Well, it’s been a full week and still no clear-cut answers as to what is going on in my body. Yes, the alien invasion continues to enjoy creating all sorts of havoc on my insides, (and truth be told, my very fragile emotions as well). I’ve been poked, prodded, scanned, and invaded in ways that would cause a stripping pole dancer to blush. For some reason there is absolutely no dignity when one is ill … none!
And the scary part is, I really don’t care. I wouldn’t care if 100 gorgeous Johnny Depp look alikes were standing over my naked, jello-y body holding magnifying glasses to their lovely faces. I wouldn’t care if the whole mess were to be televised on the evening news, I wouldn’t care if I had to sing the national anthem (is that supposed to be capitalized?) naked at the Super Bowl (I do believe that Super Bowl is indeed capitalized)… Really, I wouldn’t care … IF it meant finding out what is wrong with me.
EW, that’s a sticky-wicket … what is wrong with me? Well, actually there are lots of things wrong with me … I have bad hair, I haven’t done any deep cleaning for months, my eyes are in need of occular assistance, my thighs are big (but thankfully not cottage-cheesy), my breasts are slipping closer to my waist … or rather where my waist should be, I cry at the drop of a hat (ok, I haven’t seen anyone drop his/her hat, but if I did, I’m sure I would cry), I haven’t done anything wonderful/spectacular/memorable or noteworthy with my life … blah, blah, blah … can you just feel the emotion and self-pity?
So, ok. Friday I ‘fired’ my surgeon. His front office staff was beyond rude when I called and he was beyond arrogant. Why in the world would a surgeon feel the need to be condescending to a patient (me), and then admit that he hadn’t actually spoken with the radiologist, read the reports, or viewed my films yet? Compassion? He left that in the womb apparently. No thank you. (just in case you are shopping for a surgeon, I suggest you skip anything DAVIS at OLD FARM, but I’m not mentioning any names here.)
Well, I am off for another round of fun … Cross your fingers as I cinch my eyes tightly shut while the tech. searches for a nice, viable vein in which to jam the dull, pencil-thick, railroad spike into my arm … always a party indeed. Gosh, I sure hope there’s lots of alcohol still wet on the site, that always feels special as well.
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Why the large blank space? Because I posted a picture of myself (dressed and wearing a coat of mascara) only to find that the pain was too much across my very tight and wonderously pregnant looking belly and for Heaven’s sake, mascara? really? Threw off the turtleneck, washed my face, jammies are back on and I am once again, lying under a soft pink blanket and awaiting results of the latest torture session…which by the way I am told may not be back until MONDAY!!! Why so long? (she inquires ever so kindly) Apparently it just takes that long … (come on, is that really an answer?) … and the wait continues.