I Have Never Felt So Alive

Doctor

Special note to self: Never joke in a doctor’s office! 😳

Even the ones who have had a sense of humor artificially implanted, by law are required to take everything and anything that is said, more seriously than a TSA agent.

If I don’t post for a while, it may be because I’ve been involuntarily admitted to a psychiatric ward. Case in point….

I recently went to a doctor’s appointment. I tried to be pleasant, humorous, happy. It went down in flames, and crashed and burned around me. It descended into total chaos faster than an Inspector Clouseau movie.

I recently saw her for my yearly checkup. She ordered some tests to justify the $50/month that the Province pays her, even if I don’t go to see her. She allowed 3 weeks for the tests to be done, and the results returned to her, and scheduled a follow-up visit to discuss them.

The appointment was for 2:15PM. The wife and I go with each other to these things. What one doesn’t hear, or remember, the other one does. THAT’S GONNA CHANGE! We were escorted to the examination room at 2:45, and the doctor finally walked in at 3:00. Only ¾ of an hour late – she’s actually ahead of her usual schedule.

She sat down and said, “What is wrong? What do you need from me? What has brought you here today?”

A strange opening statement, but I took no notice of it at the time. I said, “You ordered clinic tests, and should have the results. You booked this appointment to discuss them, so tell me, am I alive?”
[DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER!]

Of course you are alive! Why would you not be alive?

I said, “Well, I took the tests, but you’re holding the results hostage. I just thought it would be a good idea to know how healthy I am.”

So, now it’s cover-your-ass time. I am not holding the results hostage. I do not have the time to notify each patient individually. If there had been a problem, I would have contacted you.

“That’s what I thought, but I’d like to know the numbers.”

She opened the computer screen to my file, and started going through the results. Blood pressure – good. Blood sugar – good. I have evidence of edema, internal swelling – probably from the progression of arthritis. Good cholesterol levels – acceptable. Bad cholesterol levels – up slightly from last year, but still just below the benchmark. Would I like to start taking a daily dose of Crestor to combat it?

Oh, dear Lord, another pill? I said, “No, I think that I’ll just wait till next year’s checkup. If the numbers are up then, I’ll consider the Crestor, if I’m still here.”

Explosion

Why would you not be here next year? Are you depressed?? Are you considering suicide? Do you have anger management problems?

Gaaaah, what giant can of worms have I opened here?

No, I’m not depressed! I am not considering suicide.

Then why would you not be here next year?

“Perhaps I might move to Newfoundland, or be struck and killed by The Ion (our new street railroad), like that idiot did a couple of weeks ago.”

She glanced over at the wife, who threw her one of those patented Wife Looks©. The wife is on anti-depressants, and believes that everyone else in the known galaxy should also be on them.

Tell me. I am here to listen and help. You can tell me anything.

Well, he just explodes and gets mad over nothing. He screams and yells, and curses and swears.

“If I open the refrigerator to get out milk, and my hand brushes the little plastic container of blueberries, and spills them all over the floor, I might raise my voice a bit, and say “Jesus Christ” or “God damn.” I am startled – embarrassed that I am clumsy and not paying enough attention. I am shocked, and I am irked that I have to stop doing whatever I’m doing, and lower my arthritic ass down to the floor, to pick them all up before they get stepped on.

Well, I sent the puppies out to help you clean them up.

I then have to explain to the doctor that we have two Scottish Terriers who love blueberries, to the point that we just purchased 3 bags of treats, one of which is blueberry-flavored, and disappearing fast. I hope the doctor notices that the wife was so “upset”, that she added pets to the problem. Has my problem gone away?….

“When she was a child, my wife had an abusive older brother. If something like this occurred, he might slap or punch her. She is still worried that this might happen.”

Have I convinced the doctor? I look back at the computer screen, and she has a small sub-program window open. Now I have to answer 8 multiple-choice questions.

In the last 14 days, how many days were you mildly depressed, depressed, or greatly depressed?

“None! I was not depressed.”

How many days did you have bouts of uncontrollable rage, one? Several? All of them?

“None! Partly because of her brother, she has a powerful sense of propriety. Things need to be the way she feels that they need to be. I barely experience anger. If anything, I suffer from low-level frustration, irritation, and resignation, not depression, and I certainly do not suffer from rage. ”

How many days did you think about harming someone else, or yourself, one? Several? All of them?

“None!”

On how many days did you contemplate suicide?

“I have never contemplated suicide!”

Although, if this farce continues, I might consider homicide, or uxoricide. Have you noticed that none of these questions have a zero value? They’re like the old accusation, “Have you stopped beating your wife yet?” They all begin with the assumption of guilt.

At last, they are all answered. The doctor turns off the bright light, and puts away the rubber hose. Finally, she is convinced of my innocence, and all this silliness is over – right??

Every Thursday, as part of my practice, I have a Therapist available here in my office. Her services are covered by my billing. There is no charge to you. The Provincial government pays her. You have to speak to my receptionist to make an appointment. You can have individual therapy, or couples therapy.

Did I mention GAAAHH!!? I’m surprised that neither she nor the wife made an appointment for me, but I managed to escape cleanly. No good deed goes unpunished. I did manage to get a letter which excuses me from jury duty, because I am have a pain in the ass. 😳

Homeward! Bound?

zoes tale

What books I can’t get for free from the Library, I pay half-price for at the book-exchange stall at the St. Jacob’s Farmers’ Market, or reluctantly buy at full retail from the Chapters Bookstore nearby. Also, a few trickle down from the son, Shimoniac.  One of the ways I enticed him to accompany me on the recent Buffalo/Batavia trip, was to guarantee him a visit to both a large bookstore and/or second-hand book exchange.

Everything is relative. Cordelia’s Mom informed me that the large second-hand bookstore I found online in Buffalo, was just outside the University, and dealt with buying and reselling text-books. The Galleria Mall she led us to, listed ‘Bookstores – 3’ online, if you consider Hallmark Cards a bookstore.

A second was a Christian bookstore, more interested in selling Bibles, rosaries and Holy Water pendants than Sci-Fi or Romance. The last was a New Age-y thing with books on Yoga, weight loss, DIY, and Chicken Soup for the Confused Psyche.  We spent a couple of hours people-watching, and then headed to Batavia, where I assured him there was a Barnes and Noble store.

After our Sunday photographic downtown tour, we allowed Ethel, the GPS, to lead us three miles out of town to 1 College Road. This turned out to be the main administration building of the Genesee State College.  The store might have been run by Barnes and Noble, but it was identified simply as ‘Campus Bookstore’, slightly bigger than a Volkswagen van, full of more textbooks, and closed on Sunday.

“Never fear!” I said.  “I know where there’s a giant Barnes and Noble in Buffalo, as big as the huge Chapters we recently visited in Toronto’s Eaton’s Center.”  (Grump, grump, grump muttered the son.  I’ll bet.)

The next day, after checking out, we headed back to Buffalo. Since ‘I knew where I was going,’ the son hadn’t turned Ethel back on.  There was a post with two curved arrows to the right as we approached Niagara Falls Boulevard.  I drove over it, expecting to take the far ramp down, to go south.  There is no far ramp.

The following is for CM, and any others familiar with Buffalo, to tell her how lost I was, and where.  The rest of you can skip it and just read “Lost, lost, lost, blah, blah, blah.”

A mile and a quarter down I-90, to Colvin – north a mile and a quarter till I encountered a main cross-street, Ellicott Creek Rd. – a mile and a quarter back to Niagara Falls Blvd. and there was The Grapevine, our restaurant of two days ago – south a mile and a quarter, till I was back where I should have been. Moses wandered in the wilderness for 40 years.  I only went 5 useless miles out of my way.

I found the Barnes and Noble, and parked in a handicap spot right in front, because my arthritic hip was bothering me – and then hobbled a 100 yards around the corner to where they put the entrance. The son spent a glorious hour and a half, picking up almost as much ink as if he’d got a tattoo, while I lazed in an easy chair in front of their indoor gas campfire.  Finally sated, but without actually purchasing one book, we headed home.

Back up the Boulevard we went, toward I-90. Again, there were two arrows, one curved, and one L-shaped.  I didn’t want to get caught as I had coming in.  The son was desperately trying to find the GPS.  Just as I decided to merge right, the son yelled, “Take the ramp!”  I did – and off we went in the wrong direction – again.  More ‘Lost, lost, blah, blah.’

The last exit back dumped right into the University of Buffalo. After navigating parking lots and ring road, we finally won free to a surface street.  The son said, “We’re on Maple Road.”  Well, Maple Rd. Is where the Red Roof is that we should have stayed at. “I know where we are.  We’re lost, but we’re making good time.”

Continuing onward, the son said, “We must be getting near civilization. There’s a Taco Bell.  At least we won’t starve to death.”  (As if!)  Ethel the GPS had finally recovered her satellites, and her voice, but I beat her to it.  “Turn right on Sheridan Drive.” I know! I followed the turbo-charged soccer-momobile here last year.  This takes us back to CM’s place.

Soon, we’re back to the Boulevard, and heading for I-90. Another wasted 5 miles.  Moses’ ass, and mine, are getting tired.  Finally facing toward Canada, we head home.  Near Grand Island, the highway runs across the top of a dam.  Suddenly, the light goes on.  This is the entrance to the fabled Erie Canal.

I paid a dollar toll to get onto the island, and another to take the bridge over the gorge. I pulled up to the Canadian Customs booth – and that’s when the trouble started.

I misjudged my approach, and when I went to hand out our passports, I couldn’t reach by two feet. The young Border Guard could have stepped out of his booth, but instead insisted, “Get out of the car!”, which I was happy to do, because I needed to ease my right hip again.  Immediately, I was ordered to, “Get back in your car!”  “Okay, as soon as I can move.”

What the son saw, but I didn’t, was the Free Safety behind the adjacent booth suddenly head toward us with his hand on his Glock. Once the car door was closed, things calmed down – a bit.  Now the Inquisition started.

Why’d you go to the States?
To visit some friends, and do a bit of shopping.
How long were you gone?
(He’s got it on the computer screen in front of him.)  Two days.
Where are you from?
Kitchener.
How much are you bringing back?
For both of us, about $75 US, no alcohol, no tobacco.
Then what did you buy?
Some clothes, some food.
Where do your friends live?
In Tonawanda.
Where did you stay?
Out in Batavia.  It was the nearest place that wasn’t full of football fans.
Do you have a receipt?
Why yes officer, right here beside me.
So you two brothers just went over for a visit?
We are not brothers.  We are father and son.
Have you ever had any trouble getting into the States?
No, officer.
Are you known by any other names?
(Other than Stupid, or Asshole??)  No sir.

He looked across the car at the son and asked for a drivers’ licence, for proof of address, which we passed out, and he examined thoroughly. We just sat there, grinning like the rubes we are.  I asked, “Which name set you off?”  “I can’t tell you that.” But it was the son’s licence he asked for.  Like the TSA No-Fly list, it’s probable that someone with the same name is wanted for something.  We may have this problem in any future trips, but now we are warned.

Now he can step out of the booth, to return all the documents.  No “Thank you, have a nice day sir.” Just, “Okay, away you go.”  Surly enough to be an American.  Did Tim Horton’s refuse to serve you?  Well, we’re back in the Land of the Bland and the Home of the Subservient.