Went to the brain doc today. It went pretty okay. He made me strip to my fundies and put on what I think was an old Polish woman's house dress. Did the complete neuro test -- walking on tippie-toes, touching my nose, getting my knees hammered, tuning forks on various body parts, needles stuck in the bottoms of my feet, complete anal cavity search. No, wait... sorry, that last one was from my dentist visit.
After all the testing, he said, "Okay... so, why don't you get dressed and then I'll come back in and we can talk." Nice. Way to fucking milk it for dramatic effect, doc. So, I was basically convinced he was gonna come back in and say my brain had to come out.
But, he came back and we chatted and he said that, in all likelihood, it isn't MS. The fact that the symptoms are in both hands and both feet kinda negates that... sorta. He didn't come right out and say "you don't have it!" but, in so many words. Which, basically, I knew but it was nice to not hear him say it.
He did say, though, that I should come back in a coupla weeks for an EMG, which sounds like a rip-snortin' good time. I actually performed an EMG on a cat in my Advanced Neuropsych class in college, so I already know how much it's gonna fucking suck. Hopefully, his office will be a little more sterile than the psych building, though, and I sure hope he doesn't leave me on a too-hot heating pad, like we did to the cat, and cause me to die of dehydration. That karma's a fucking bitch, ain't it? Touche, dead kitty... touche.
I also got some fancy blood test to check the proteins in my blood. THAT was fun, by the way. The lab was chock-full-o' fucked up people who make my ridiculous little symptoms seem, well, pretty goddamn ridiculous. There was Oxygen-Tank Man, One-Leg Lady, and my favorite, Prisoner-Woman-with-Leg-Shackles, who was being escorted by a Giant-Sheriff Man. Nothing like a big spoonful of reality pudding to make me feel like a complete douche with my coupla numb toes and fingers.
So, for now, I'm going to try to actually enjoy not having something for a day or so. Should be nice. Then I can get back to the real work of worrying about what the shit I DO have.