Monday, March 10, 2008

Never Go to the Doctor!

You can stop reading here if you don't want to read yet another self-absorbed post about my ridiculous health. If you are still reading, then you really need to find something better to do with your fucking time.

I don't want to get into the whole thing, but the last week or so has been the pig-fuckingest shitfuck I've experienced in a long time. My numb extremities have gone from mild annoyance to "gee, this might actually be the goddamn thing that does me in."

But that's not the even the part that pisses me the fuck off the most. I blame my current state of doom and gloom on this fuckhead of a surgeon who took the fat sample outta my stomach. I went for a follow-up appointment with this dickface so he could look at the little hole/bald patch he had carved in my belly. I was expecting to pop in and pop the fuck out.

So, he's almost done pokin' around, and then he goes, "Oh, hey, I got the pathology report! Looks like the found something!" Like he was all excited and shit. He hands me a copy of the report and says, "Looks like you might have amyloidosis! Okay, see ya later!"

What the shit?! And when I asked him what the fuck that meant, he says, "Oh, I don't know. You'll have to follow up with your doctor. See ya!" And this is on last Thursday. I couldn't get ahold of the hematologist, so I got to spend the weekend, sans Old Lady, with my pathology report and my good friend, the innernecks. BAD weekend.

I start looking this fucking thing up and it fucking blows, lemme tell you. There's nary a positive story with this fucker. Lots of chemo, lots of stem cell replacement, lots of memorial guest books to sign. I was working myself up into a fretful lather, the spawnage are running around like meth-addled bush babies, and the Old Lady was in fucking Chicago, living it up big-city-style. My lid had officially flipped its own lid.

But here's why the Old Lady is, and forever will be, the goddamn yin to my yang... the beans to my cornbread... the R2 to my D2... the fucking Engelbert to my Humperdink -- she called on Thursday night and we talked about the test results and shit, and she gets in the car the next day, blows off her conference and drives the fuck home. Against my protestations, I might add. That lady is the goddamn shiznit.

So we both sat around all weekend, depressed, doomed and glued to every fucking relevant/irrelevant case study we could find online. I don't know when or how the spawnage got fed, bathed or dressed, but somehow, they did. It was the longest fucking weekend ever, basically.

Today, I talked to both the pathologist and the blood doc. They said that while the fat pad results were indeed kinda shitty, the bone marrow test was totally clean, so that was a positive. The kicker is, Count Von Bloodula wants me to go to the goddamn Mayo Clinic for a few days to get all the same tests done again, plus a whole slew of new fucking tortures, at their fancy amyloidosis clinic up there. It's gonna be fucking biopsiriffic!!

We go to the doc to talk about what exactly is gonna go down on Thursday. In the meantime, I'm trying to stay away from Google, and I'm popping Xanax like fucking Mike & Ike's.

There -- wasn't that a fun little story?

As a reward for getting through that steaming turd of a post, I will leave you with a drawing that I caught Mr. Z and Miss O doing together last night. Miss O wielded the red marker, Mr. Z the black. If everything turns out well at Mayo, I'm thinking of getting this tattooed across my chest in their honor, for somehow making me laugh my ass off during all this fuckshit.

11 comments:

Jasper Mockingbard said...

That's whack, man. I hope it all goes away.

If you get a tattoo for yourself, you've got to make T-shirts for the spawnage.

Burbanmom said...

Hang in there, Crabby. Hope all goes well at the 'mayo.

Anonymous said...

Hey, Mayo is the place to be. If you've got something that might be life threatening, you should go directly to Mayo, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. They saved a friend of mine who had throat cancer a few years ago, and they can fix you up too. Plus, they arrange all your various appointments in a couple of days, so you don't end up driving all around Lansing (which is not known as the Home of Superior Medical Care) for weeks on end, seeing one doc per week. Hang in there - life sucks, but you'll stagger through it like the rest of us.

Monica said...

Also, please please please: Arrange massages, dinners, facials, whatever floats-your-boat, to be interspersed with the procedures. This is in fact, one of my personal dreams - to go somewhere once a year to have it all done at once - the mammogram, the endometrial biopsy, the colonscopy, done, but with massages, etc, in between. After all, I'm already undressed, it should be optimized, right?
But, you: Lucky boy, great marriage, great kids, and great sense of humor. What better do I have to do than read someone who dares to explore both the comedy/pain of raising children AND the pain/comedy of Middle Age & Modern Medicine?
All my best best best. M

fellow Grinnellian said...

Sorry to hear the information wasn't all positive. I think anonymous is right - Mayo is the place to be. Sounds like maybe you need some valium in addition to the Xanax. The mind is a bad place to hang out sometimes. Your Old Lady rocks!

PG said...

sorry for the crappy news. Kick the bastard amyloidosis in the nuts man, kick it in the nuts then punch it in its throat. No, punch in the throat and then kick in the nuts

Lizzy said...

Mr. Crab,
I've been reading this blog since you've been being read on this blog. It serves as daily laugh-therapy for me in dealing with my own shitty chronic illness (crohn's), and you truly help me feel better (no shit, man). I mean, you make life in Lansing more interesting than life here in NYC. I hope some stranger can do the same for you.

Remember the internets are chock full of worst case scenarios. People with mild disease and successful treatment don't waste time in chat groups and aren't interesting enough for case studies. It's never as bad as the interwebs say it will be. But I'm sure you know that.

Also, I heart your old lady. Seriously dude, how cool was that?

I hope you can feel the virtual support gushing out. Your fans love you, so keep on rockin', Crabbydad.

Creepily signed,
Your #1 Crabby fan

Brian said...

My question is.... What's that on top of the turd? Is it two smiling faces, about to dine on the wonder-loaf? Is it a BUTT-erfly? Or is it a happy lil fanny, smiling at the butt-treat it just laid, and delighted that there are three little flies basking in the stink lines? I love that drawing.

Jasper Mockingbard said...

Anyone who signs a comment "Your #1 Crabby fan" scares me. You think you got it bad now? Just wait 'til she finds you, ties you to a bed and is standing at your feet swinging a sledgehammer at your ankles.

crabbydad said...

Jasper, Burban, Anon, Monica, fellow G'nellian, PG, and Lizzy, thanks for the kind words of support. Unfortunately, when I write this drivel, it's usually late at night when I'm all "woe-is-me." Maybe I'll try posting during the day so I can be a little more fucking upbeat.

Lizzy, I know someone with Crohn's and it sounds completely heinous. If my belly-achin' helps your belly-achin' at all, I'll definitely keep it up.

Brian, I asked Miss O and she said it is indeed a "happy lil fanny" that is basking in its freshly laid loafage. (Loofah?) You're welcome to get a tattoo of it on your chest as well.

And Jasper, don't be hatin', playah. I'm actually thinking that sledgehammer thing might fix the tingling in my toes, so bring it on.

nora said...

I agree, off to Mayo you go. My family is full of Mayo miracle stories.
Just say the word and Kim and I will come and stay with the crabbykids while you're gone.
signed,
your #2 fan.