Gorilla's Choice

Well, well, well. Today I started my morning by removing my clothes and letting strangers pull down the back of my underwear, as has become custom. I went to see a "real doctor", as in a bone and joint specialist as opposed to my beloved Chiropractor in the West Village who lets her dogs run all over the office and chew on my sweater. I thought that the benefits of seeing a bone doctor would be that he would be able to perform more advanced diagnostic tests and would proscribe me something for pain beyond 12 Ibuprofen a day.

The doctor's office is on 64th Street and looked expensive from the web page; a deduction I made from the fact that he posted photos of the lush waiting room online. But besides the fact that he treats a lot of athletes, it really wasn't posh and the waiting room was full of mensches* like myself. The doctor was very nice. First he wanted to make sure I didn't have a pinched nerve, so he performed a test that involved hooking me up to probes and shocking me with mild electrical current to make my muscles twitch - less fun than it sounds. As I lay on my stomach he said, "Okay, we're all done with the probes now." I exhaled. "Now I'm going to be inserting some needles into your back. You may feel some pressure."

"Well, that was kind of a good news/bad news now, wasn't it?" I gasped.

I don't have a pinched nerve, but I probably have a herniated disc. I had some x-rays taken. I asked if I needed to turn off my cell phone and blackberry in the X-ray room and the technician said no. We had this joke at my last office that if the Boss was getting an x-ray and you called him on the cell phone at that exact moment, he would probably end up like Bruce Banner, and never know why.

The doctor also wants me to get an MRI. Now, I am very claustrophobic, it doesn't really effect me in everyday life, but it does effect me when you decide to launch me into a toilet paper tube, let me sit there for an hour and surround me with clicking noises. The past two times I've had MRIs, I've really freaked out, including the time I had the open MRI. So anyone who wants to chaperon that little excursion, just raise your hand. Those were the kinds of things that LaHipster was really good at.

Chamber of Terrors

Oh, also I have to go to Physical Therapy. Basically I'm visualizing all of my free time and cash being fed into an endless cycle of PT, chiropractics and diagnostic tests. Happy Holidays!!

Fortunately for me, Alphabets and MuppetLover came over yesterday to help me around the house. I have been very lucky to get kind offers from people. "Do you need any groceries? Do you want me to bring over a movie?" Hell, FreshDirect brings the groceries and Netflix brings the DVDs**, I need someone to empty the trash and change the paper towel roll and PICK UP MY IPOD OFF THE FLOOR which lay there for 5 days. Remember when you were a kid and you would play that game where you would be on the bed and you would pretend that the carpet was a sea of lava and anything that fell on the floor was gone forever? Well, that is my life now. No bending over. Oh, my hairbrush is on the floor? See you in three weeks.

Anywho, I asked Alphabets and MuppetLover to come over and empty by bedpan and shave my legs. This was kind of a test to see if they were really my friends (there is no bedpan). When they agreed to come by, I was like, just kidding, I just need help making my bed! The old bait and switch. Anyway, a big thanks to them - they really knocked shit out. Ladies, you are stars. And for comparison, I was talking to my Dad today. He said, "Well, if you need anything, I'm not really sure what I can do from here, but let me know."

"Actually, Pop, I need some help ironing."

"What?"

"Ironing. My shirts."

"You want me to come to the city and iron for you?"

"Yes," said in pouty baby voice.

"Yeah, no. I don't see that happening. Money? Do you want some money?"

Hmm. If only I could figure out a way to turn money into ironing ... oh, and shaving my legs. Still haven't figured out how to do that in my current incapacitated state. That chore is still up for grabs.


*It kills me to pluralize a German word by adding "es" to it

**And theoretically Joe's brings my laundry

Bionic Cupcake

Tuesday, 1:00pm

Report to lab to submit to drug screen for new job. A snaggle-toothed Brit steps out of the exam room to leer at me in the hallway while I have a more intimate encounter with my urine than first world plumbing usually calls for. I keep waiting for the lab tech to tell the spectator to sott off, but he is too busy giving me and my urine commands, "Fill the cup up to this line," "Bring the cup to me," "Now hop up and down on one foot," "Now pour the rest into the toilet, but don't flush," "Now wash your hands," etc... I spend most of my time pretending I'm not holding a cup of urine in my hand as various Midtown executives shuffle by studiously avoiding eye contact. Snaggle tooth really gets to me, though. He won't stop staring at me with that smug look on his face. I'm certain he's in for an STD screen.

Tuesday 6:30pm

Report to the eye doctor for eye exam. I have great vision care insurance at work, which I am about to lose. The problem is, not very many "doctors" are "in-network". So I went to a new vision care center after work and was examined by a very nice doctor. Maybe too nice. Kinda creepy nice. Like I kept expecting him to rub against me and I would suddenly find myself in an after school special. The verdict was that the glasses I have (and never wear) are good for distance, I need a new prescription for near vision. I went out to the eye glass store side of the office and one of the guys said to me, "We're closing. Do you think you could pick out a pair of glasses in six minutes?" Sure, it's just my face we're talking about guys. Luckily a woman stayed late to help me. Thanks to my super great insurance I was able to get a nice pair of Vera Wang frames for free, that's zero dollars, Hip, and only a $25 copay for the lenses. Then I paid $61 for the ultra super premium no-glare, no-smudge lens coating. On my last pair of glasses, I didn't get any coating, because I thought it was some bullshit extra they were trying to sell me like an extended warranty. As a result, looking through my glasses is like looking through a glass of cloudy tap water, no matter how often I clean them.

Tuesday 9:00pm

I walk from 47th Street and 5th Avenue to 28th Street and 1st Avenue to Bellevue Hospital to check myself in to the NYU Sleep Disorder Clinic for my sleep study. I let people glue electrodes to my head, face and legs, put a band around my chest, and stick a tube up my nose. Then I lay down in a room where I can be monitored by video camera and intercom and try to get a normal night's sleep. But no worries, I've got my pajamas and my teddy bear, so it's just like home, give or take a few electrodes. I survive the experience by pretending I'm in some European hostel with a new spa treatment.

Wednesday 6:20am

I am awoken by a technician and systematically unhooked, unplugged and unstuck. I feel about as rested as I do every morning. I have the option to shower at the lab, but since I hate hospitals, I don't want to spend another minute there longer than I need to. I tell the tech I'm going to take a cab to my friend's apartment and shower there. "Okay," he says. "You look like a crazy person. But you'll be leaving from Bellevue, so nothing too suspicious there. You might want to go to the bathroom and wash the grease pencil off your face." When I look in the mirror in the bathroom I see that the clumpy adhesive used to hold the electrodes in place is stuck in my hair and now I understand what the tech meant when he said, "You look like you've been attacked by pigeons." At 7:00am with my face scrubbed clean, my hair in a pony tail and still wearing my pajamas, I get into a cab. I can't believe I've got three more work days and a trip to the dentist before this week is over.