When I first started writing this blog many moons ago, I did not intend for it to become an outlet for my various medical ailments, conditions and complaints. Well….maybe the complaints part was intended – but you people now know more about my medical conditions than was ever foreseen. That doesn’t HELP my medical conditions of course, but at least you can now know the pain that I suffer with on a daily basis.
Simple fact is – I’m getting older by the day (obviously) and slowly falling apart. From a festering splinter in my finger to the dreaded external resorption eating away my teeth, things on me are crumbling away by the second. Which leads us to my latest adventure. A couple of months ago I self-diagnosed myself with a sore ankle. Brilliant, huh? It wasn’t getting any better so my health advisor (i.e. my wife) set up an appointment with a Grade-A certified health professional. All good so far.
Got to the medical building and the hackles on my neck immediately stood up. My worst fear was realized before I even got in the stupid office. I get in the elevator, look up and see the dreaded words:
For all of you who are not aware of this company – elevator-haters all over the world shudder at the mere mention of this entity. ThyssenKrupp is the maker of the world’s slowest elevators and all medical offices seem to have them. It took me approximately 16 minutes to go up 3 floors. Luckily no one was in the elevator to have to make small talk with for these 16 long minutes. God forbid if someone had a heart attack as the door closed on them going up to the 3rd floor – they’d be goners by the time they got to their destination. Suffice it to say, stairs were in my future for the LONG trip down. More on that in a moment….
Once the elevator trauma was completed, I headed into the doctor’s office. Normal stuff at first, although I will say the first-time-visitor questionnaire was just gratuitous. My ankle hurts – and you need to know every disease my whole family has ever had? Just let me check the ‘Ankle Hurts’ box and get it over with (I’m such a good patient….).
Then the real fun starts. The nurse takes me back and I immediately crack a hilarious joke as she takes my height about how I’m shrinking as I get older. She just looks at me like I’m an idiot (I get that a lot) and says “Oh…we shouldn’t joke about that….”. Wow. This is going to go VERY well. She’s acting like she’s all busier than a centipede at a toe-counting contest and doesn’t even have the time to laugh at my obviously brilliant humor.
Doctor comes in. Seems all nice and stuff and then starts the examination. I have never been poked and prodded so much in all my life. Keep in mind I went in for an ankle injury. He tested every one of my fingers, my hands, my arms, and then moved to my feet and legs. Then the unthinkable happened. This dude grabbed every single one of my toes and bent them left and right. Up and down. EVEN THE PINKIE TOE!!!! Everyone who has played with my toes in the past KNOWS how much I love that. So by this point I’m in extreme pain. And he hasn’t even gotten to the ankle.
He casually, as if an afterthought, asks me where my pain is. I point to the outside of my ankle, and he takes his big, meaty thumb and jams it so far into my ankle that I’m sure it came out the other damn side. I say (and you have to imagine Chandler Bing from Friends saying this….):
OWWWWW?????????? with my face looking like this:
And he couldn’t care less. He bends it, pokes it, prods it, brands it and sands it. Finally, he’s done with his examination – and when he’s explaining to me his diagnosis go ahead and guess what he does? That’s right – POKES IT AND PRODS IT ALL OVER AGAIN TO SHOW ME WHERE IT HURTS! I was in complete and total agony.
So we finish and then my next favorite thing in the world happens. He tries to engage me in completely random small talk. I’m crumpled in a small, cowering ball in the corner crying and he’s asking me what my son is doing this summer. JUST LET ME GO HOME.
Finally, I’m released. I’m certainly not taking the stupid elevator down for 16 minutes, even with Dr. Kevorkian thumb-puncturing my ankle. So I hit the stairs – the so-called FIRE EXIT. I hobble down to the 1st Floor where there are two doors. Slowly I open one to go directly outside (FREEDOM!) – it opens to a completely enclosed smoking area enclosed by a chain link fence. I try the other door to the hallway and it needs a card key to get in. Fine. I hobble back up to the second floor. Card key entry only. Reminder – this is the fire stairway. Hobble back up to the third floor. Success. Hobble to the elevator. Take another 16 minutes of my life to head down. Hobble out to my car. Break down and cry.
So after all my rambling? I have a torn peroneal ligament and will either need surgery or live with it the rest of my life. Or I could – as I am currently doing with my rotting tooth – wait for it to fall off and then do something about it. That’s probably the route I’ll take….
Can you barely wait for my next doctor visit?