And The Puppy Ain't A Puppy No More: A 21st Century Adult Fairy Tale Completed

3

I’m having another one of my attacks.

That’s really not even worth mentioning except that this one is different, way different actually, way, way different, different and scary, and very disconcerting too.

But in truth I’m used to different and I’m used to scary. That’s all happened to me so often before that usually I just shrug my shoulders and move on with my day. But sometimes the difference and the fear combine into a series of events where I can’t move forward with a shrug of my shoulders and a sense of:

"OK, this hurts, but it’s my normal."

Nooooo…

When that happens my day stops, my day stops cold.

And so this day stopped.

I had to lie down.

So down on the couch I went. And down not because of pain. No, fortunately the pain had stopped last night. I was down on the couch, immobile, because I couldn’t see. I couldn’t see the computer screen. I couldn’t see the keyboard before me. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t clearly see the TV some fifteen feet away.

And leave the house?

Nooooo…

That’s not possible, not like this. I won’t get behind the wheel of the car when I’m simply off and this was way worse than off.

I couldn’t see.

So down, I went down. I’m safe when I’m down, I’m safe when I’m down on the couch. And I stayed down. I stayed down on the couch for four hours. Down, not quite sleeping, not quite awake. Down, prone, lying flat on the couch with Freud at my feet and a blue and white plaid, cashmere like, polyester comforter pulled up to my chin.

Down on the couch.

Safe.

There I was safe, down on the couch, as the music from the stereo enveloped me, and dulled my consciousness, and I drifted in place.

Down, safe…

… only to awake later to what?

Better?

Worse?

I never know.

Down!

4

And there’s this new pressure in my head.

It’s a heavy pressure behind my eyes. It doesn’t hurt per se. No, it’s not pain. It’s not even discomfort exactly. It’s simply pressure. And pressure behind my eyes ain’t my usual. Discomfort in my head, behind my eyes, anywhere in my head…

Yesssss…

I’m used to that discomfort.

And I’m used to PAIN when it hits.

Yesssss…

I know pain too.

And well.

Yesssss…

Pain I know well, only too well that, only too well. But this isn’t pain or even discomfort. This is pressure, and distortion.

Pressure.

Distortion.

And this is stuff is different, new, and off putting; scary, different, and new.

So down, I went down.

When a confluence of events happens like this, the different, the new, and the scary converge, I have to take action. I have to be proactive. I have to be wary, careful, and smart.

There’s only me to care for me.

And there’s only me to care for Freud.

And when down, we’re safe Freud and I. I’m safe when I’m down and so down I stayed. But first I called the hospital. First I scheduled an appointment for an early MRI. Until that MRI is done, until they complete that scan of my brain, no one can do anything anyway.

The Doctors can’t just rub my head and go:

"Abra Cadabra.

Open Sesame"…

… and see what’s going on.

Nooooo…

I have to be MRI scanned for the doctor to see inside my cranium, and to be scanned I need an appointment. So I made an appointment and a week from today I will be scanned. Now I need to make an appointment to have the results read by the doctor.

Such formality, such an ordeal to be sick.

Such drama!

Sucks.

5

It’s hard to deal with this amorphous stuff, these new symptoms, these new ills, way hard, but I know this is real, my attacks always are.

Oh.

I know there’s an emotional quotient at play here. I’m sure of that. I wouldn’t be me if emotion didn’t enter in and muddy the water of my everyday life and physical condition. Leopards don’t change their spots nor tigers their stripes I suppose. I’m emotional, way emotional, I’ve always been like that.

I know that.

And…

Well…

That emotional quotient of mine, that quotient is in play big time today. It’s in big, big, big time play. I know that too. Damn do I know that.

It’s three years today.

Three fucking years.

But no matter any of that emotional stuff, or memories in general. This physical attack is real, very real, the emotional detritus around it doesn’t help, but you can’t suffer the illness and brain surgery, brain injury cure that I suffered, and not experience these kind of attacks, this kind of pain, this kind of distress. No, the illness, the surgery, the surgical healing, and the physical damage aftermath of the surgery, the injury itself, have made me a cripple and disabled me for the rest of my life.

No "ifs" and no "buts", I’m a disabled invalid today because of it all.

Seventeen weeks after I left the hospital I was sent to the Social Security Administration’s Disability Disapproval Doctor. Said Doyen of Disability Approval Yea or Nay was supposed to disapprove my claim for long-term disability benefits as he would disapprove 90 percent of all initial claims placed before him.

But not my claim.

Nooooo…

Not my claim, my claim was approved immediately. I wish it had been otherwise. I wish my claim had been bogus.

Damn.

But I wish my claim had been bogus.

If only…

6

Mitch almost slugged that Doyen of Disability Approval at that appointment; I had to hold Mitch back by his shirt collar just then.

Mitch was furious, simply furious with the Doyen:

furious!

This Arbiter from the State, this "arbiter" in a white coat, this arbiter was calling me a liar to my face; and Mitch didn’t like that.

This pompous, arrogant, little man in a white coat with power over my future was standing in front of me telling me that I didn’t need a cane for stability, that I didn’t need an attendant, that I didn’t need the support of the State to continue on with my life.

Nooooo…

This "arbiter" said I was "lying".

He outright said I was:

lying.

And Mitch lunged towards him then.

And my arm shot out fast and I grabbed Mitch’s shirt collar. I grabbed Mitch’s collar and made like I was holding on to his shoulder for support. I made that "lying" moment go away then.

I just looked straight ahead at the doctor said softly:

"No.

I’m not lying.

I can’t see clearly ever, I can’t stand without wobbling, I can’t walk any distance, and I have no strength.

I have all this pain, constantly.

Say what you will.

But I’m not lying."

Four weeks later that "arbiter", that "Doyen of Disability", approved my claim.

Sad that.

The experience I was subjected too, and the result.

Way sad.

Sad.

7

I cut my toenails this morning.

Nothing unusual in that I guess. It’s just that back when I first got out of the hospital, back when I first got home, back when Mitch had to take me everywhere, back when Mitch had to take me to see the "arbiter", way back then…

… Mitch had to cut my toenails.

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t bend back then. I would have fallen forward over onto my head. I couldn’t control my fingers back then either. I would make myself bleed. Today I’m better. Five years later I can cut my own toenails.

I can do a lot of things now.

I can even change a light bulb. I couldn’t do that back then either. Back then Mitch had to do all of that stuff for me. And Mitch did. Mitch did it all for me. Mitch would cut my toenails, change the light bulbs, have sex with me, Mitch would do:

"everything".

Talk about need, talk about intimacy, talk about desire, talk about want.

Yeah.

Talk about want.

Want.

WANT.

But I digress.

Three years ago today Mitch died.

Three years and two days ago Mitch fell off a two-story ladder extended to its full height and tumbled down to the cement driveway below. Mitch’s handsome head smashed into the cement and cracked wide open. Mitch fell immediately into a coma and without ever regaining consciousness died two days later.

Mitch’s death happened three years ago today.

And I cut my toenails this morning.

Damn.

Three years ago today…

Damn.

8

Three years ago today Mitch died.

Three years.

I’ve been having intermittent emotional bouts of discomfort for months now, months. But the operative word has been "intermittent". Before, during that first year, and well into the second, those bouts weren’t bouts. They were my daily existence. I was a mess all of the time, just a mess.

As the second year wore on I staunched the bleeding. The tourniquet had taken, and the flow of blood was down to a slow seep from a faucets pour. I was still in emotional pain over my loss, I was still lost. I still didn’t "get" it, and I certainly wasn’t "whole", but I had staunched the bleeding.

And I wasn’t drowning in it anymore.

I was ready to start moving forward and so I did. I did as much movement, and went as far forward as I could. And as year two drifted forward towards conclusion I was sort of balanced, and sort of making my way ahead.

But there were these rumbles sometimes far off in the background, soft noises really at first. And the rumblings got louder and louder still as these various anniversary dates approached. It was as if a thunderstorm was approaching from way out in the distance and I didn’t see the darkening clouds or react to those first warning rumbles.

And there I was only to be caught in the full force of the storm when it hit.

Me to be drenched.

Again.

And drenched I am today. "Drenched" as I knew I’d be. And that’s OK, as I wouldn’t want it to be any other way. I have similar feelings on the day my mother died. And I don’t try to escape from those feelings either. Mom’s death is almost 20 years old and still I get emotional just before and until right after.

It happens around the anniversary of Ziggy’s death too.

Well that can’t be avoided I suppose what with Ziggy’s dying barely seven weeks after Mitch. Ziggy my Little Man gone. Ziggy my first Frenchie, Ziggy the love of my life, Ziggy, Freud’s predecessor.

Ziggy Dead.

Drenched.

OK.

So I’m drenched, big deal.

Feh!

It’s no big deal at all as wet doesn’t stop me dead in my tracks any more.

I located Freud one week after Ziggy died and I had Freud here by my side in Miami four days after that. And even though Mom died some 20 years ago on the Sunday after Thanksgiving I schedule company for each and every Thanksgiving weekend so that I won’t be alone.

I know what to do. I know how to be proactive. I know how to obviate some of the emotional pains that life, and memory, throw at you.

But Mitch?

Three years ago today.

Dead.

Mitch.

Three years…

That I can’t "obviate".

Not for a second.

Not for a heartbeat.

9

This attack is two months old.

At least I think it’s two months old. It might be three months old. Yeah, it probably is three months. I always start to diagnose and treat myself with some at home remedy before I call the doctor for his treatment options. I’d treated myself for a long time here at home before I called in Mr. White Coat last week.

So it is three months.

Three months…

I thought it was a sinus infection at first. I had a runny nose, congestion, an occasional sneezing attack, head pain in the upper cheeks just below the eyes. I had all of the common symptoms Advil Sinus, or Sudafed, or EXTREME SINUS PAIN FORMULA Allerest are designed to combat. So I bought them all.

And I already had on hand, and use, daily, a prescription steroid nasal spray. And an in-home prescription antihistamine, and an in-home antibiotic; so for those first three weeks of being ill I treated myself.

And it got worse.

So I finally called the Doctor’s office. And my regular doctor, my Internist who is also my Endocrinologist and has been treating me since my second week in the hospital five years ago, agreed with me.

"Yes…

It sounds like a sinus infection."

So a different more powerful antibiotic was prescribed with the stipulation that if the condition didn’t yield I must go to an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist, an ENT, for a consultation and perhaps a frontal sinus scan, a frontal brain scan.

OK.

I’ll have to go for a scan.

Except.

Except.

Except.

This is way similar to how my last health crisis evolved.

Back then the Doctors all said that this was a sinus attack, a sinus infection, too. My Internist back then said it was a sinus attack. The ENT brought in to consult said it was a sinus attack. And for six months they treated me with stronger and stronger antibiotics designated to cure an acute sinus attack.

Only it wasn’t an acute sinus attack back then. It was a brain tumor, a huge, but non-malignant brain tumor. Six months of antibiotics and probes up my nose and finally a CT scan, a CT scan that showed a brain tumor, a huge, huge, huge brain tumor.

And…

Here we go again?

10

This is all so similar, but so, so different too.

So I didn’t get hysterical, not even close. I had knowledge this time, "knowledge" and "knowledge" is power, as is past experience too. This time I had past experience to go with that previously acquired knowledge.

Sooooo…

I had both knowledge and experience at hand, and what a duo they were for me, what personal empowerment they gave me. So I didn’t get hysterical, I just moved forward proactively from place to place.

My condition was not exactly the same as before.

Yes, I did have headaches, bad headaches at that. But before, "last time", those bad headaches were in the back of my head and they were constant, never ending, and never yielding, headaches. These new headaches were different, they came and went. And these headaches were in the front of my head. And these headaches matched the commercial definitions and picture-perfect descriptions of all of the ads for sinus relief products broadcast on the TV and printed in magazines. I could write most of that ad copy myself of late as it’s so exact to my condition, the pressure around my eyes, the pain under my eyes, the fullness in my nose, the "pressure" everywhere, the congestion, all of these things said:

SINUS.

So I didn’t get hysterical, I just tried to deal.

And then the body aches started.

With all the nose shit going on described above, body aches and body weakness started and then a general flu like malaise abounded. And I was so, so, sick. But unlike before my home stash of prescribed antibiotics did help some. I wasn’t cured.

"Cured?"

…

Nooooo…

Not even close.

But it all did help a bit.

Then the Doctor, my Endocrinologist, specifically prescribed a strong sinus antibiotic that I took next, and that helped even more. I wasn’t perfect yet, still, not even "close", not by any gauge or means. But I was better.

Better.

I was better.

There was no question about it. This time, with medication, I was better. I didn’t react a lick to any medication five/six years ago; not to anything "OTC" (over the counter), and not to anything prescribed by either Doctor. But with all of this stuff this time, I was:

"better".

I was a lot better.

I just wasn’t well.

Before the Doctor’s stronger antibiotic took effect I had to use the steroid nasal spray four, or six, times a day to keep the nose, sinus, and head pain in general at bay. The pain on the right side of my head, around my right eye, was awful, just awful. That pain was constant and searing. It felt as if a needle was being pushed up my nose, up my right nostril and right up into my right eye. It was agonizing, simply agonizing much of the time.

I yelped out in pain, and often when it was bad.

I was only supposed to use that steroid nasal spray twice a day, once in each nostril, and here I was using it four, or six, times a day as the pain built and built and I yelped, and yelped, and yelped. But that spray used those four, or six, times during the day eased the pain somewhat.

And I had to stop the pain.

… (Just no more pain.

No more pain.

Please.) …

And I can tolerate a lot of pain. And I do tolerate a lot of pain and daily. And I won’t use narcotics for pain relief, actually I avoid them. I only use OTC medications like ibuprofen, aspirin, a steroid nasal spray, or an antihistamine.

That’s it.

In the Hospital they gave me Oxycodone every four hours for pain, and just before my release Percocet or Codeine, but since I’ve been home, for five years now it’s solely been aspirin, ibuprofen, and a steroid nasal spray.

Before the Doctor’s stronger antibiotic the lot of those OTC things mostly kept the pain at bay. But I got no better. With the Doctor’s stronger antibiotic more of the pain went away. And I needed less aspirin, less ibuprofen, less of the steroid nasal spray. I wasn’t reaching for the OTC meds on a definite every four hours regime any longer. The OTC pills were every eight or twelve hours apart now, and the spray was twice a day, and sometimes down to once.

I was better.

Medication wasn’t helpful at all some five or six years ago with my first purported sinus attack. Medication wasn’t helpful then on any level, not for a second, not for a heartbeat. Medication didn’t give me an iota of relief five/six years ago with that first:

SINUS attack.

But this time I have some relief.

So perhaps this is a:

sinus attack.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

Maybe I have a:

sinus attack.

But it won’t leave.

And the last time it almost did me in.

11

More time passed and the condition just sort of lingered, it wouldn’t abate.

All of the ancillary symptoms lingered on and on. I wasn’t 100% miserable all of the time any longer but I was always unconformable. No matter what I did, the pressure always seemed be there. It was always worse in the morning when I first got up from bed. Then the pressure was extra bad. On top of my nose being full, my breathing heavy, and my sinuses clogged to the point of being painful, behind all of that, behind my eyes, there was pressure. There was no real pain anymore, but there was all of that discomfort, and there was always intense pressure in the front of my head.

I was off the Internist prescribed stronger antibiotic 2 ½ weeks and still the situation lingered. So as the second week ran in towards the third and still the pressure and the discomfort stayed, I called the Internist/Endocrinologist’s recommended ENT and made an appointment.

And so I went to the ENT, and the ENT did his thing; and his "thing" sucked!

It just sucked.

I never should have said:

Hello…

… to him.

Upon sitting down in the exam room chair my nose was numbed with a powerful local anesthetic and a scope was inserted separately into each nostril.

… (I’m sure that Doctor Nasal Barbarian was looking for oil. Certainly he was looking for some valuable mineral because he went in, and in, and he stayed "in".

Looking.) …

Dr. Nasal Barbarian kept that scope up my nose until I waved him out of my nose with my rhythmic reflex death twitches. You know the twitches a chicken makes after they’ve cut off its head?

Those twitches.

I was violently shaking in place.

Dr. Nasal Barbarian, AKA (also known as), Doc Gruesome, medical guru, expert practitioner extraordinaire of the nasal medical arts that he was, had hit a series of interior nerves in my sinuses with his scope probe. And suddenly I was both gasping for air and trying to throw up at the exact same moment.

My arms were flapping speedily at my sides (call me Flipper the seal), as I tried to stay seated on the exam room throne. My legs were jumping up and down as my thighs were twitching with an athletic velocity I hadn’t experienced since the last time I had sex with Mitch.

The silent, standing by, nurse was trying to keep my torso stable with her hands. And she kept me, all the while shaking steadily, but she kept me upright on the chair. Dr. Gruesome (Gruesome is his first name), slowly, but finally, bowed to the reality of all my in chair movement and slowly removed the scope.

As I settled down in place, and my breathing returned to normal, some five minutes later, Dr. G. motioned to begin anew.

And I said:

We’re not doing that again.

Dr. G., intuitive medical genius that he was, said then:

Excuse me?

And I said, loudly this time:

WE’RE NOT DOING THAT AGAIN!

Silence reigned for a bit.

Then the nurse coughed loudly and Doctor Gruesome handed the her the nasal scope to be taken away and spoke thusly:

"I see some irritation, some redness.

But there’s nothing unusual.

There are no visible polyps, no lesions, no odd-looking growths, the interior landscape is normal, there’s no pus, no mucus.

All is clear.

But I couldn’t get all the way up.

So we’re going to have to send you for a CT scan of the front sinuses."

At which point I interrupted him and said:

"No.

I’ll do a full MRI of the brain with contrast, my condition demands that soon.

I’ll do that instead."

(I was due for my yearly MRI in two months and if I had to do this frontal scan shit I’d rather do the whole brain at once and be done with it once and for all then do this in two stages and have to worry twice.)

And Doctor Gruesome Barbarian said:

"That is not my scan of preference as it doesn’t show the front sinuses well, but given your history I understand your approach so we’ll start with that.

Have that full brain MRI done and bring the entire file to our office after you see your Neurologist if your condition does not ease and you need further attention.

If we need more after that we’ll send you for a CT scan then".

Dismissed.

12

Released from Dr. G. B’s horrific clutches, the next day I pondered my naval.

I couldn’t think of what I wanted to do.

Since there was nothing obviously wrong with my sinuses, there was nothing obviously to treat, and since I have been through these attacks before, countless, countless times before, what, just what, did I want to put myself through right now? My regular treatment path called for my yearly MRI to be some ten weeks away. Only ten weeks away at that, ten short weeks, so what extra upheaval did I want to create for myself"

Was my condition really any different than it was two months ago when I last saw the newly anointed Sympathetic Neurologist who had agreed to work with me on maintaining my condition without actively treating me.

I know that sounds odd:

A ‘Sympathetic Neurologist’ who had agreed to work with me on maintaining my condition without actively treating me…

Odd that, no?

ODD.

But treatment for me is dangerous, and very dangerous at that.

Very!

The Neurosurgeon who treated me originally didn’t have to operate on me like he did.

SHIT.

He should not have operated period.

And the current Neurosurgeon that I used to see often just after I left that Nazi Bastard of an operating Neurosurgeon who completely fucked me up and ruined my life, this current neurosurgeon that I now see only twice a year…

Well…

That current Neurosurgeon…

… he wants to operate on my brain again to put in a shunt to drain excess brain fluid from my brain. My current Neurosurgeon feels that this excess brain fluid might be making me excessively dizzy.

Because of my surgery, now and forever more called my "brain injury", (as brain surgery injures the brain), my brain ventricles produce excess brain fluid to protect the surgically injured brain areas. This excess brain fluid doesn’t always drain properly which leads to cranial swelling and that swelling leads to mucho, intense pain, and increased dizziness. And to relieve that pain and dizziness the current Neurosurgeon wants to put in this drain, this "shunt".

Sounds like a plan.

Nooooo?

Except first we’ll put me onto the Brain Intensive Care ward of the University Hospital somewhat sedated, and put a needle into the base of my spine with a spigot attached. Then we’ll open that spigot every four hours or so over a three-day period and see if it aids in curtailing the pain and ever-present dizziness I’m subjected to.

Really?

Really?

Nooooo…

I don’t think we’re going to do that.

NOOOOO…

I don’t think that’s going to be the plan.

No.

Nope.

NOPE!

13

But I really like my current Neurosurgeon, I’ve always liked my current Neurosurgeon.

In fact my current Neurosurgeon was supposed to be my Neurosurgeon always. It just didn’t play out that way. And it’s a real long and complicated story that I’ve told already, and I could go into it, but I don’t think now’s the time (it’s all out there if someone wants to know about it), so let’s just leave this with he’s my current Neurosurgeon and he wants to perform some surgery.

That sort of fits as a short version.

That’s what they, Surgeons, "do" all the time, they operate, they perform surgery. And Chemotherapists treat you with chemicals, and Radiologists radiate you, and ENT’s go up your nose with a fucking scope. That’s what they do, these different doctors, they treat you under the dictums of their specialty. It’s why you went to them after all.

And their treatment path may be right, and their treatment path may be wrong.

And you the patient have to choose.

If you go back to these people a second, or more, time, they have to TREAT you. They simply have to. If they don’t treat you they won’t get paid, not by you, and not by your insurance company. It’s treatment by the numbers today. You know, treatment by a coded medical billing sheet. And if you don’t let them treat you, and they can’t fill in the spots on that coded medical billing sheet, they can’t get paid.

So they must treat you. And most times we, that patient, want to be treated by them. That’s why we’re there, in their offices, we’re asking for their help, their treatment.

Except for me that is.

ME.

I’m not sure I want to be treated, as for me…

"for me"…

… treatment sucks.

It just sucks.

My first neurosurgeon’s surgical treatment was totally off base and gratuitous. I didn’t know that then. I only found that gratuitous part out later, much later unfortunately, long after the damage was done. My tumors (there were/are two of them), these two tumors were too large and too centrally located to be removed. So they’re still there those two tumors, they’re still entrenched in my brain today.

Enough of the biggest tumor was cut out to determine that the tumors were benign, and good that, very good. But enough other working brain material was also cut out to make me a cripple, to forever make me a shadow of who I once was.

And I was never told that would occur. Not once was I told that. The side effects to brain surgery were never mentioned to me, none were discussed prior to surgery.

NONE.

Certainly, crippling side effects were never mentioned.

Not once.

Not never.

From the beginning of my hospital incarceration I wanted radiation, not surgery. I always wanted radiation first to try to kill the tumors. I fought for radiation for weeks, and weeks, and weeks when I was first hospitalized.

And the doctors, the first neurosurgeon, the NAZI Neurosurgeon, and his partner in crime, the Compliant Radiologist, said:

The tumors are very large and radiation might not work.

And for weeks, and weeks, they delayed, and delayed, radiation treatment and finally some surgery had to be performed or my head would‘ve split open from the growing mass of the tumor pressing on the inside of my skull.

KABOOM!

And so they did some surgery, and so today I’m a cripple, permanently disabled.

And now for the punch line.

Some 13 weeks after surgery, some four months after I first requested it, "radiation" was performed. Three fucking hours’ worth of radiation had to be shot into my brain by the Compliant Radiologist to kill those two tumors. Three hours of life saving radiation shot into my head, "radiation" to kill the tumors that couldn’t be removed because of their size and location. Three hours of non-invasive radiation to save my life after nine hours of surgery had been performed to make me a cripple.

Good to let a Doctor treat you.

Good.

…

Good!

14

My Current Neurosurgeon refuses to treat me any longer as I won’t let him operate; I won’t consider a shunt operation.

A shunt operation is considered to be:

minor brain surgery.

… (If ever I’ve heard an oxymoron that’s it.) …

The shunt itself is a permanent drain that draws excess brain fluid (fluid produced naturally by all brains), down into the spine where it is called:

spinal fluid.

Injured brains produce excess brain fluid to protect themselves against further injury. That excess fluid can cause head swelling, great pain, dizziness, and instability. I suffer badly from all four. Doctoro Neurosurgeon Deuce wanted to put the shunt in so as to alleviate all.

Maybe.

Dr. Deuce wasn’t sure the shunt procedure would work for me at all.

And oh, I forgot this part entirely. In actual practice, two out of three shunt operations are redos, the shunts fail, and they have to be replaced.

Well…

Knowing that 66% materials failure rate, and that the procedure itself might be worthless to me, I said:

NO!

Immediately.

Nooooo…

I won’t let him operate on me.

Sooooo…

Since I won’t let him operate on me he won’t read my MRIs any longer. And he won’t answer my questions regarding my pain, or my questions regarding the peaks and valleys, the various daily, and weekly, changes of functionality I go through as I progress through this recovery.

My current Neurosurgeon will no longer return my phone calls, nor will he answer my emails. Nor will my current Neurosurgeon refer me to a Neurologist who might be able to do some of these things with me. And it’s only a Neurologist that I’ll go to now.

No more Neurosurgeons, ever.

None!

Neurologists repair the damage Neurosurgeons create most of the time anyway. So a Neurologist, I’ll just go to a competent, sympathetic Neurologist for additional care and treatment. Except the first Sympathetic Neurologist I saw said:

"I understand your condition, truly I do, but there’s nothing I can do for you.

Nothing.

There are no treatments for your condition.

There are no pills.

There are no therapies.

I can do nothing.

Nothing.

So make an appointment to come back to see me in six months, we’ll talk again then and see how you’re doing."

Duh.

NO!

That didn’t fly with me then, that never got off the ground. You can’t do anything for me and I should:

… make an appointment and come back in six months?

DUH!

I don’t think so.

So a second, more proactive, Sympathetic Neurologist was found and an appointment was made, and the second Sympathetic Neurologist believed in de-accelerant drugs; drugs that slow the processing of information in the brain down so that the brain has time to absorb "all" before it dissipates it into the minds ether.

Well…

That drug made me an almost zombie who could barely sit upright in a chair as spittle dripped out of my mouth slowly towards my chin and shirt below. That drug was stopped, and quickly. And that almost Zombie creating second Sympathetic Neurologist won’t see me ever again because unless his University Hospital clinic is monitoring a drug trail they aren’t accepting new patients for treatment, and since a drug didn’t work…

Oh.

And then there’s this…

I complained to his University Hospital overseers (like the President of the University), of the elongated wait to see this important Dr. God (some four hours I sat, almost fainting, in his packed waiting room). So Dr. God is pissed with me, and BIG TIME. He won’t willingly see me for treatment ever again.

(Asshole portentous doctor, and I don’t think he was very good, overrated piece of shit that he was. But regardless of his worth, there ain’t gonna be no more care there.

Ain’t no way.)

So onward to another University Hospital Neurologist I went, only this one was a seizure specialist and this one was a believer in "accelerant" drugs, drugs that sped up the transfer of information in the brain so that the brain got it "all", all of it, every morsel, and right away.

Fast.

NOW!

INSTANTANEOUSFUCKINGMUNDO.

… (Brooklynese for quickly.) …

Well…

That drug made me vibrate. That drug sped everything I saw, or experienced, up so fast that as I put one foot in front of the other my brain thought I had already done that and…

Well…

Down, I would fall down.

On one dose, flat onto the floor went I every time I changed position in a room and had to walk. And more than once too. Falling is bad, falling hurts, so I stopped that drug, and mucho quicko.

Immediately.

That third Sympathetic Neurologist was a believer in:

New Medicine, New Science …

… and the accelerant drug he had given me that didn’t work well for me was experimental. Doc #3 didn’t believe in "Old Medicine" like Doc # 2. And today this third Sympathetic Neurologist from the University Hospital Neurology Department won’t speak, email or otherwise treat me because I said:

NO…

… to the next experimental drug he wanted me to take.

I didn’t even know what the drug was supposed to do to help my condition, the underlying purpose of the drug, when I said no to taking it. I said no right after I saw the side effects listed on the drug’s available Internet protocol before I filled the prescription.

Itching, diarrhea, hot flashes and skin rash…

… were bad enough, somewhat disconcerting perhaps and not a deal breaker, but I drew the line at:

May cause bladder, and/or kidney Cancer and in some rare instances fatal heart attacks have been reported

Uh.

Nooooo…

I drew the line at that. I drew a line in the sand that I would not cross. What am I anyway, a lab rat in a cage, a test dummy, a live human experiment, a medical practice game? A scapegoat to see if this shit works on real live people?

Real live people…

… as in me?

So I won’t take his drugs, and if I won’t take his drugs he won’t treat me.

He won’t treat me.

15

My Endocrinologist who is also my general Internist knew of my plight.

He had been listening to my complaints as I went through all of the above right along and laughing quietly sometimes at my actions against the system. He’s the only Doctor I’ve been to regularly over these past five years, the only doctor.

But he can’t admit me to the University Hospital as he doesn’t practice Internal Medicine within the University Hospital crib. He’s Board Certified to do so, but he doesn’t practice it, only endocrinology is his daily grind, just endocrinology. But for me he does both dictums of treatment . As my Internist he saw me quarterly and he listened and listened to me, and this one day he proffered a name of a Sympathetic Neurologist and suggested that I call.

It took me three or four months to get an appointment to see this neurologist doctor dude and that was a saga of and by itself, but that story’s been told before, so