Passing the Duck Test

Late last week, I opened a blog post with those impossible to live down words:  "i'm sitting here weeping." 

Those words don't cause me shame, that's not the problem.  The lack of capitalization?  No, that could be readily fixed (I'm told).

Once again, it's the absence of heart, or as some WizKid might recast it all: my hopelessness.

Between you and me, I've been sitting around weeping a lot lately.  Of the twelve things most likely to be happening in our bedroom here in the Easternmost of the East Wings of Marlinspike Hall, me sitting whilst weeping is in the Top Four.

It's disgusting and not inspirational of anything except, perhaps, a triple-dose of nausea medication.

I saw my MDVIP Go-To-Guy on Monday, and left his office very confused, for he assured me that I made sense, thought logically, and was not being overly-demanding in my health care requests.

He intimated, even pretty much said, that my reactions, too, were not over-the-top, and that references to the Book of Job were correct within his understanding of the Biblical literary tradition.  Because I am not the type to interrupt my Physician while He is trying to speak, I thought -- demurely, quietly -- to myself, alone: "Doubtless the edition illustrated by William Blake!"

Lo, let that night be solitary, let no peaceful voice come therein (Job iii: 7).

Let the day perish wherein I was born (Job iii: 3)

So they sat down with him upon the ground seven days and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him: for they saw that his grief was very great (Job ii: 13).

In other words, he did the old "if it quacks like a duck" routine in reference to my suspicions that my left shoulder prosthesis remains, or is once again, infected.

He is a kind man, is my MDVIP Go-To-Guy, an excellent doctor, and I am glad we scrape the underpinnings of the more modern furniture, mostly reproductions, in The Manor's public vending areas and grateful that the miniature families on the domestic staff willingly sift the silty bottom of the moat for spare change.  We split the haul, fifty-fifty, because square is square.

You'd be amazed at the number of people who think that throwing things into the moat is an acceptable romantic substitution for tossing pennies into a well or euros in the Trevi fountain.  Of course, given that we sometimes attract a crowd heavily into the religious life, here more for our next door neighbors, The Cistercians, or equally heavy into heroin, hoping to score an inpatient bed at the posh Haddock Family Enterprises Addiction Center, headquartered in our barn -- we don't always come away rich in cast off coinage.

I didn't want to confuse you with haphazard detail, but most of those who drop by the Haddock homestead are also somehow related to the carnival, and are, in fact, often carnies.  Fred thinks its because we exude some sort of Rabelaisian exuberance, that we are, in short, relentlessly robust.  Fred obviously knows nothing of my time spent weeping and the suggestion that that might be one of the chief occupations of his boudoir would shame him.

Fred likes the more complicated explanations.  Me?  I'm all about Occam's Razor.  We attract addicted Catholic carnies because the Haddock Corporation opened a detox/rehab and decided to headquarter it in our barn, next to its tantalizing rope structures (connecting to the Manor proper via the Computer Turret), which fairly sings to those with gymnastic training, which is most everyone.  Oh, right, and we are smack dab next to Abbot Truffatore's Internet Office Supply Center, cleverly disguised as a rather ancient monastery.

Forgive the sarcasm, Abbot!

Anyway, I put every bit of money that we earn, find, and grow on trees into my MDVIP fund each year.  Even when I did not have the money for health insurance, at least, not at the rate charged by BCBS of Tête de Hergé, a cool $1513 per month -- Even then, I found the odd pile of silver so that I could continue under the care of an excellent physician who knew me well and was absolutely dedicated to keeping me out of the hospital and well, if the fates were so inclined.  Now that I have a PCIP health insurance policy, thanks to President Obama's Affordable Health Care Act For Expats Lost In The Heads Of Dead Belgians, I continue the tradition of remaining remarkably poor and still spending money I cannot spare on a boutique-type doctor.

Studies show that my method is both madness and cost-effective.  My MDVIP Go-To-Guy affords me the knowledge base and the organizational support I need as we go tripping and skipping around to the specialists, trying to keep the various disease conflagrations under control.

Like I said, he's a kind man, and an excellent doctor.  He answers his own phone, is forthright, and from what I hear around the custom coffee centre, plays passable tennis.  Add to that list of positives that his nurse has a superb head for politics and can always find a vein, and you've got overwhelming indicators for a fine medical practice of personalized primary care.

Monday afternoon, he was probably thinking, "Don't make any sudden moves... Smile a lot... Support her in her delusions..."

I felt about that crazy.  It's tiring, being led by the nose from one appointment or test to another, believing against the available evidence that you are following some master plan for a return to health, only to have that psychotic rug pulled out from under you.

It can lead to things like a bedroom dedicated to weeping and not wanton pleasure (or, if you cannot sleep, sex).

He carefully went over my lab work from the week before, and after pointing out the abnormal infection indicators, affirmed that I had, indeed, passed the Duck Test, and that he would call my orthopedic surgeon that very afternoon.

[The peculiar reason for which I was weeping in the boudoir last Thursday morning was an early morning call advising me that there was no need to keep my appointment with the surgeon that afternoon, as the (failed) aspiration of my shoulder had grown no pathogens in the lab.  "Great news," was the message.  "Great news, my chapped ass," was my ladylike response.]

Believe me, I know how strange it is to actually want surgery!  I feel downright odd fantasizing about ripping this bloody prosthesis from its slipping anchor, mwa ha ha!  If there were a home-based, non-surgical way to get rid of the infection, we'd have done it... three years ago.  If you are new to the Shoulder Saga, it is best summed up that way:  an infection of my bilateral shoulder prostheses that we are unable to eradicate or control, which is causing much pain and decline in quality of life.  Also, I am not serving anywhere near as many blistering aces as I oughta be.

The damned microbes refuse to show themselves when so invited by certified laboratory personnel.  They're exceedingly shy or something.

You may have noticed, as I sure had, that today was Wednesday.  There's been no crying or gnashing of teeth, but there has been a lot of pain and existing under cover of soft, worn quilts.  A quieter depression instead of a theatrical meltdown. Lots of pain and fever.  When I saw Go-To-Guy, I was at 100.5, and that's after I had taken a pound of Tylenol.  I have been hitting 101 most every afternoon, and feeling charming through chills and sweats, snarling with hypoglycemia, dry as a bone from dehydration, drifting off into polyuric dreams when the blood sugars climb too high from infection and steroids.

In all of those good times, I kept hearing him promise to speak with Surgeon ShoulderMan.  Bless the ShoulderMan's heart -- the infection persists in spite of his great skills.  He did my replacement on the right, then three years later, did a series of seven surgeries, yanking prostheses, putting in temporary spacers, regifting me with new prostheses, all the while managing my several sidetrips to Respirator Land.  It has been nothing short of a miracle, and my gratitude knows no bounds.  Unfortunately, neither does the infection in my left shoulder.

Monday afternoon, Tuesday, Wednesday.  Wednesday afternoon.

Yay!  MDVIP Go-To-Guy's nurse called this afternoon and I answered the telephone as if it were my greatest friend and not the object of my phobia.  She knew to cut to the chase, so she did: "Doc spoke with ShoulderMan.  His office will be calling you later today to set up surgery."

It made no sense that I was tongue-tied, but I was, and still am.  Of course, it is now 8:30 pm and nary a soul from that office has phoned, but maybe they are flying around the world backward on a rainbow jet stream of surgical gel and are experiencing a different time zone.

Maybe Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten chewed through the landline phone wires again... Hmm.  (Nope, they're okay!)

If the past holds true, scheduling an infected joint "clean out" can be a bear.  They want you to be their last case of the day, so that the surgical suite can be thoroughly disinfected before they operate on anyone else -- but these are kind people and they know that sitting in a waiting room for hours, waiting to be called for major surgery, is stressful, too.  Factor in that it is the holiday season ("We celebrate them all!") and that they have a few gazillion other patients clamoring for action, as well... and it may be Friday before they call with info.

[How's that for pretending to be cool, calm, and collected?]

But there you go, Dear Readers, we are off on another surgical tour of the gunk inside these necrotic bones.  There is, literally, no other option that makes any sense, and even though we've failed in subduing these tiny forces of unrepentant evil thus far, this time we are gonna prevail... or I will come out of the experiment sans shoulders.  At least I know what that is like, now, and am not afraid of living without that thing defined by the area between the arm and the neck.

It's not like my brain is involved, duh.

Thank you so much, MDVIP Go-To-Guy.

No more sitting weeping from frustration.  Maybe I'll give fearlessness a try and give hopelessness a rest.  It could happen.