06 February 2008

Recently Diseased

So, I've made the tough decision... I've decided to go to the doctor. But there's a reason this had to be a decision and not just something I did.

You see, I've been in pain ever since my appendectomy. This is normal... at least, pain is normal for the first few days or so. But I didn't experience any pain from the wounds. Minor irritation from the wound that became infected and didn't close for a month and a half, but no real pain.

No, I've been having a persistent pain in areas that have nothing to do with the surgical area.

It's annoying, too, because it's a distraction. Also, it hurts. Picture this...

You're walking down the sidewalk. You see a sexy hunk of man-meat. (This example assumes you're a heterosexual female.) You smile. He smiles. You decide to show off your best... um.... asset. So you put on your sexiest walk and proceed to pass Thor (we'll call him "Thor"), hoping to be able to glance over your shoulder and catch him checking you out. The possibilities for your future married to a thundergod lookalike are endless. You're on your game... you're sexy... you're gliding past....

Suddenly, a sharp pain enters through your rectum. It travels forward to your bladder, then takes a left and heads up toward your kidney, making a quick detour to stop at your spleen for gas and smokes. The pain finally stops in your lung, with some periodic flirtation with your liver.

Your first thought is, I'm hit!!! But you manage not to say that... Instead, you oh-so-coolly shout, "God! My ovaries!" Yeah. Really smooth. You look to see that Thor has decidedly turned away and is studying the house he was building (he was building a house... construction workers are just so... Rowr!) and is no longer showing any signs that you exist.

You can see how this could complicate your life. And it's darned inconvenient.

Oh, plus, it hurts.

So you can see why I would be going to the doctor. The problem is, I've been going to the doctor. That is, I've been going to the surgeon who allegedly (yes, I said it) removed my appendix. I was going back once a week to deal with the open wound, but once that finally closed they were willing to drop it. I (not for the first time) brought up the subject of the pain. When I described how it was spreading, the surgeon and his intern (a very nice woman) started looking nervous. Not like they necessarily care about whether I have this "minor" pain to deal with forever... I'm under no illusions... They looked like they were deer and I was driving a lawyer with my headlights pointed straight into their eyes.

Or something like that. You know what I mean.

Anyway... So, they decided to finally do some tests. They poked, took some blood (I think they just threw that away, because it's black and they don't like testing black blood) and urine (ick) and scheduled the CT scan which I previously wrote about.

The results of the CT scan showed nearly all the organs present that one might expect. They noticed, and noted, the conspicuous absense of my gall bladder, which was removed a couple of years ago. After I left the doctor's office, though, I realized that they didn't mention a missing appendix.

Considering that the radiologist who analyzed the CT knew nothing about my prior surgeries, and, indeed, took time to make note of the gall bladder thing, it seems odd that he didn't note the missing appendix. Unless...

I see three possibilities. One, they missed the appendix and removed something else that I still needed. This isn't terribly likely, because I would be dead by now.

Two, whatever caused my appendix to rupture continued to grow, and has now filled the appendix-shaped hole in my abdomen. This is slightly more likely, because, as far as I know, the doctors didn't check to see what caused an appendix to go from zero to rupture in three hours.

The third option, which seems most likely, is that an alien entered my bedroom in late September and implanted an egg in my abdomen, most likely through my anus. The implantation process probably busted my appendix open, and the resulting infection kept the egg warm. The wound under my navel didn't close because the alien fetus was sucking up my life force, preventing most forms of healing. And the growing pain is caused by Junior growing and eating my fresh, juicy organs.

So the problem I mentioned... I don't like to go to the doctor. She's nice, and the office is pleasant, and really close to my office, but I have (thanks, Mom) a complex that tells me that if I'm seeking medical help, I'm a hypochondriac. But if I let the alien grown, it will eventually burst out of my abdomen and attack my cat. Now, even though I'll be dying, this alien is still my baby, in a sense, and I need to protect it from the horrible death it will suffer if it tries to attack the little bastard.

So I have to go to the doctor.

05 February 2008

Hyperassociativity Scene

So, I was reading an article about Spasmodic Dysphonia, and that got me thinking... If I lost the ability to speak, and explained this to people (perhaps by writing notes), but indicated that the problem was only my voice, would they then, when speaking to me, speak more loudly, perhaps over-enunciating? I think so, and so do all the people whose opinions I asked. It's funny how people associate things.

For example, I've noticed a tendency for some men, mostly the less-evolved breeds, to associate a woman's lung capacity with the shape of her lips ("I'll bet she could suck-start a motorcycle") or her height with her athletic abilities ("Those legs don't quit").

Not that this phenomenon is restricted to the harrier gender... I once had a woman tell me that I look like a lesbian. Hrm. I wanted to ask her which lesbian, but I was afraid of the answer.

I'll never understand why people make these associations. I mean, I understand why people look at me strangely when I'm walking past and I hear someone say something like, "...brand-spankin' new wife..." and I reflexively say, "Kinky" and start laughing, but when someone leans over my cat and says, "What a pretty boy! You must be so sweet," and they reach out to touch him, they're almost inevitably surprised when he tries to take off a finger. Is the fact that he has coloration which humans find aesthetically pleasing supposed to be an indicator that one has permission to touch him? I don't see the connection.

But I know the connection exists. At least, in the minds of the insane people who run the world. I know that a responsible driver with a red car will pay more for insurance than a half-attentive driver with a brown car. This is because, in the minds of those who make rules, red cars like to get in wrecks. I also know that if I wear black pants and a black shirt at the same time people will think I'm depressed. Even if I try to explain that it's laundry day.

I know that the lyrics to one popular song indicate that the speaker associates another woman's butt size with her level of promiscuity. After all, there have never been any skinny sluts.

I know a transsexual who tried to donate blood. She was turned down because they said that any sex she could possibly have would be gay sex. She was a virgin who didn't use drugs and had a rare blood type.

I was told that I couldn't possibly be an engineer because I drive a standard and don't wear glasses and have XX chromosomes.

The list goes on, but the point is this: When I hyperassociate, I'm told that it's because I have a neurological disorder (ADHD) and need to take a pill. When someone else hyperassociates, it's because they must be right. After all, "How could a woman with such bodacious ta-tas be a Catholic?"

Oh, and for the record... I'm definitely not lesbian.