Is There A Doctor in the House?

I journeyed down to Ukiah on Tuesday to see that nice Dr. Mulligan at the VA clinic, about a nasty bit of business growing on my left leg. I had made the appointment four weeks ago before I had even consulted my two EMT sons, who then insisted that I not wait the four weeks, but go right down the following day.

Storm's a brewin'...

Well, the VA does not do spontaneity too well, and I could not wait the required three hours to see “someone,” so I bailed out that Monday and returned home. The rash thingie on my left shin/ankle was suspicious in nature, because included in the eruptions was a lifelong birthmark that had recently become drunk and disorderly, as these things are apt to do. It turned a purplish color and kept scabbing up.

Ugliness abounded down there on my leg but I treated the open sores each morning with peroxide, and then layered on a nice coating of cannabis/pedicularis salve. In the afternoons, when it was burning with the itch from hell, I applied cortisone cream. I was actually pleasantly surprised to see that the rash was responding positively to my treatment, as unsightly as the whole mess was.

So I traveled down to Ukiah, after treating my malady myself for twenty-two days, ostensively to have my leg examined. That being said, there was more to my visit than a gnarly rash: I was a man on a mission. After struggling since 2010 with sleep issues, I was ready to take a stand on a mountain-and die there, if necessary.

One definition of insanity is to do the same thing repeatedly, while expecting different results each time. If that is indeed the case, then I must be a raving lunatic by now, because I went through the whole dog and pony show once again, only to come out with the same result: No sleep aids for me. 

This...

I will give the VA credit for its approach this time, as variety is the spice of life, but I don’t think Markie appreciated it.

Markie is the me that emerges upon occasion, when I need to get someone’s attention. In this case it was that nice Jeff, the attendant who took my vitals and asked me a lengthy list of questions about my health on that particular Tuesday. 

For the first time in my 68 years, when my blood pressure was taken (and then retaken), it was off any chart ever attached to my name. That should have sounded the alarm right there. I do believe the first number was 159. I have never recorded a blood pressure figure that was anything but normal, so that fact may help indicate how I was doing that particular morning. Included in my interview with Jeff, was the reminder from me that I have issues processing information delivered to me through my ears. They aren’t worth the cauliflower they’re made of.

After all of the logistics were dealt with and I was poised to finally have a consultation with my own health care provider, I was informed rather breezily by Jeff, that Dr. Mulligan would be contacting me shortly for my telephone conference.

Even my defective ears picked up that little grenade and just like that-snap-it blew up in my face. Before the door had even shut on the departing Jeff, I had sprung up, gathered my backpack, including my computer with the grisly photographs, and jerked that door open again.

I Katrina-ed out into the hallway and prepared to get the flock out of Dodge, when I paused. Dang! Which way gets me outta here? Both directions looked the same and I am more directionally challenged than a two-year old let loose by himself at Disneyland. 

I went left (of course) but got only a step or two before I heard my name called and turned to see Jeff hurrying toward me. He should have donned a rain coat because the storm was about to burst.

“What’s up? Where are you going?”

You mean besides nuts?

“I’m out of here. This is bogus. I’m supposed to talk on the phone? When I can’t process information through my ears? To my primary health care provider? To explain why I drove an hour-and-a-half to talk on the phone? And she’s going to examine my rash through the phone?” There may have been a colorful adjective or two mixed in somewhere, especially in front of the word, phone.

Each question was delivered in a higher octave and by the end, doors were opening on both sides of the hallway. 

Is there a doctor in the house?

Next: Deja vu, all over again...