Saturday, January 23, 2010

No More Dr. Buttfeel

I officially fired Dr. Buttfeel this week. It was a mercy firing. I was having mercy on myself. I replaced him with a female doctor from St. Johns. She listened to my heart. She looked up my nose and in my ears and mouth. She hit my knee. She asked me how I'm feeling and I told her my Dr. Buttfeel saga. That's when she did it.

She prescribed Prednisone. She thinks I have messed up tubes behind my ears that can become unmessed up with steroids. I don't know anything about that but I can hardly wait to get to the gym on Monday. By then with the help of steroids I should be able to throw the "bicep machine" through the wall. This will bring me joy.

But there are problems with Prednisone.

I'm going to eat my arm. I'm not even slightly sleepy. My insides are trying to crawl out through my pores.

In the meantime, of course, Debbie is sleeping like she just took a nearly lethal dose of Tylenol PM. And we are sleeping in the same room for the first night in four nights because she was wrestling with a nasty bout of food poisoning. And though I love her I didn't want to wake up to find myself fraught with vomit. (I hereby trademark that phrase. If you use it you have to send me $20.)

As I said, my new doctor is a woman. She probably hates men. She didn't like my lab numbers. That's because they are all nearly perfect. I think she wanted me to be dying of something so that she can heal me and I'll be forever in her debt. Literal debt. Maybe she'll be satisfied when I owe her for stitching my new arm back on.

Should have stuck with good old Buttfeel.