14 February, 2008


...Though I did write, yesterday, that I would come home with my shield or on it. Today.

In that case, consider my carcass delivered.

Why did I lose the battle? It wasn't to be won. (Which is why -- other than megalomania -- I'm drawing a parallel with the Battle at Thermopylae. That, and I was only too happy to co-opt a turn of phrase from "300" because Frank Miller is a genius nonpareil. Read all his Sin City books and watch the movie based on some of them at least 50 times. I have, and it's made me a better person).

I must apologize here because, to fully discuss the Battle at Lummox Medical I would have to discuss my family, which I am not willing to do. My life is the one up for vivisection...

Sorry... But moving on:

The short of it is that Dr 9 never was going to prescribe me narcs. And, like a worm, he desperately seeks to pass the buck of prescribing them to whoever he can. He acknowledges that I need them, but doesn't have the balls to simply prescribe them himself. Also, like a worm, he both shits and eats out of the same orifices.

So tomorrow the war continues, as I am to see Dr Igor, a psychiatrist who works with the psychologist I saw last week. (About time the psych had a name and so it's, of course, Dr Frankenstein.) However, the appointment has not yet been scheduled, and if it isn't scheduled tomorrow by Dr 9's nurse (a saint) I likely will not see Igor until March.

Which is the long way of saying the appointment will take place in March. (Though the nurse is a saint, she's only one person, and has been left to deal with the hundreds of bodies Dr 9 leaves in his wake, especially since he is now officially on vacation. Good goddam riddance. Hopefully it's monsoon season wherever he's gone...)

...But if I somehow get my appointment with Igor tomorrow, there is an infinitesimal chance that he may prescribe me some sort of painkiller for what he could officially say is depression caused by extreme pain. When that doesn't happen, I will be referred to a guy Dr 9 and Dr Frankenstein know at University Pain Treatment Center. My appointment there will take place in the year 2010, most likely. The center will thoroughly evaluate me and put me on a schedule of narcotics that Dr 9 will then be able to prescribe to me every month.

Why cut out middlemen? Why not play America's Game -- Cover Your Ass -- as close to ad infinitum as one can?

So little gets done in so many facets of work-life, and for the people who have to deal with the product(s) of this work-life, because all people are doing is following the Law of Cover Your Ass.

If we all weren't such pussies there could be a sea-change in how things get done. But no one wants that because no one likes responsibility.

Hell, I personally hate it and want it in any of its forms as badly as I want herpes in any of its forms. Gandhi said "Be the change you want to see in the world." And he was shot when he wasn't Covering His Ass.

Which brings us nicely to why I have to wrap up this post: Someone is doing my taxes for me this year because I spent way more than ten percent of my 2007 income on medical expenses, and so I can deduct them. Plus, I hopefully can deduct a lot more I don't even know I can. My parents are paying someone to go through the papers I need to gather tonight for the appointment I actually will have tomorrow:

The appointment with my CPA.

[Tip: Toradol is much more effective (read: somewhat) given IV than IM.]

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