At first I thought, "Enh, they don't want the details of my day at the hospital being tested to see if I am now well enough to be in the clinical trial." But then who do I see visiting via a link Andrea posted to Amanda's blog? Many people. And I feel no hesitancy in telling you this: they stayed put in the "In Which We Mock Our Illness" category. I follow my stats closely, and not a single one nipped over for a peek in the "Great Hall of TMI: Must be Over 18 to Visit" category. Not like the day the Riverfront Times people visited. You could read the RFT minds as you read the stats. "Hmm, well, this is -hey! Is she naked? Let's check out THAT page!" and away they'd link. Not so Amanda and her friends from Ballastexistenz.*
*360, Monday night, Finding Amanda on CNN. I'm curious to see it, especially having read her comments about it on her blog.
(Update: Oh, cute. Suddenly The Great Hall of TMI is swamped. I can SEE you!)
So, today I visited the doctor(s) at the Center for Advanced Medicine in the belly of Big Momma Barnes downtown. I had test after test after test: five doctors, four therapists.
Dermatology: my first test of the day to see if I could successfully get naked and be peered at. I passed. I felt quite special in that I got to see the doctor ahead of all the others in the waiting room. Nyah! I felt like a piece of meat, but a well-marbled piece of steak meat.
Pulmonary: a test to see if I could pull air into my lungs consistently while a therapist yelled at me "SUCK SUCK SUCK KEEP SUCKING NOW SUUUUUCCCCKKKK" - I failed. We had to do it again. Mom told me I'd laugh, and she was right.
CT scan: I was feeling more like London broil than steak by this time, but that might have been because I was aware the machine was photographing thin diagonal slices of my abdomen.
Disability test with my former neurologist, Dr. B________: Quite painless. He said he didn't remember who I was. I suggested perhaps this was because I had gained fifty pounds since the last time I saw him. He was quite agreeable but asked me no questions. This means I was not able to respond shortly, "That question is not germane to the conversation we are having," which was the last thing I think Dr. B_________ said to me. I felt like a Grade A hunk of meat, though. He was impressed with my ability to walk, not so pleased by my poor hopping skills.
EKG with the MS study nurse: I laughed when she said, "Now I'm going to take your right arm and reposition it." She had just shoved my left breast up and over into my collarbone to get to my ribcage to plant an electrode there. Did she ask? No. Did she say, "Oh, let me rotate your boob around like a stick-shift?" No. Oh, but my right arm gets all kinds of respect. Piece of Meat Status: Brisket.
Cognitive Test: I can put pegs in holes! Nine of them! And take them out! Faster even with my left hand. I can NOT listen to a series of two numbers, add the most recent and the second most recent, say the answer, hear another number, add that to the most recent, say the answer ... am I making it sound hard? It was. I failed. I am the stupidest cut of meat on the cow. I am the cow hindquarters.
Holter monitor: I'm still hooked up to this thing. Piece of Meat Status: Ground Chuck.
And finally, It appears that I am a spotted cow. A 2cm lesion on my stupid pancreas, for which I need to get another test. Meat Status: I am a discolored sweetbread.
On the up side, I'm not so worried about the MS anymore.