It's a gritty morning. I need to do a dozen things, eleven of them clamoring to have been accomplished yesterday.
For once I'll spare you. I put the Maude quote up top to get that crap out of my system.
So let me tell you about the brief visit with my Hawaiian-shirted, sandal-wearing NeuroMan on Thursday.
By the way, he continues to throw his staff under the bus for having attributed my spasticity to cerebral palsy (though Thursday, he said MS). He further maligned this poor staffer for having ordered him an artichoke and olive pizza when what he craved -- and he is clearly a man of cravings -- was anchovies and onion.
I forgave everyone again, assuring them that there was not even the opportunity for offense being taken, at which I got the usual strange looks.
I had written out a text for him, as it was also, on Thursday morning, a gritty morning and I needed to do a dozen things, eleven of them clamoring to have been accomplished on Wednesday. The epistolary version of my appeal to him for help began:
today's visit has several goals and i'm not leaving without answers.
He let me down, he really did. He made squeaky noises about my need for specialized researchers who have been dubbed by the Queen as acceptable distributors of drugs in off-label uses. He said, this is something that PainManagement Dood should be in charge of... or anyone... anyone ELSE. "But I don't know enough, I don't specialize..."
Alarms, sirens, bright lights made my brain hurt. No one knows, no one specializes, you dimwit hawaiian-shirted, sandal-wearing pseudo-cool guy! Even the moody medico brave enough to infuse me with vast amounts of intravenous ketamine knew that.
He dared start to lift a lip in a sneer at my exposé on neuroinflammation, neuroautoimmunity, and my multimedia presentation of the DVD "Why am I still sick?" which is about biofilm infections. If you claim not to know, if you claim to be ignorant, then don't hint at an upper lip tic when presented with information.
So I hit him squarely in the nose and kicked him where his brass balls were supposed to be a-hanging.
|Brass Big Boy Nuts|
Okay, I either hit him squarely in the nose and kicked him where his brass balls were supposed to be a-hanging or I said, "I need you to step up." It amounted to the same thing.
Turns out he yammers, too. So I told him to step up, several times. It turns out that the thought of my good MDVIP go-to-guy doctor sets off fireworks in my verbiage. He always steps up. He takes the risks. He never yammers, never makes excuses, and the goddamn Queen curtsies to him. And he doesn't get the money the specialists get (InfectiousDisease Dood? Oh my God, I am still getting EOBs that are clearly built on the art of upcoding) -- nowhere near.
That may have been the persuasive part -- not my anger at NeuroMan's neutered attitude, but my admiration for MDVIP go-to-guy, and my desire to protect him.
I left the office with 3-months worth of memantine [a med used for Alzheimer's that is an NMDA receptor blocker], and a prescription for dantrolene, mostly used in MS patients for spasticity. Add that to Tuesday's Mobic, and I strong-armed my way through a fucked-up medical system with some success. I can now predict that October will not be the month in which I succumb to suicide's sexy call. Should there be any improvements, you, Dear Reader, will be the first to know.