Jack Schitt

Hullo, you.

Yesterday was a study in stuffy, feverish suckiness, during which time I accomplished precisely nothing.  I spent a few hours crying, which is not necessarily a sign of unhappiness, but is always a sign of fever winning out over ibuprofen and Tylenol.

I finally crashed at 2 am.
Today began at 3:30 am and I've already achieved -- in comparison to yesterday -- a lot.

Three loads of laundry, pristine microwaves and shiny stove tops in all the remodeled medieval manor kitchens. 

Deep-cleaned coffee pots, groomed cats, black beans soaking in anticipation of a corn salsa and the bills are [mostly] paid.

It is 7:30 am now, and I am ready for bed.

I see the orthopedic surgeon tomorrow, Doctor ShoulderGuy.  In an effort to squeeze me in -- as he is booked solid through February at his practices' central location -- we are driving to PoDunk to see him.
Part of yesterday's crapola-ish-ness came from learning that the new Infectious Disease Dood responded to queries about a letter/report reflecting his findings by saying that his office is switching to electronic records and that they are, therefore, behind in their transcriptions of letters/reports/office notes, and so on.

ShoulderGuy made two requests of me, back in March -- that I somehow get the aspiration of the joints (under fluoroscope) so that we could try growing a few microbes and that I get a new ID consult.  As soon as my insurance kicked in at the beginning of September, I hit the ground running. Errr, rolling.  I met my annual deductible in under 30 days. 

So let's review, shall we?

They weren't able to aspirate jack *.

The Infectious Disease Dood gave me two hours of face time, expressed beaucoup interest in the weirdness of my case, stated that he felt I needed to see Ortho pronto, sooner rather than later (Seriously?  I think I am being punk'd.  "Sooner rather than later" is a phrase thrown my way by every health practitioner, along with a furrowed brow of folksy concern.).  I defended ShoulderGuy and his schedule, donated a few pints of blood to the testing cause, and went home with the assurance that New ID Dood was gonna be in touch with everyone by phone (he'd already rung up a few people while I was there) and by written letter/report.

Boy, oh boy, was ShoulderGuy gonna be pleased with my efforts at procuring a consultation to make our October decision-making summit an easier proposition!  With fresh ID guidance, we were gonna kick this osteomyelitis to the freaking curb!

Sigh.  Foiled again.

The ultimate weirdness is that New Infectious Disease Dood, despite investing a chunk o'time in me and my medical records, despite extremely expensive bloodwork, has submitted no bill.  Fred thinks that secures his status as a saint;  I think it is a sign of unprofessionalism that puts me in the awkward position of having no leverage over the quality of his treatment.  (If you get my drift, and you probably don't.)



* The schitt portion of jack schitt is commonly misunderstood. For helpful reference, Primitiva left the following explanation over at Urban Dictionary, back in May of 2004:

Jack is the only son of Awe Schitt and O. Schitt. Awe Schitt, the fertilizer magnate, married O. Schitt, the owner of Knee-deep Schitt, Inc. Jack Schitt married Noe Schitt and they had 6 children: Holie Schitt, The twins; Deep Schitt and Dip Schitt, Fulla Schitt, Giva Schitt and Bull Schitt. Jack and Noe divorced. Noe later married Mr. Sherlock and because her kids were living with them, she wanted to keep her previous name. She was known as Noe Schitt-Sherlock. Dip Schitt married Loda Schitt and they had Chicken Schitt. Fulla Schitt and Giva Schitt married the Happens brothers in a dual ceremony. The Schitt-Happens children are Dawg, Byrd and Horse. Bull Schitt left home to tour the world. He recently returned with his new bride, Pisa Schitt. Now, when someone say's you don't know Jack Schitt, you can correct them.

- U don't know Jack Schitt
- Yes i do, he's Awe and O. Schitt's son