Impaired Reasoning
Once again I must apologize to anyone who is wondering why the number of postings has tapered off. Well, tapered off in the way that lemmings taper off a cliff.
Anyway, lest ye bethinks me a slothful sod (that’s oldy-time talk), or peg me as a shiftless scurvy cur (that’s pirate talk), or a good-for-nothing punk who will never amount to anything (that’s binge-drinking daddy talk), I have a good reason for my lack of production.
I’ve been really freaked out about the shrinking face thing. Five weeks ago I went to a neurologist who had initially diagnosed me with Facioscapulohumoral Dystrophy (FSHD), a progressive but not particularly nasty form of muscular dystrophy. (The neurologist’s name is Dr. Dick, a title which I could never actually bring myself to call him out loud for fear of igniting a convulsive case of the schoolgirl giggles, or worse, exposing myself as a juvenile hack. I mean, at fifty-plus years old, what penis joke hasn’t poor Mr. Dick had to endure?*) To confirm, he scheduled an appointment for me with a neuromuscular specialist at the Cleveland Clinic. Problem is, the Clinic couldn’t get me an appointment for five weeks. So I’ve had the pleasure of spending the last month plus of my life shopping for handicapped-accessible home modifications, cutting-edge ass-wiping devices, and eagerly anticipating all fantastic parking opportunities I would enjoy with my new disabled person parking pass.
Yesterday I had my appointment at the Clinic and, as it turns out, I don’t have FSHD. And as far as my new favorite neuromuscular neurologist could tell, I don’t have anything nearly so alarming. More expensive and invasive testing is needed, but the prognosis at this point is pretty damn good.
Dr Dick’s reponse? “Oopsie! Sorry about fucking up your worldview for the last five weeks. That’ll be $250, please.”
Aptly-named cocksucker.
By the way, I didn’t tell Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. or anyone else about the initial diagnosis as I did not want to cause anyone any distress before it was absolutely certain. Not because of any noble intention, but out of fear that the love pipeline would suddenly be clogged by visions of bed-sore dressings and adult diapers. I tend to think the least of people. That’s just how I roll.
Anyway, yesterday I was prematurely deteriorating sad case, today I’m just a borderline hypochondriac with an oddly-shaped head and a whole shitload of writing to catch up on. Let me tell you, being overwhelmed never felt so good.
* My general doctor, the one who referred me to Dr. Dick, mentioned to me later she had once called his office to make a referral and that his receptionist told her that he was on vacation and that Dr. Seaman was filling in for him. She said that, without thinking, she instinctively asked the receptionist if she was fucking with her. Absolutely true story.
My doctor rules.