Have That Removed!

 "Self-improvement may be a noble goal, but the stars aren’t so sure the leg rests, dual cup-holders, and wood paneling are what people had in mind. "

First order of business, Happy Belated Halloween. It's the goddamned greatest holiday of the year and my favorite of the bunch, to be sure. That said, I've been too doped up to bask in all the glory. Didn't dress up. No decorations. There were no deliciously carved pumpkins.... no graveyard. No garish lights. No fog. No spiderwebs adorning my abode.... well there are always plenty of spiderwebs, but that's more a sign of my poor housekeeping skills. The corpse of one of those terrifying spidery bastards is still lifelessly glued to one of my shampoo bottles as the love child of fear and laziness struck at a most inopportune moment. Another day bites the dust. I'm even refraining from commentary on the costume-sporting-hooker-festival I found myself surrounded by last night. 

You see, I went to the doctor. Horrid thought, that. I do so loathe swallowing my pride and surrendering to the vast world of drugs and diagnoses. I generally avoid seeking help at all costs. After all, in my mind, there is little that duct tape and puffy stickers can't solve. As it turns out, those are of absolutely no use when the ailment involves extraordinary pain when sitting or standing. So I did it. I drove my bruised tailbone and ego to the doctor. What I wasn't prepared for was the horrified look on the man's face when he returned with the X-Ray. "Now don't freak out..."  Seriously? I was just fine until you said that! 

"Severely fractured coccyx" (Tailbone to the layperson). Alright, well what do I need, then? A band-aid? Ice pack? Whiskey?

"A trip to the neurologist". Solid.

As I sat in the waiting room yesterday morning, I was having quite the time vomiting my hypochondria on the paperwork before me. Depression? Check. Anxiety? Check. Broken Bone? Check. Bruises Easily? Ummm... Ok. Difficulty Swallowing? Sure, why not. I believe the only section I didn't make any menu selection from involved blood disorders. The red goo seeping out of all my paper-cuts looks fine to me, so I felt no urge to go down that path. Upon entering the exam room and noticing my quite colorful questionnaire, the doctor eyed me up and down in disbelief. I can only imagine the thoughts running through Judgy McJudgerson's mind. 

After a litany of questions surrounding all my fabricated ailments, we got down to brass tacks. As I sat back and observed each successive reflex test and endured poke after poke with a sharp, splintery stick, I felt pretty damn good about myself. Man, I had aced that shit! Everything looked to be going swimmingly. I wasn't even under the influence of narcotics with my assertion of what had just transpired. And yet I was wrong. So very wrong. "Extensive nerve damage to the right half of the body". Back up that trolley... WHAT? I'm also looking at spine surgery. Outstanding.

Add AT LEAST one slipped disc and nerve damage to the laundry list of ailments (imaginary or otherwise). Ugh. 

More tests scheduled, more anxiety, an extra helping of tea for my pity party. On the bright side, I'm totally justified for the next month or so with all my melodramatic whining. But I'll be damned if I'm letting some lunatic open me up and tickle those oh-so-necessary ivories! 

I've known 4 creatures on this planet to have gone under the knife for back surgery. Those 4 same creatures all came out in wheelchairs. To be fair, each and every one of them exceed 70 years or so upon this planet, but I just don't trust it. Between general paranoia and zero positive hospital experiences to date, this all is a bit much to take in. 

Look, I'll be the first to admit my problem pales in comparison to what 99% of the planet endures. One only need tune into the news for a handful of minutes to put things in perspective. And yet I'm scared. Terrified, actually. I'd be willing to bet I wouldn't handle a serious issue with much grace at all. May I just tell you I also don't handle sympathy well? I'm pleased as punch to feel sorry for myself, but once others start chiming in on my limitations, Kitty feels backed into a corner and those claws do come out. Tis quite the conundrum indeed. So where am I going with all of this? Good question. May I just direct you back to the aforementioned bit about being doped up? An excellent first step might be stepping away from the keyboard thus putting an end to all this drivel. Glancing down I just noticed it's the first day of November. Makes enough sense. Let's see what you've got for me, month. For the rest of you, I wish you a marvelous Thursday.


Kitty

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Have That Removed!

 "Self-improvement may be a noble goal, but the stars aren’t so sure the leg rests, dual cup-holders, and wood paneling are what people had in mind. "

First order of business, Happy Belated Halloween. It's the goddamned greatest holiday of the year and my favorite of the bunch, to be sure. That said, I've been too doped up to bask in all the glory. Didn't dress up. No decorations. There were no deliciously carved pumpkins.... no graveyard. No garish lights. No fog. No spiderwebs adorning my abode.... well there are always plenty of spiderwebs, but that's more a sign of my poor housekeeping skills. The corpse of one of those terrifying spidery bastards is still lifelessly glued to one of my shampoo bottles as the love child of fear and laziness struck at a most inopportune moment. Another day bites the dust. I'm even refraining from commentary on the costume-sporting-hooker-festival I found myself surrounded by last night. 

You see, I went to the doctor. Horrid thought, that. I do so loathe swallowing my pride and surrendering to the vast world of drugs and diagnoses. I generally avoid seeking help at all costs. After all, in my mind, there is little that duct tape and puffy stickers can't solve. As it turns out, those are of absolutely no use when the ailment involves extraordinary pain when sitting or standing. So I did it. I drove my bruised tailbone and ego to the doctor. What I wasn't prepared for was the horrified look on the man's face when he returned with the X-Ray. "Now don't freak out..."  Seriously? I was just fine until you said that! 

"Severely fractured coccyx" (Tailbone to the layperson). Alright, well what do I need, then? A band-aid? Ice pack? Whiskey?

"A trip to the neurologist". Solid.

As I sat in the waiting room yesterday morning, I was having quite the time vomiting my hypochondria on the paperwork before me. Depression? Check. Anxiety? Check. Broken Bone? Check. Bruises Easily? Ummm... Ok. Difficulty Swallowing? Sure, why not. I believe the only section I didn't make any menu selection from involved blood disorders. The red goo seeping out of all my paper-cuts looks fine to me, so I felt no urge to go down that path. Upon entering the exam room and noticing my quite colorful questionnaire, the doctor eyed me up and down in disbelief. I can only imagine the thoughts running through Judgy McJudgerson's mind. 

After a litany of questions surrounding all my fabricated ailments, we got down to brass tacks. As I sat back and observed each successive reflex test and endured poke after poke with a sharp, splintery stick, I felt pretty damn good about myself. Man, I had aced that shit! Everything looked to be going swimmingly. I wasn't even under the influence of narcotics with my assertion of what had just transpired. And yet I was wrong. So very wrong. "Extensive nerve damage to the right half of the body". Back up that trolley... WHAT? I'm also looking at spine surgery. Outstanding.

Add AT LEAST one slipped disc and nerve damage to the laundry list of ailments (imaginary or otherwise). Ugh. 

More tests scheduled, more anxiety, an extra helping of tea for my pity party. On the bright side, I'm totally justified for the next month or so with all my melodramatic whining. But I'll be damned if I'm letting some lunatic open me up and tickle those oh-so-necessary ivories! 

I've known 4 creatures on this planet to have gone under the knife for back surgery. Those 4 same creatures all came out in wheelchairs. To be fair, each and every one of them exceed 70 years or so upon this planet, but I just don't trust it. Between general paranoia and zero positive hospital experiences to date, this all is a bit much to take in. 

Look, I'll be the first to admit my problem pales in comparison to what 99% of the planet endures. One only need tune into the news for a handful of minutes to put things in perspective. And yet I'm scared. Terrified, actually. I'd be willing to bet I wouldn't handle a serious issue with much grace at all. May I just tell you I also don't handle sympathy well? I'm pleased as punch to feel sorry for myself, but once others start chiming in on my limitations, Kitty feels backed into a corner and those claws do come out. Tis quite the conundrum indeed. So where am I going with all of this? Good question. May I just direct you back to the aforementioned bit about being doped up? An excellent first step might be stepping away from the keyboard thus putting an end to all this drivel. Glancing down I just noticed it's the first day of November. Makes enough sense. Let's see what you've got for me, month. For the rest of you, I wish you a marvelous Thursday.