It's been a weird time. Unable to sleep, not just a case of insomnia, but a complete dereliction of repose. My repose sentinels have slacked off their duties, the lazy bums.
But there is good news!
My go-to-guy doctor gabbed on the phone with Doctor Sex Kitten, my ophthalmologist, and was able to work out an agreement so that I may undergo general anesthesia and eye surgery at an outpatient day surgical center. He gave good guidance to her about dealing with CRPS, pain management, and advised against freaking out over my pre-operative blood results, as my goal in life is to redefine "normal." He's a good man, my go-to-guy. As is his trusty sidekick, Kick Ass Justine.
I don't think he realizes all that Kick Ass Justine does for him. Beyond the details of working as his nurse (she is a most excellent vampire), she serves, quietly as his Gate Keeper. She also puts up with beaucoup nonsense, such as older white gentlemen of the Southeastern USAmerican sort who do not wish her black hands to apply, for example, the leads required to record their heart rhythms. One of these Southern Gentlemen actually slammed a door on her foot after she refused to find a nurse blessed with lower levels of melanin to draw his sludgy putrefied blood.
We enjoy each other. We shut the exam room door and -- somehow this must be the word -- dish. We dish it out. She tells me about the assholes, the women who come in every week with palpitations and the vapors, the man who calls every morning, certain of being near death, and who wanted to sue when psychiatry was mentioned. She tells me about her grandparents, her daughter, who is just starting her own career in nursing, and the struggles of being a single parent in a bad economy. She fervently prays before every blood draw and has the distinction of never having failed in that mission. She advises me on my dysfunctional family issues, as her family is eerily like mine. We talk about New Orleans a lot, why, I do not know. We talk politics and Tea Baggers, and we curse like gilt-tongued sailors full of good grog. Go-to-guy doc often has to tap on the door and ask if it'd be all right with us if he came in for a little visit. Sometimes, we say "no, not yet... we'll get back to you."
She tells the sad tale of her nephew, a young man who was suffering a horrible stroke, turned away at the fine, award-winning facility across the street from their office, then carted around town until finally being dumped at the local charity hospital -- by which time, he was in a coma and remained in a vegetative state until his death years later. She tended him, and led the family fight for justice against the fine, award-winning facility that did not like the color of his skin and his inability to produce his insurance card. Kick Ass Justine has never forgiven me for not suing that same facility after my own disastrous experiences there, and even after all this time, will occasionally curse me out -- in her mildest curse-out mode. "You could at least be comfortable..."
Anyway... she and the doc she looks for have again done good things for me, and I am so grateful for them both.
They filled out the annoying voluminous documentation required to renew my disability certification, patiently reassuring the huge corporation that keeps me in poverty that I remain "permanently and totally disabled." Most physicians charge for this service -- but go-to-guy and his gate-keeper gather all the records and provide detailed documentation, and actually get it back before the deadline. Try to thank them and they respond with weird comments like: "We're just doing our job."
So July will see preoperative clearances and testing, and come August 12 and August 26, Doctor Sex Kitten, my ophthalmologist, will slice and dice with joyous abandon. At last check, Fred and I will be required to return to her office DAILY for a month to make sure that my glaucoma doesn't go rogue during the recovery period.
Which reminds me... a vent about parking fees is long overdue...