Last week the neurologist, who is currently "investigating" me and ordered the MRI, was out of town. No one told me this and I was leaving increasingly testy messages on his scheduler's voicemail. She didn't call me back. Finally I called the internal medicine office, because he'd said: If they don't call back, don't worry. The doctor is great but the office is a nightmare. Call me. Two minutes after that call, the schedule for the neurologist called me back. Why is this all being done Soviet style?
Currently I am self-medicating with alcohol. Yes, I know that's stupid. Tomorrow I shall explain to any doctor who answers or returns my calls that I am sliding into Under the Volcano and I need either medically approved relief or a plan for fixing the problem:
Otherwise I will show up wild-eyed and unshaven at the emergency room demanding some combination of opiates, steroids, acupuncture, inaccupuncture. sodomy, and surgery. I've had it! So, it'll be fixed I'm sure.
Finally I'd like to say that I have only been reading back a screen or so a day of the LJ because after I've done work and blathered my own posts and had 8.9 margaritas and hugged the cat I still can't do that much web browsing without flailing and moaning in pain. Yes, that's self-pity. Yes, it's for real.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: bodies are overrated.