the misinformation. And the non-communication. And the pain.

I don't think I have ever been baffled by anything more in my life than the situation I find myself in now. Maybe the stabbing pain I feel at the base of my skull every minute of every day is all those questions marks trying to break free. Maybe they are digging tunnels like in the Great Escape. There's three tunnels now. Tom, Dick and Harry. Tom is going to come out somewhere around my neck. Harry will more than likely break free under my right ear. And Dick will...well...Dick will probably collapse and become useless.

GOD I'm so depressed and tired of all this.

So the new goal is to keep calling neurologists and wear them down. It's how I wound up being a contestant on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. Persistence. When I set my sights on something...well...there is no stopping me. I'm like an eagle eyeing a mouse running a serpentine pattern. Oh. It might zig. And it might zag. It might even weave...It might try a bob here and there...but just like that hawk...patient and determined...probably with a less feathers...I'm going to have some mouse for dinner.

Of course, by that I didn't mean I'm gonna eat a mouse, I just meant that I was really focused (or as focused as I can be right now)

Eating a mouse? Please. Who am I? Andrew Zimmern? Sorry. Andrew. Please. Have all the mouse, camel scrotum, and what-ever brains you can eat. I'll fix myself a chicken (and I mean chicken breast not chicken ankles or God forbid testicles...nuggets?) salad.

I'm good. Really. Thanks. What's that? Pig Snout? No. I can't. Really! I'm saving room for dessert.

So I will try to remain focused...keep my eyes on the prize...and stay on these doctors like a fungus. I'm gonna call every day and see if there are cancellations. I might even show up at the office with a sleeping bag and park myself behind a fern in the waiting room. Maybe I'll send postcards every day.

"Having a miserable time. Wish you were too so you would have a little empathy and speed this process up so that I don't have to wait til October to find out if I have an inoperable tumor that will eventually kill me. Love. You know who."

I'm sure that will do it.

Or I'll wind up on some post office watch list.

I wonder how the health care system is in federal prison?

and that's Jody with a "y"

My doctor has just informed me that that he can't do anything for me...except make me wait 40 minutes past my appointment time. This is, if you remember, after making me wait 3 months. Apparently, in a former life, this guy was a cable guy.

Yeah. So during my disappointing appointment he told me of his office's struggle to try and get me an appointment with a neurologist. Apparently, it was a very frustrating time for them. All those phone calls. GOD. The horror.

I thought these guys played golf together or at the very least sat on a couch in their deluxe lounges playing OUII Golf. You work in the same office as these guys. You're telling me you can't stick your head in an office door and say, "Hey Jerry. I've got this guy who's had the same headache for 10 months and is slowly losing all feeling in his body. Any way you can squeeze him in for an appointment? I'll owe you one, Big Guy."

Guess not. I guess everybody keeps their heads down and there is no looking out for the little guy with crappy insurance. I guess, save the moral support I am receiving (Which is AWESOME ~ THANK YOU!) I am on my own. And let me tell you, doctors and appointment makers, you may have just unleashed the Kraaken.

So after dropping the bomb that he couldn't help me and that I probably shouldn't have been sent to him, he dropped another by telling me that my best chance to see a neurologist any time soon would be to contact my primary care physician. Okay. Four months, several MRI's and brain scans later, still no change for the good, and now I'm taking huge steps....Tyrannosaurus Rex foot-sized steps backwards.

Great.

Next I'm gonna find out that the only person who can save me is Frank. You remember Frank? The man who put "uncaring bastard" in "ineptitude."

I'm desperate for answers...for relief...for help. But am I that desperate? I just don't know any more.

Even as I type this my forearms are going numb. My legs are tingling. My neck feels like there is an icepick lodged inside and every little movement, every head turn, every time I open my jaw the icepick's pointy steel tip pokes another nerve ending and rips into it.

The only thing missing is Lawrence Olivier standing behind me, a tray of surgical tools at his side as he asks "Is it safe?"

"Yes! It's safe! Pull the ice pick from my neck and put some of that salve on it to make the owwies go away! SAFE? Oh my God is it safe! You couldn't be any safer! A penis with four condoms on it would look at you and say 'Wow! That guy is safe. I'm so jealous."

Making the decision to go to the emergency room at MCV the other night was nothing more than an act of desperation.

I've been told by my neurosurgeon that he can't really do anything for me. Well okay then. I appreciate the candor. Hate the fact that you could have told me all that 3 months ago...but appreciate your candor none-the-less. I'm not going to waste any more time sitting in the uncomfortable chairs in his waiting room while he makes me wait an extra 40 minutes because he is running behind.

I'm done.

So my options right now are extremely limited. Well, extremely limited if I want to play by the rules of the game and be a good boy and do as I'm told. I'm so at the "Fuck the rules!" part of the game. I really am. Anger is my best medicine right now. I take ten of those a day....followed by one frustration with breakfast and two at bedtime.

It seems that there are no appointments with a neurologist available for me until October. As I am typing this, it is June 29th. You do the math.

My strategy with going to the ER this past Sunday night was that some people in the know had suggested to me. Getting admitted into the ER might be a good way to slide in through the "back door" and get to a neurologist faster they said. Sounds like a good plan. i'm game. Hell. At this point I'd take a guy with a bone in his nose shaking a chicken over my neck. Anyway, it sounded like the people in the know really knew "the know."

FAIL.

That didn't work. The people in the know turned out to be the people who didn't know. As it turned out, I wound up in the ER for a little over 8 hours. With no back door in sight. It was a very long night of lots of questions and no answers.

Questions. Ahhh questions.

Let me say this to the doctors I saw that night. Can you please get together on what questions you are going to ask me? Please. Just a little planning before you head into a patient's exam room. That's all I'm asking.

Do you know how annoying it is to sit there and answer the exact same questions from 4 different people? Do you all not confer before you see a patient? Is there no "Why don't you take questions 1 through 4, Jim. I'll take 5 through 11 and Beth...you take the rest. Everybody clear? Good. Gooooo doctors!!"

Then there could be a high five, a few sips of cold, stale coffee and then it's off to ignore the patient for two or three hours.

Once again...FAIL!

4 doctors. The same questions. GOD. I just wanted to scream. Like the lady in the bed in the room next to me who was strapped to the rails and wearing something that looked like the hockey mask Hannibal wore in Silence of the Lambs. I wanted to scream and throw things.

Somebody please give that chick some fava beans and tell her to shut the Hell up!

Here's what I know as of right now.

My surgeon has identified the previously unknown mass inside my spinal column. And let me tell you. This guy must be the best doctor in the whole world because he hasn't done any further testing on me, my spinal column, or Orville. Nothing more than a few MRI's and brain scans. There has been no biopsy. There's been no dissection of Orville of any kind. After waiting 3 months to see what would happen and a few minutes of looking at my most recent MRI, this wunder-doc was able to say with no uncertainty that Orville is in fact a cavernoma.

Basically, he is saying with absolute certainty that Orville is this cluster of blood cells and tissue. Absolute certainty. So. That means that in the 3 month interim he has obtained some magical power to see inside my body and diagnose something without even looking at it on anything more than film. Which is where we were 3 fucking months ago!

The only problem with Mr. Peabody's conclusion is that, and granted this is based on my thorough research on the internet and after having read "The Idiot's Guide to Annoying and Painful Things in My Body," the basic function of a cavernoma is to eat and get bigger. THAT'S what it does. It's like a shark. It eats and eats and eats. (Some please cue the theme from JAWS)

And judging from the last series of film, Orville is basically the same size as he was 3 months ago. I didn't see this film, so I guess that means I will have to take my doctor's word on that.

And let me pause to say that it's my film. I want to see it. When I order a steak in a restaurant I want to see the bloody thing on a plate in front of me. I don't want the chef's word that it was cooked perfectly and that he's never had better.

Anyway...

No change. Really? So. What? Is Orville just full or is he not a cavernoma? Did he give up for clustering blood cells for Lent? Did he just wake up one morning and decide "I think I'm good. I'm done here" and then take out some travel brochures for Hawaii?

Okay. Here's another problem I have with this absolute, written-in-stone diagnosis.

Again this comes from my research...if Orville does in fact turn out to be a caveroma, the research I've done states that the only way to deal with it is to surgically remove it.

And my surgeon (Hellooo?! Anybody see an error in logic here?) is telling me that there is nothing he can do for me?

Excuse me?!!

In the words of Abraham Lincoln..."What the fuck? Really?"

And all of this is now part of my medical record.

So when I was in the ER the other night and the neuroconsultant reviewed my records, she informed me that I have a cavernoma in my spinal column.

The consultant was an odd looking woman. Eyes like a pug and two rows of tiny little teeth. She was Indian (Dot not feather) Not that that has anything to do with it, I just wanted to paint the full picture. And all the while we talked, she kept looking at me like I was crazy.

Who knows? Maybe I am.

Any, I was a little more than surprised to hear that Orville had been given a real name. I told her that was the first time that I had heard that there had been an actual classification of the previously un-named entity. She informed me that my surgeon had made the call.

First off, he's not my surgeon! We're just seeing each other. I mean...C'mon! He hasn't even cut into me. We've just had a few dates in his office. There's been no physical contact. Just some awkward conversation over the blood pressure machine.

Second of all...how the Hell can we call it a cavernoma when we haven't done any sort of biopsy? Huh? Tell me that Dr. Susie Sourpuss!!

"Well,' says Susie, "It's all here on your chart."

Oh. Well. If it's on my chart. Then I understand.

What if my chart said...oh...I don't know...that I was pregnant. Would you believe that too?

So she poked me and tested me. She broke a Q-tip and rubbed and stuck me with first the fuzzy soft end and then with the sharp end with wooden shards. She had me walk for her. She had me squeeze her fingers like I was milking a cow. I was half-expecting "Itsy-Bitsy Spider" but apparently that test hasn't been approved by the people who approve such things.

After about 15 minutes she made he diagnosis. 15 minutes. It's a new world record, I tell you! She has the magic touch. SHE'S A GENIUS! A MIRACLE WORKER!!

Susie told me that I had cool tattoos.

Uh. Thanks? And you have...uhh...great beady little eyes?

Then she told me that I should see a neurologist and she would try to make an appointment for me. (Okay. So far my strategy was working. I was going to slide in the back door to a neurologist and be home free! Wait til October?! Puh-leeeze!!)

She also told me that she was going to increase the dosage of one of my medications. She said she was going upstairs to do all that and be back in a little bit ("The check is in the mail.") and then I would be able to go home.

Three and a half hours later the ER attending handed me some paper work and discharged me.

I never saw Susie again. Never.

So I went home. The sun was just coming up as I walked out of the hospital's automatic Star Trek doors. It was 7:15 AM and it was already 75 degrees and humid. My neck was killing me and I hadn't eaten in over 17 hours.

Sonofabitch.

I'm sorry. What's that you say? What was Dr. Sourpuss's diagnosis? Oh. She told me that I am more than likely suffering from peripheral neuropathy. I know. Great SCRABBLE word, right? But besides applications towards SCRABBLE, what does it all mean?

What is peripheral neuropathy?

Here. Read this...

From wikipedia:

Peripheral neuropathy is the term for damage to nerves of the peripheral nervous system,^[which may be caused either by diseases of the nerve or from the side-effects of systemic illness. The four cardinal patterns of peripheral neuropathy are polyneuropathy, mononeuropathy, mononeuritis multiplex and autonomic neuropathy. The most common form is (symmetrical) peripheral polyneuropathy, which mainly affects the feet and legs. The form of neuropathy may be further broken down by cause, or the size of predominant fiber involvement, i.e., large fiber or small fiber peripheral neuropathy. Frequently the cause of a neuropathy cannot be identified and it is designated idiopathic. Idiopathic is an adjective used primarily in medicine meaning arising spontaneously or from an obscure or unknown cause. From Greek ἴδιος, idios (one's own) + πάθος, pathos (suffering), it means approximately "a disease of its own kind". It is technically a term from nosology, the classification of disease. For some medical conditions, one or more causes are somewhat understood, but in a certain percentage of people with the condition, the cause may not be readily apparent or characterized. In these cases, the origin of the condition is said to be idiopathic.

In the American television show House, the title character Dr. Gregory House remarks that the word "comes from the Latin, meaning 'we're idiots, because we don't know what's causing it'".

Oh Dr. House. Where are you when I need you?

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

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

And I SING hey-YEAH-YEA-EAH, EAH HEY YEA YEA
I said hey! what's goin' on
And I SING hey-YEAH-YEA-EAH, EAH HEY YEA YEA
I said hey! what's goin' on?

"What's going on" 4 Non Blondes

So yesterday was a pretty big day for me.

Strike that!

So...yesterday was supposed to be a pretty big day for me.

As it turned out, it was nothing more than a long day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did tell me that Orville has not gotten any bigger.

What does that mean?

Don't know.

He did tell me that he is doubtful now if Orville is the cause of a lot of my problems.

But what does that mean?

Don't know.

He also told me that I probably should have been sent to neurologist and not a neurosurgeon. He figures that people panicked when they saw this thing in my spinal column and figured a surgeon was the best way to go.

"So does that mean you're going to send me to neurosurgeon," asks I.

"No" says he.

(At least he was emphatic about that last little tidbit of info)

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

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

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

And breeeeeeathe.

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

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

Thank you. Thank you very much.