I'm having a bad day. My body is aging faster than my mind it seems. I don’t feel like I'm getting any smarter, but I feel like I'm getting older and fast!
You see, the problem is I went to the doctor. I'm what the psychiatric profession would call a hypochondriac. I don’t mean to be, but I justify it by telling myself “if they tell me it’s only cancer, it will be good news compared to what I believed I had.”
I think my biggest problem is that I don’t really acknowledge the varying degrees of severity in medical conditions. There are no stages, no better or worse. In my mind, you either have it or you don’t.
A few years ago my older gentleman plutonic friend John had bursitis. I was called by my friend Debbie to go check on him. When I arrived he was crippled, lying half way off the couch, groaning in agony. It was affecting one whole half of his body. And he hadn’t been off the couch in days, so when I tried to help him move, boy did he ever stink. I ended up calling an ambulance because I couldn’t even move him in my car to get him to the hospital. The ambulance arrived and I followed it to the hospital. He was in there for days; nothing helping his agony except for an occasional pain killer that barely made gave him comfort enough to sleep. When he was able to sleep, it was merely an hour or two till the pain woke him. I can’t not even imagine such pain! And this was no pussy, my friend. He was a tough guy. So the doctor tells me that he has bursitis. It will never go away, but his pain will eventually subside and he is to return to the hospital should it become painful again.
“What causes the pain when you have bursitis, so we can avoid it at all costs?” I asked.
“Movement will aggravate it.” Really? Just movement? So, I suppose it’s back to the couch. Forever.
“What else can we do, doctor?”
“Pray.”
Of course I exaggerate. Slightly. Hypochondria, rear thy ugly head!
So yesterday when the Doctor tells me I have bursitis. My mind immediately reverts back to the sight of my friend John in all his agony. I compare that to my slight limp from pain in my hip. I'm going to die.
“Tendonitis as well? In both my knees? You may as well just euthanize me right here on this table!” I thought.
The only laugh I got was when the doctor asked me if I ever played sports. I just assume everyone knows how pathetic I was in high school, just by looking at me. “You didn’t know?” I would ask through my laughter.
I can laugh about it now, it’s healthy. I was never as good as my MVP all county captain of all major sports older sister. I tried, and always failed miserably. As a child, they called me turtle because I couldn’t keep up when the neighborhood children would run up the hill. As a teen, it went from ‘turtle’ to just plain ‘loser’. Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve called them something worse right back, if only I could’ve ever caught my breath.
At least now I'm over it.
So then the lying bitch of a nurse tells me a cortisone shot will ease my pain. “Will it hurt?” I ask.
“Only a little”. She replied in her soulless voice. May she rot in hell.
This part gets a little gross. If you're eating, like my brother was when I told him, you may want to wait to read this. She shoved this needle into my hip. Naturally I was not looking, so I can only assume the needle was roughly the size of a maypole. What started out as a slight ‘ow’ escalated like a siren, growing louder and more piercing, slight subsiding, only to rise again. Tears shot forth from my eyes like the fountains in Vegas. Then it got worse.
Doctor Sadist came in the room and said “wait! Her bursitis sac is rather large, so move it around and make sure to get the cortisone all the way through it.”
Each of them took turns swiveling this needle around like an Atari joystick playing asteroids or pong. “A little to the left, no right, no back to the left, now up, down, you got it!” I pictured them saying while I concentrated on the blue flame displayed on the back of my eyelids. Then for added fun, they said “get up, move around, try to walk on it!”
Hahahahahaha, crafty fucks.
See you again in three months for more Atari. I'll be the one shit faced and reeking of whiskey in the waiting room. Bring it on.
You see, the problem is I went to the doctor. I'm what the psychiatric profession would call a hypochondriac. I don’t mean to be, but I justify it by telling myself “if they tell me it’s only cancer, it will be good news compared to what I believed I had.”
I think my biggest problem is that I don’t really acknowledge the varying degrees of severity in medical conditions. There are no stages, no better or worse. In my mind, you either have it or you don’t.
A few years ago my older gentleman plutonic friend John had bursitis. I was called by my friend Debbie to go check on him. When I arrived he was crippled, lying half way off the couch, groaning in agony. It was affecting one whole half of his body. And he hadn’t been off the couch in days, so when I tried to help him move, boy did he ever stink. I ended up calling an ambulance because I couldn’t even move him in my car to get him to the hospital. The ambulance arrived and I followed it to the hospital. He was in there for days; nothing helping his agony except for an occasional pain killer that barely made gave him comfort enough to sleep. When he was able to sleep, it was merely an hour or two till the pain woke him. I can’t not even imagine such pain! And this was no pussy, my friend. He was a tough guy. So the doctor tells me that he has bursitis. It will never go away, but his pain will eventually subside and he is to return to the hospital should it become painful again.
“What causes the pain when you have bursitis, so we can avoid it at all costs?” I asked.
“Movement will aggravate it.” Really? Just movement? So, I suppose it’s back to the couch. Forever.
“What else can we do, doctor?”
“Pray.”
Of course I exaggerate. Slightly. Hypochondria, rear thy ugly head!
So yesterday when the Doctor tells me I have bursitis. My mind immediately reverts back to the sight of my friend John in all his agony. I compare that to my slight limp from pain in my hip. I'm going to die.
“Tendonitis as well? In both my knees? You may as well just euthanize me right here on this table!” I thought.
The only laugh I got was when the doctor asked me if I ever played sports. I just assume everyone knows how pathetic I was in high school, just by looking at me. “You didn’t know?” I would ask through my laughter.
I can laugh about it now, it’s healthy. I was never as good as my MVP all county captain of all major sports older sister. I tried, and always failed miserably. As a child, they called me turtle because I couldn’t keep up when the neighborhood children would run up the hill. As a teen, it went from ‘turtle’ to just plain ‘loser’. Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve called them something worse right back, if only I could’ve ever caught my breath.
At least now I'm over it.
So then the lying bitch of a nurse tells me a cortisone shot will ease my pain. “Will it hurt?” I ask.
“Only a little”. She replied in her soulless voice. May she rot in hell.
This part gets a little gross. If you're eating, like my brother was when I told him, you may want to wait to read this. She shoved this needle into my hip. Naturally I was not looking, so I can only assume the needle was roughly the size of a maypole. What started out as a slight ‘ow’ escalated like a siren, growing louder and more piercing, slight subsiding, only to rise again. Tears shot forth from my eyes like the fountains in Vegas. Then it got worse.
Doctor Sadist came in the room and said “wait! Her bursitis sac is rather large, so move it around and make sure to get the cortisone all the way through it.”
Each of them took turns swiveling this needle around like an Atari joystick playing asteroids or pong. “A little to the left, no right, no back to the left, now up, down, you got it!” I pictured them saying while I concentrated on the blue flame displayed on the back of my eyelids. Then for added fun, they said “get up, move around, try to walk on it!”
Hahahahahaha, crafty fucks.
See you again in three months for more Atari. I'll be the one shit faced and reeking of whiskey in the waiting room. Bring it on.
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