UTG-3, Diagnosis: Denial
"Mr. B, the doctor will see you know".
"I'll be there in a minute."
"Excuse me?"
"Just a minute...please. I've only have two more hidden pictures to find in this issue of Highlights."
The nurse practitioner did not act as if she found this humorous, but then again I didn't have a lot to laugh about today myself.
I cancelled and delayed this follow-up appointment at least four times, quite miffed by the fact that they wouldn't give me details over the phone. I know most of the blood work that was ordered was routine, but the bone aspirate was just plain weird. Yeah, the drugs were a riot, but having a piece of your femur scooped up like the 31st flavor is not my idea of a D.H. Lawrence picnic.
The self-flagellation that is putting off what you are convinced is horrible news is something of an art form. Some of the most prolific in the history of man ulcers have come about, or beautifully aggravated, by the internal struggles of a troubled soul. Finding new ways to worry is like a rat seeking a better mouse trap. But hey, everybodys' gotta be good at something.
The courtesy paper has torn and the cold steel is a shock to the part of my cheek not protected by the flimsy examination gown. I thought for sure that we were at the consultation / sit down in a cushy chair portion of the proceedings. Rumour has it that some Md's will dress you down in order to dress up their uniform whites. The medical equivalent to a boss elevating their desk chair.
Once I really start getting into the giant diagram of the inner ear, my blankness is sharply interrupted by the polite apologies of my health professional.
"Mr. B, how have you been lately?"
Lately? You mean like since you robbed me of bone marrow and sent me home to stew in a stress pool of my own makings?
"Wonderful! And you?" There are just some mindless social interactions that even a borderline maniac cannot avoid kowtowing to.
"Good, good. How are the workouts coming along. Still keeping them to down to 2 or 3 a day".
"Of course." Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever you want to hear doc. Let's get this over with so that I can sneak in some push ups in the parking lot before forcing my self to vomit behind your Bentley.
"Great! You know, moderation is the key. Well,.... I guess you would like to here about your blood work?"
No, I wanta shove tongue depressors in your ear until I can hear your ear drum play the solo from Crazy Train! Yes, I want to hear about the blood work. HIT ME WITH IT!!
"Oh. Are the results back already? Sure." Oh, sure. Are the result back already. Give me a break, will ya'?!
"Mr. B,....we found an anomaly in your tests. As a matter of fact, were not sure...........Mr.B.........NURSE! Mr. B, can you hear me!"
As a matter of fact, I can't. Because while you were pacing, and carefully choosing your words, I had decided to make a dive for the tongue depressors. Unfortunate for me, and the 95 lb. nurse that had to help you lift me back on the table, my feeble attempt at a auditory dissection resulted only in my own syncopatic episode.
I blacked out and ended up as a hot mess on the floor. Face down, pale side up, poking out of my gown of course.
At least I didn't have an ulcer. Not yet, anyway.
(you have just read part 3 of the series formally known as 'Under the Gun'. your participation is appreciated and your comments, questions, and requests will be carefully filed under "W". - b2)
"I'll be there in a minute."
"Excuse me?"
"Just a minute...please. I've only have two more hidden pictures to find in this issue of Highlights."
The nurse practitioner did not act as if she found this humorous, but then again I didn't have a lot to laugh about today myself.
I cancelled and delayed this follow-up appointment at least four times, quite miffed by the fact that they wouldn't give me details over the phone. I know most of the blood work that was ordered was routine, but the bone aspirate was just plain weird. Yeah, the drugs were a riot, but having a piece of your femur scooped up like the 31st flavor is not my idea of a D.H. Lawrence picnic.
The self-flagellation that is putting off what you are convinced is horrible news is something of an art form. Some of the most prolific in the history of man ulcers have come about, or beautifully aggravated, by the internal struggles of a troubled soul. Finding new ways to worry is like a rat seeking a better mouse trap. But hey, everybodys' gotta be good at something.
The courtesy paper has torn and the cold steel is a shock to the part of my cheek not protected by the flimsy examination gown. I thought for sure that we were at the consultation / sit down in a cushy chair portion of the proceedings. Rumour has it that some Md's will dress you down in order to dress up their uniform whites. The medical equivalent to a boss elevating their desk chair.
Once I really start getting into the giant diagram of the inner ear, my blankness is sharply interrupted by the polite apologies of my health professional.
"Mr. B, how have you been lately?"
Lately? You mean like since you robbed me of bone marrow and sent me home to stew in a stress pool of my own makings?
"Wonderful! And you?" There are just some mindless social interactions that even a borderline maniac cannot avoid kowtowing to.
"Good, good. How are the workouts coming along. Still keeping them to down to 2 or 3 a day".
"Of course." Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever you want to hear doc. Let's get this over with so that I can sneak in some push ups in the parking lot before forcing my self to vomit behind your Bentley.
"Great! You know, moderation is the key. Well,.... I guess you would like to here about your blood work?"
No, I wanta shove tongue depressors in your ear until I can hear your ear drum play the solo from Crazy Train! Yes, I want to hear about the blood work. HIT ME WITH IT!!
"Oh. Are the results back already? Sure." Oh, sure. Are the result back already. Give me a break, will ya'?!
"Mr. B,....we found an anomaly in your tests. As a matter of fact, were not sure...........Mr.B.........NURSE! Mr. B, can you hear me!"
As a matter of fact, I can't. Because while you were pacing, and carefully choosing your words, I had decided to make a dive for the tongue depressors. Unfortunate for me, and the 95 lb. nurse that had to help you lift me back on the table, my feeble attempt at a auditory dissection resulted only in my own syncopatic episode.
I blacked out and ended up as a hot mess on the floor. Face down, pale side up, poking out of my gown of course.
At least I didn't have an ulcer. Not yet, anyway.
(you have just read part 3 of the series formally known as 'Under the Gun'. your participation is appreciated and your comments, questions, and requests will be carefully filed under "W". - b2)
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