I'm a real pretty picture this morning.
I look like Christopher Walken stole clothing items from Gary Busey and then fell down some stairs.
I was released from the hopsital yesterday and it's time for my hospital report card.
Overall I was not as impressed with St. Mary's Hospital as I was during my visit at the beginning of December 2012. Which is kind of sad since I was in the hospital for steroid injections and not back surgery.
Maybe its because I was expecting the same experience.
Maybe its because I was in considerably more pain.
I don't know but where my first stay of 5 days in December for just injections would merit a grade of A, my stay of only three days after surgery would get a C-.
Some of the staff was very friendly and seemed to care about me genuinley.
Overall though, I felt like I was bothering some of the folks there.
I certainly have some bones to pick with the kitchen staff, and surprisingly, not about the food. (I doubt that was meat they were serving me, and therefore, there weren't any bones) It was just the way they burst into the room to make their deliveries. No one ever checked to see if I was asleep (and I was...every time they came to my room) they just barged in talking at the top of their voices completely ignoring my presence. God forbid I asked for more salt...or fresh ice in my water...or a fork. Seriously. I would have gotten it myself but I couldn't walk!
Sleep is a precious commodity when you're in the hospital, especially when you're in a post-op situation and you feel like there is a knife sticking in your back. All I'm asking is stick you head in and check to see if the patient is asleep. How hard could that be?
Physical therapy is never fun and I can't imagine it's a fun job. Afterall, you are responsible for getting someone out of bed and doing physical activities when the last thing that person wants to do is get out of bed and do physical activities.
There is no comfortable position for me to be in right now.
I can't lie, sit, recline or stand.
I'm thinking that my only option is to be suspended from the ceiling like Tom Cruise in MISSION IMPOSSIBLE.
I'm walking with a four-pronged walking cane. The only thing missing is the four, neon yellow tennis balls.
I have a thick brace around my waist which I have dubbed my UTILITY BELT.
I might actually paint a yellow circle with a black belt on the front in a few days.
I plan on doing a lof of nothing in the next few weeks.
Some of those things are on the list I will call The THINGS I AM NOT TO DO OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS List.
There is an anachronism for the activities which I am forbidden (forbidden? guess that means that if I do any of them, I will receive the CURSE OF GREAT PAIN and release TYGOR, the seven-headed dragon from HEll)
The anachronism is BLT.
Which means I am not allowed to bend, lean or twist.
Trust me, I'm so glad that's what this means. I don't think I could go without baconing for a few weeks.
For instance, I am not allowed to try and lift a gallon of milk.
I am not supposed to vacuum, or make the bed or wrestle bears.
(Just wanted to see if you were still paying attention)
My plastic beer stein, which never leaves my side. Or, front, I guess I should have said. I'm calling my plastic urinal Gerhardt. He's my new best friend. I'm getting quite good at using him without anyone noticing.vIn fact, as I'm typing this...well...you get the picture.
I wish I had Gerhardt when I saw Avatar.
My collection of pain pills has grown. Two more bottles and I can legally become president of an Elvis Presely fan club.
There are the pills I take for my head (oh yes....all that bullshit is still going on) and the pills I was given for my post-op pain. It looks like I'm about to open my own pharmacy.
On a scale of 1 to 10, my pain right now is 11.
A really strong 11.
I'm hoping to get some sleep today.
Heck! Who am I fooling?
I would be happy to able to sit back against the back of the couch without crying. Using the toilet is going to be hard.
I hope, one day, Gerhardt can find the courage and strength to forgive me.
and that's 'Jody with a 'y'
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright 2013.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
This Too Shall Pass
I have never seen a group of people more obsessed with my flatulence.
I went into the hospital on Monday and believe that no less than 9 people came in and out of my room asking me whether or not I had passed gas. The first two times you get asked that question, you're like 'Uhhh...no not yet.'
Embarrassed not only because you are being asked such a personal question by a complete stranger, but because you haven't, you have somehow let them down. By your fourth day in the hospital you are proud of the fact that 'YES! I HAVE PASSED GAS!" and want a gold star put on the refrigerator in the nurses' lounge.
EVERYTHING depends on whether or not you've cut the cheese and you are rewarded for your achievements.
For instance, you are not allowed to eat anything 12 hours before surgery. It's rough and after about 9 hours you would eat a stick if they offered you one. They don't though. Not unless you've passed gas.
After surgery, once you've left post-op, you are offered a bland liquid.
Mmmm....bland liquid. Jusy like mom used to make.
Now, if you pass gas, you are allowed a non-clear liquid. Non-clear liquids are classified as puddings, tapioca, and JELL-O.
After not eating now for almost 20 something hours, I was ready to play the 1812 Overture out of my ass if it would have gotten me some steak and potatoes.
I'm not going to go into great detail about the hospital food. We all know hospital food is two levels below school cafeteria food. Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. Bland and steamed within an inch of its life. To steal and put a twist on a joke from Jeff Foxworthy, lifting the lid on your hospital dinner is kind of like changing a diaper. You don't know what's inside but you can pretty certain it will be awful and the last thing in the world you'd want for dinner. THAT last part was my contribution. You still get the credit, Jeff.
With all the drugs I've taken over the last few days, and as sketchy as my memory is, it is ironic that the one thing I remember clearly was that Tuesday's dinner was presented to me as pork. I've seen pork people, that wet, slimy thing on that plate was not pork.
My last day in the hospital I didn't eat at all.
I was in tremendous pain and didn't have an appetite. This didn't stop the women from the kitchen from banging on my door and dropping off (and I mean 'dropping off because here I was fresh from back surgery and one lady left my tray completely on the other side of the room) dropping off my food tray.
It would have been more appropriate to open a slot at the bottom of the door and slide my tray across the tiled floor.
All I wanted to do yesterday was sleep. And cry. Cry and sleep. And I did manage to do both. In between knocks on my door and women dropping off food trays. I finally got tired of saying 'I didn't order a lunch. I would just like to sleep. Please give me some peace and quiet.'
Granted I was in pain and grumpy, but I really did feel like no one was listening to me yesterday. I felt like my words were falling on deaf words.
So. When I wanted to say something I knew they would listened to, I just farted.
and that's 'Jody' with a 'y'
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2013
I went into the hospital on Monday and believe that no less than 9 people came in and out of my room asking me whether or not I had passed gas. The first two times you get asked that question, you're like 'Uhhh...no not yet.'
Embarrassed not only because you are being asked such a personal question by a complete stranger, but because you haven't, you have somehow let them down. By your fourth day in the hospital you are proud of the fact that 'YES! I HAVE PASSED GAS!" and want a gold star put on the refrigerator in the nurses' lounge.
EVERYTHING depends on whether or not you've cut the cheese and you are rewarded for your achievements.
For instance, you are not allowed to eat anything 12 hours before surgery. It's rough and after about 9 hours you would eat a stick if they offered you one. They don't though. Not unless you've passed gas.
After surgery, once you've left post-op, you are offered a bland liquid.
Mmmm....bland liquid. Jusy like mom used to make.
Now, if you pass gas, you are allowed a non-clear liquid. Non-clear liquids are classified as puddings, tapioca, and JELL-O.
After not eating now for almost 20 something hours, I was ready to play the 1812 Overture out of my ass if it would have gotten me some steak and potatoes.
I'm not going to go into great detail about the hospital food. We all know hospital food is two levels below school cafeteria food. Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. Bland and steamed within an inch of its life. To steal and put a twist on a joke from Jeff Foxworthy, lifting the lid on your hospital dinner is kind of like changing a diaper. You don't know what's inside but you can pretty certain it will be awful and the last thing in the world you'd want for dinner. THAT last part was my contribution. You still get the credit, Jeff.
With all the drugs I've taken over the last few days, and as sketchy as my memory is, it is ironic that the one thing I remember clearly was that Tuesday's dinner was presented to me as pork. I've seen pork people, that wet, slimy thing on that plate was not pork.
My last day in the hospital I didn't eat at all.
I was in tremendous pain and didn't have an appetite. This didn't stop the women from the kitchen from banging on my door and dropping off (and I mean 'dropping off because here I was fresh from back surgery and one lady left my tray completely on the other side of the room) dropping off my food tray.
It would have been more appropriate to open a slot at the bottom of the door and slide my tray across the tiled floor.
All I wanted to do yesterday was sleep. And cry. Cry and sleep. And I did manage to do both. In between knocks on my door and women dropping off food trays. I finally got tired of saying 'I didn't order a lunch. I would just like to sleep. Please give me some peace and quiet.'
Granted I was in pain and grumpy, but I really did feel like no one was listening to me yesterday. I felt like my words were falling on deaf words.
So. When I wanted to say something I knew they would listened to, I just farted.
and that's 'Jody' with a 'y'
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
"That which does not kill us...makes us stronger."
Friedrich Nietzsche.
We've all heard Nietzsche's quote before. It's usually one of those motivational posters you see painted as a mural in locker rooms or on the t-shirts worn by counselors at a fat camp.
I saw those words one time on a button worn by my doctor. I noticed them right before he checked my prostate.
I'm assuming that for the most part, it's true.
Nietzsche is basically saying that once you over come adversity, you become a better...stronger person. I'd say that's true for about 90% of the population. The other 10% become bitter, angry assholes who immediately want to hire a lawyer and sue somebody.
Let's give Nietzsche the benefit of the doubt, though. It is a beautiful sentiment and I certainly hope this is true for me.
Right now I don't feel stronger.
I feel tired and beat down.
The pain is ever-present now. It's like an ugly pair of shoes I can't take off...with me at every clumsy step...catching on stairs and curbs and bed sheets and...shit. I fee like my right leg has been taken over by a drunk and narcoleptic alien.
TIRED.
I don't think I have ever been more tired.
I'm just not sleeping. I'm averaging about two or three hours a night now. It's getting so bad I'm actually looking forward to being the hospital and hooked to an IV full of sleepy-time medicine.
The main problem is getting into a position that's comfortable.
I've tried every possible position but none seem to work.
I've tried the 'Flat On My Back.'
This doesn't work because I can't put pressure on the back of my head.
I also tend to snore louder when I'm on my back which is no fun for anyone in a three block radius.
I've tried the 'On My Side To The Left' the 'On My Side To The Right' the 'On My Side With A Pillow Between My Legs' and 'The Two Eggs Over Easy With A Side of Bacon.'
I've laid like a baby with my head down and my butt in the air which is not nearly as comfortable as I remember. It's also not the same unless you're wearing cute little footie pajamas. This position is known in sleep terminology as either 'The Wide Receiver' or the 'Thar She Blows.' I guess it all depends on what you ate before you went to bed.
I've tried The 'Fetal Position' but I can't get comfortable soaked in amniotic fluid. I've laid flat on my back with my legs raised high in the air by a stack of pillows, known as 'Seeing The Lady Doctor,' but inevitably the pillows topple and my legs come crashing down.
No matter what position I try, though, I can't get comfortable and can't get to sleep.
I like sleep. I love sleep. Sleep is good.
I love those mornings after a good night's sleep when you wake up feeling like Superman, able to leap buildings in a single bound. When I sleep between six and seven hours, I feel like I can take on the world. I feel like Gene Kelly and just want to dance everywhere I go.
These days I'm more Walking Dead then Singing In The Rain though.
The other day I caught myself about to put my cell phone in the toaster.
Can you hear me now?
No. No I can't. Not over the smoke alarm.
There have been far too many days when I've worn my t-shirts or sweaters inside out or backwards. If you talk to my wife, however, she'll probably tell you this has nothing to do with sleep of the lack thereof. I'm just an idiot sometimes.
Surgery is in three days now.
I figure that Monday night will be the best night's sleep I've had in weeks. That is, unless they wake me up every forty minutes to see how I'm feeling.
and that's 'Jody' with a 'y'
All rights Reserved.
Copyright 2013.
Friedrich Nietzsche.
We've all heard Nietzsche's quote before. It's usually one of those motivational posters you see painted as a mural in locker rooms or on the t-shirts worn by counselors at a fat camp.
I saw those words one time on a button worn by my doctor. I noticed them right before he checked my prostate.
I'm assuming that for the most part, it's true.
Nietzsche is basically saying that once you over come adversity, you become a better...stronger person. I'd say that's true for about 90% of the population. The other 10% become bitter, angry assholes who immediately want to hire a lawyer and sue somebody.
Let's give Nietzsche the benefit of the doubt, though. It is a beautiful sentiment and I certainly hope this is true for me.
Right now I don't feel stronger.
I feel tired and beat down.
The pain is ever-present now. It's like an ugly pair of shoes I can't take off...with me at every clumsy step...catching on stairs and curbs and bed sheets and...shit. I fee like my right leg has been taken over by a drunk and narcoleptic alien.
TIRED.
I don't think I have ever been more tired.
I'm just not sleeping. I'm averaging about two or three hours a night now. It's getting so bad I'm actually looking forward to being the hospital and hooked to an IV full of sleepy-time medicine.
The main problem is getting into a position that's comfortable.
I've tried every possible position but none seem to work.
I've tried the 'Flat On My Back.'
This doesn't work because I can't put pressure on the back of my head.
I also tend to snore louder when I'm on my back which is no fun for anyone in a three block radius.
I've tried the 'On My Side To The Left' the 'On My Side To The Right' the 'On My Side With A Pillow Between My Legs' and 'The Two Eggs Over Easy With A Side of Bacon.'
I've laid like a baby with my head down and my butt in the air which is not nearly as comfortable as I remember. It's also not the same unless you're wearing cute little footie pajamas. This position is known in sleep terminology as either 'The Wide Receiver' or the 'Thar She Blows.' I guess it all depends on what you ate before you went to bed.
I've tried The 'Fetal Position' but I can't get comfortable soaked in amniotic fluid. I've laid flat on my back with my legs raised high in the air by a stack of pillows, known as 'Seeing The Lady Doctor,' but inevitably the pillows topple and my legs come crashing down.
No matter what position I try, though, I can't get comfortable and can't get to sleep.
I like sleep. I love sleep. Sleep is good.
I love those mornings after a good night's sleep when you wake up feeling like Superman, able to leap buildings in a single bound. When I sleep between six and seven hours, I feel like I can take on the world. I feel like Gene Kelly and just want to dance everywhere I go.
These days I'm more Walking Dead then Singing In The Rain though.
The other day I caught myself about to put my cell phone in the toaster.
Can you hear me now?
No. No I can't. Not over the smoke alarm.
There have been far too many days when I've worn my t-shirts or sweaters inside out or backwards. If you talk to my wife, however, she'll probably tell you this has nothing to do with sleep of the lack thereof. I'm just an idiot sometimes.
Surgery is in three days now.
I figure that Monday night will be the best night's sleep I've had in weeks. That is, unless they wake me up every forty minutes to see how I'm feeling.
and that's 'Jody' with a 'y'
All rights Reserved.
Copyright 2013.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Well, the blood work has been done. I've peed in a cup. I've been fitted for my brace. The insurance company has given us the green light and their blessing. Looks like this whole surgery things is going to happen.
Monday, January 21, 2013.
Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
I'm not sure if that is a good thing or not. Guess it's too late now.
I've spent the morning at the hospital for my pre-op interview (I hope I get the job! I hope I get the job!)
Sitting in one waiting room after another I can't help but look at the magazine selection around me. Here I am in waiting room filled with people in braces and walking around with crutches or walkers and the magazines we have to choose from have names like Rock Climber, Yacht and Power Boat Enthusiast, Tennis and my personal favorite Power Lifting USA.
I can't decide if this is some failed attempt at encouraging all of us disabled or someone's cruel joke.
Still, all in all, I guess it could be worse. We could be reading articles in Cane & Crutch, Neck Brace Monthly or Immobility Today.
Everyone's been very nice to me. From the lady in Admitting, to the lady who interviewed me and finally to the lady who took my blood and graciously accepted my cup of pee.
In between one lab and another, the very nice lady in the sweater that was way too pink greeted me with a smile, mispronounced my name and then told me she was going to be taking me to 'the other side.'
I was quick to remind her that the last thing anyone in a hospital wants to hear from someone who works in a hospital is 'I'll be taking you to 'the other side.' It doesn't inspire much confidence.
She laughed.
I laughed. The guy whose head was being stretched a few inches higher because of the brace he was wearing grunted something that could have been a laugh.
I spent about a half an hour with a woman in what may be the smallest office I've ever seen. There wasn't even room for a window...or a plant.
She was very kind and went through the list of questions she was required to ask in a professional and proficient manner.
She never even noticed that the front of my jeans had...oh what's the word...'tented' as I sat down. I noticed, a little too late, but I noticed. I spent the ten minutes trying to casually press down the point in my pants.
She was never the wiser. I think. I hope. I pray.
Giving blood was that much of a big deal because, sadly, over the last three years I've given enough blood to open my own bank. I ball my fist, there's a quick little prick and then I spend the next few hours trying to slowly peal the tape off my arms.
I have hairy arms.
Okay. I have gorilla arms but I was hard to beat on the playground jungle gym.
After my fluids were collected and my personal history was scrutinized, I was sent on my way, corset brace wrapped tightly around my waist and cane in hand.
Surgery is in 6 days.
I can't say I'm not a little freaked. I am. This is surgery after all and not a procedure. I've made the mistake of Googling information about my laminectomy. I've made the even bigger mistake of Googling photos of my procedure. Let me just say for the record that if you are about to undergo any kind of procedure or surgery do not, seriously, do not look up photos of said surgery on the Internet. It does nothing for you.
If you're doing a book report on Japan, Google some images of Japan.
If you're looking for some ideas for nursery wallpaper, Google some images of nursery wallpapers.
Having back surgery? Google some photos of Anna Kournikova.
Don't get me wrong. I have all the confidence in the world in my surgeon. He's a good guy and after the numb-nuts I've been dealing with over the last three years it is a refreshing change.
It's not even the thought of surgery. I've had back surgery before. In fact I've had surgery in the same exact spot. Guess the warranty ran out. From what I've read it is a straight forward procedure. In and out. I do wish that my doctor would stop using the word scrape. Scrape is not a word you want to hear when someone is describing what they're going to be doing to you when they're inside your body. Scrape is bad, as is tear, rip, pulverize, torch, mangle and dissect.
They may have to do some
Yes. For the record, yes, I understand completely. Just put me in a gown, knock my ass out and give me some Jell-o when I wake up.
There may be some of you reading this who are curious who want to know what the procedure I'm having done is called and what is involved.
Here, for you curious, sick bastards, is the definition of a laminectomy.
In a laminectomy a portion of the vertebral bone called the lamina is removed. The minimal form of the procedure requires only small skin incisions, the back muscles are pushed aside rather than cut, and the parts. Whew. Holy shit. Sorry. I had to stop typing. It's all just a little too much.
And yes, I know, for me to be as queasy about this as I am is laughable.
I mean, I've seen some pretty graphic things in my life. I've seen all the Saw movies. Those are pretty horrendous. I've watched Misery a few times and if you can stomach Kathy Bates hobbling poor James Caan with a sledgehammer, well, then I'd say you have a rock solid constitution.
I sat through those horrendous driver's ed films. I never even flinched.
I guess that being my real life makes this a completely different situation.
This isn't CGI or special effects makeup.
This is me on my stomach being operated on by someone I hardly know.
I will trust though.
I have an incredible wife and my support system is composed of family and friends and its pretty damn awesome.
Recovery time, I guess, is totally up to me.
My doctor has told me that it may take anywhere from six to twelve weeks.
The nice young man who put my brace on me this morning told me that I would wearing the brace for at least a month.
Whatever or however, I will do what the doctors tell me to do.
I am determined that 2013 be the year I get healthy.
Baby steps though. Baby steps.
I am smart enough to realize that it will require me to take it slowly...take it with baby steps...baby steps with a cane.
and that's 'jody' with a 'y'
Monday, April 30, 2012
It would be wrong for me to say "Every doctor I've dealt with since my problems started over two years ago was an asshole." Just like it would be wrong for me to say that "everybody on the road is an idiot."
It would be more accurate for me to say "I have not liked most of the doctors who have seen me over the last two years." That has nothing to do with the fact that they didn't fix me.
It has more to do with the fact that they were assholes.
Take today for instance.
Today was a brand new start with a brand new doctor. A lady doctor. The first lady doctor I would be dealing with for these on-going medical problems. I thought maybe the change would be go. Maybe a woman doctor would be more compassionate than the male doctors I had already seen. It's rare when you meet a woman who's an asshole. Men? All the time! But actually coming across a woman doctor who was an asshole? I figured the odds wrong.
And..you know, maybe 'asshole' is too strong a word. Really appropriate, but maybe too strong.
Here. You decide. I'll describe my appointment, her behavior, and then you decide.
I was led to an exam room by a young woman. This young woman noticed that the fluorescent lights were bothering me and she asked me if I wanted the lights dimmed, adding, mind you, 'We're prepared for that." With that she turned off the fluorescent lights and raised the dimmer on some warmer, softer lights. The pounding in my brain eased a little. I thanked her.
I was told my doctor would be right in.
After a minute or two, the door opened and a woman in a white coat came in to the exam room.
She looked up and said 'Why the Hell are the lights off?"
Before I could answer, she continued, "Why are you sitting in there dark?"
I tried to explain that her office was prepared for situations like mine, but she didn't seem interested.
Thus began the interview part of my appointment. After about six minutes I leaned forward in a little in my chair and offered 'I'm Jody (Kiss my ass!) by the way, nice (Not really! But I figured one of us should at least try to feign some semblance of manners) to meet you. She rolled her eyes and said "Oh. That's nice."
So that's how it's gonna, be. Huh?
Okay. As I said a few minutes ago, somewhere else, I wasn't there on a blind date for lunch. I was there for answers and I was starting to lose hope there would be any. I tried to remain positive. It wasn't easy.
You ever met someone with no personality who had no idea how to talk to another human being....who wasn't wearing a white lab coat? It was a strained conversation. Her tone was superior and she kept correcting me when I tried to relay my medical history for her clarification. Sorry, Doc, but there's only one person in this room who went to medical school and that person ain't me. Just like there's only one person in this room who went to charm school and that person ain't...well...you know.
She ran some tests ("Squeeze my fingers." "Don't let me push your arms down." "Pull my hand to you-don't let me pull them away.") Basically the same sort of things you could read in the transcripts from the Bill Clinton impeachment trial.
She asked me about the medications I was on and frowned disapprovingly when I told her that sometimes I had to take 4 Excederin Migraine to knock the pain down. By the way, Excederin Migraine is apparently the work of the Devil and the worst thing I could be taking right now. Word to the wise.
She corrected me a few mores times on terms I was using and when I tried to explain that these were terms that were given to me by physicians at MCV, she didn't really seem to care.
And then, before you could say something Hippocratic Oath, we were done. Even thinking about baseball wouldn't have stretched that appointment out any longer.
My prescriptions were faxed over to the pharmacy.
I signed some papers.
Dr. Walkin' On Sunshine walked away and closed her office door behind her. No handshake. No real goodbye. She just walked into her office, closed the door, and started praying at the alter of Slytherin's Snape.
Here we go again.
and that's 'Jody' with a 'y'
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
...
It would be more accurate for me to say "I have not liked most of the doctors who have seen me over the last two years." That has nothing to do with the fact that they didn't fix me.
It has more to do with the fact that they were assholes.
Take today for instance.
Today was a brand new start with a brand new doctor. A lady doctor. The first lady doctor I would be dealing with for these on-going medical problems. I thought maybe the change would be go. Maybe a woman doctor would be more compassionate than the male doctors I had already seen. It's rare when you meet a woman who's an asshole. Men? All the time! But actually coming across a woman doctor who was an asshole? I figured the odds wrong.
And..you know, maybe 'asshole' is too strong a word. Really appropriate, but maybe too strong.
Here. You decide. I'll describe my appointment, her behavior, and then you decide.
I was led to an exam room by a young woman. This young woman noticed that the fluorescent lights were bothering me and she asked me if I wanted the lights dimmed, adding, mind you, 'We're prepared for that." With that she turned off the fluorescent lights and raised the dimmer on some warmer, softer lights. The pounding in my brain eased a little. I thanked her.
I was told my doctor would be right in.
After a minute or two, the door opened and a woman in a white coat came in to the exam room.
She looked up and said 'Why the Hell are the lights off?"
Before I could answer, she continued, "Why are you sitting in there dark?"
I tried to explain that her office was prepared for situations like mine, but she didn't seem interested.
Thus began the interview part of my appointment. After about six minutes I leaned forward in a little in my chair and offered 'I'm Jody (Kiss my ass!) by the way, nice (Not really! But I figured one of us should at least try to feign some semblance of manners) to meet you. She rolled her eyes and said "Oh. That's nice."
So that's how it's gonna, be. Huh?
Okay. As I said a few minutes ago, somewhere else, I wasn't there on a blind date for lunch. I was there for answers and I was starting to lose hope there would be any. I tried to remain positive. It wasn't easy.
You ever met someone with no personality who had no idea how to talk to another human being....who wasn't wearing a white lab coat? It was a strained conversation. Her tone was superior and she kept correcting me when I tried to relay my medical history for her clarification. Sorry, Doc, but there's only one person in this room who went to medical school and that person ain't me. Just like there's only one person in this room who went to charm school and that person ain't...well...you know.
She ran some tests ("Squeeze my fingers." "Don't let me push your arms down." "Pull my hand to you-don't let me pull them away.") Basically the same sort of things you could read in the transcripts from the Bill Clinton impeachment trial.
She asked me about the medications I was on and frowned disapprovingly when I told her that sometimes I had to take 4 Excederin Migraine to knock the pain down. By the way, Excederin Migraine is apparently the work of the Devil and the worst thing I could be taking right now. Word to the wise.
She corrected me a few mores times on terms I was using and when I tried to explain that these were terms that were given to me by physicians at MCV, she didn't really seem to care.
And then, before you could say something Hippocratic Oath, we were done. Even thinking about baseball wouldn't have stretched that appointment out any longer.
My prescriptions were faxed over to the pharmacy.
I signed some papers.
Dr. Walkin' On Sunshine walked away and closed her office door behind her. No handshake. No real goodbye. She just walked into her office, closed the door, and started praying at the alter of Slytherin's Snape.
Here we go again.
and that's 'Jody' with a 'y'
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
...
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