rambling responses (a.k.a. talking to oneself is only a sign of mental illness when observed by three or more psychologists)

Well, the first rheumatology visit is over. I didn’t dissolve into a quivering pool of four week old, room temperature gogurt either. After the round robin of office personnel, I was finally escorted back to a room. Despite the fact that gown donnage was a necessary part of the visit, I still held it together. The broken sink in the room was a bit of a bother – the water being stuck on at a low trickle.

You can be pretty sure you are going to like a doctor when the first thing he says to you after the introductions is, “Welcome to our Chinese water torture room. There are strategically placed cameras throughout, and men with clipboards are watching you to see just how long you can take it before cracking.” I did like him, even if he sent my poor foot into deep freeze.

It was obvious he had actually read my forms before coming into the room (you know, the 100 page autobiography they make you fill out before showing up for your first visit?), as he only referred to it a few times to verify his powers of recollection. He asked the mandated slew of questions, then agreed that the first step was to aspirate some fluid. That’s where the freezing comes in.

They sprayed my foot with some lovely numbing stuff which makes you feel as though a portion of your body has fallen through a wormhole and landed squarely on the apex of Mt. Everest. This is quickly followed by a very deep shot right into the nerve. The aspiration was not so very pleasant, but even less so for being unsuccessful. He couldn’t get any fluid from the standard draw spot and will not attempt to draw it from elsewhere until after “seeing” what is going on in there, which puts an MRI in my future – and more call-making.

I was supposed to go down the hall to get blood drawn, but I couldn’t find the lab. I did find a door marked “laboratories,” but these were of the “this is where we separate the blood, examine the tissue samples, and raise genetically mutated Peruvian mollusks” variety. It was at this moment that I remembered N had tried to call me while I was checking out of the office, so I listened to the message. It seems he got off work an hour early and needed me to pick him up.

Since he was, at the time, still without his cell phone, I couldn’t call him back. I decided to leave and get him. I stopped at the lab near my home after picking him up and sacrificed 8 vials to the centrifugal force gods. I promise I will attempt to call and schedule the MRI and x-rays (ankle and chest – the latter to check for sarcoidosis) tomorrow. He gave me a scrip for some stronger anti-inflammatory drugs in the meanwhile.

For now, the doc tells me he thinks the likelihood this is due to infection is less than 5% which leaves injury or something immunological as the most likely causes. He wanted me back in three weeks, but the next available appointment was not until November 9th. I wonder if I can milk my aching foot excuse for another day and get everyone to take care of me tomorrow. It’s never worked before, but that silver-lining stuff is hard to get out of the system.

And, by the way, I did let J eat a hotdog for breakfast. S even joined him in a celebration of alternative sausages. N did find his cell phone, and my appendages are still falling asleep. I am still trying to convert the children to the belief that commercial toy-dom was invented to rob children of their souls. I’ll let you know if I make any progress.