When I find myself in times of trouble...

The thing is, it ought to boggle the mind, but it doesn't anymore. It made me laugh, that's about the extent of my oh-so-shocked reaction.

If you've been paying attention, you know that The Fredster and I have been loading up Ms. Ruby the CR-V a couple of times a week and heading down to the Infectious Disease Dood's Place, just for kicks. And once there, well, it would be rude to donate blood and run, so we usually stay a polite few-to-six hours.

We're almost family, at this point. We've witnessed firings and hirings, flub-ups and triumphs, all from the comfort of the Infusion Center. We even watched President Obama's inauguration there, a crowd of doctors and nurses, aides and techs, secretaries and delivery folk.

Fred even has an intense and personal relationship with their chairs... I think that he sleeps, these days, better when ensconced therein than at home.

Even if you haven't paid attention, you know that I've been feeling increasingly like crapola since my last hospitalization and requisite surgery to replace one clunky shoulder spacer with another, as signs of infection in the joint/humerus continue. See? Give me the slightest opening and I feel compelled to bitch and moan, loudly, and with great feeling. (It's not my fault. I'm sorry.)

The response chez the ID folks has been to steadily urge me to contact my orthopedic surgeon, which I was loathe to do, since Dr. ShoulderMan's response tends to be a surgical one (crazy, huh?). But I finally did contact him yesterday, through his nurse and clinical assistant -- via email.

The response?

"I just spoke to Dr. [ShoulderMan] and he wants you to contact your infectious disease dr. I am so sorry you aren’t feeling good. Let me know what the Infectious Disease dr. says."

MwaaaHaaaaHaaa!

Bless her bones, she is wonderful, as are the surgeon and the PA. I don't think it is avoidance or "the run around." I think they're right, actually. The orthopods have been working like crazy to stay ahead of the infections and to give me a functional skeleton. It may be something of an overstatement, but not in my present frame of mind -- I think they've saved my life a few times over.

The ID folks, on the other hand, have had the luxury of treating me as if I were an intellectual point of dry debate. Many is the time I've been tempted to call out: "Point of order! Point of order!"

We cannot keep doing surgery after surgery -- the risks are clearly too great.

Anyway... I don't know what I am supposed to do. My "concierge" doc, The Boutiqueur, has to stay somewhat on the sidelines, as he doesn't have privileges at the hospital in question -- most of his work and his colleagues are far across town. He has maintained a close telephone connection with everyone and sees me about once a month. But what can he do for me, in this highly specialized situation?

I guess I will keep taking my meds, showing up at my appointments, gritting my teeth through this pain, sweating through these fevers, hooking up to these vancomycin medicine balls, lusting for sleep.

Because who knows where I am supposed to find relief, or go for help when in trouble?

Mwa!
Ha.
Ha?

Hey, maybe this is one of the twisted ways people end up in the ED/ER, where their presence is, predictably, maligned...

As my stepmother used to say: "There ought to be a law!"