Monday, December 31

They Should Have At Least Read Me My Rights

SO two weeks ago I bunged up my knee while fighting crime rogering a pair of leggy supermodels getting out of my chair, and five days later I went to the immediate care place, where Dr. Surly kept me waiting forty-five minutes while he rogered the x-ray technician finished the application for his license reinstatement saw to the pressing medical needs of the two people who were there ahead of me, neither of whom (nagging cough, possible broken finger in a no-doubt drunken fall) appeared to justify the exhaustive search of 19th century case histories that was taking so much time, before sticking his head inside my room for one minute twelve seconds--I swear I saw nothing of him below the shoulders for another thirty minutes--to tell me there was probably nothing he could do for me, even though he hadn't even spoken to me to that point, let alone conducted what I believe is usually termed an "exam", and that he'd probably give me some Ibuprophen. This last, I believe, is a standard bit meant to scare you off. At any rate, if he thought I was gonna sit there for two hours and go home with anything short of Schedule II narcotics he was crazy. Thirty seconds later I heard him snapping at the x-ray tech about the fact that I was still in the exam room and not on her table. In three tries she got no images, so she rushed out and got the other technician, who was about half her age, and who said something I didn't quite catch about this having to happen when You Know Who was on duty, so I bonded with them, and then they put the plates directly under my leg instead of in the cabinet underneath, and the pictures turned out fine. Maybe the best I'd ever taken.

Dr. Surly returned--all of him this time--and did some more muttering, and actually touched the knee, and told me the x-rays showed "no breaks or tears". I would repeat this to the osteopath five days later, just to hear him confirm that tears wouldn't have shown up anyway. He said he suspects a meniscus tear; I think he probably suspects a scam to get prescription painkillers. He sent me for an MRI Saturday, either to see just what sort of damage there is, or to see how much I was willing to pay for a chance at additional scripts.

So Saturday morning I'm about to be swept into the Gaping Maw of Claustrophobia (no problem for me, but my Poor Wife has vowed never to have another) when the tech, who is far too cheery for 9 AM, asks what radio station I'd like to listen to. And I tell her I'm totally innocent of local radio, having last listened to it in 1972, and how about NPR? And she says, "We don't get that." And that's the end of the conversation, and without further discussion--which might have run something like "I'd rather have you scream in my ear for the next forty minutes than make me listen to most radio stations"--she snaps the headphones on me and the gurney starts to move, and there's a bunch of the usual local radio guff--disc jockey inanities followed by locally-produced commercials for some health club with zero production values--followed by "You've Got A Friend" by James Taylor.

And I knew I was in trouble. James Taylor is not a grand mal seizure of suckitude provided the dose is kept small, but there's no question he portends the sort of Lite Rock or "Adult" Contemporary--now that I think of it, why is 90% of the typical "Adult" Contemporary playlist twenty-five years old, let alone lyrically teenaged?--that serves as some sort of default listening position on the grounds that it's the stuff people who don't like music listen to. Which is, I would like to have explained to Excessively Cheerful, precisely bass ackwards, but it was too late. Here, to the best of my recollection--and I had nothing to do but remember it--was the rest of it:

"Lady" Little River Band
"Kiss You All Over" Exile
"Stuck on You" Lionel Ritchie
Something I Didn't Recognize by Someone Other Than Celine Dion but Close
"Make It With You" Bread
"Kiss Me" Sixpence None The Richer (the one song I actually like, but then I'm a sucker for hurdy-gurdies and women with that haircut)
"Jazzman" Carole King
Something Written By Jim Steadman on a Three-Day Piña Colada Bender and "Sung" by Someone Who Unfortunately Is Celine Dion
"All Out of Love" Air Supply

I would swear on my grandmother's grave this is true, but I figure if you're familiar with the concept there's really no need.

12 comments:

Katherine said...

You deserve Sched. II drugs just for listening to that music.

Kuda Bux said...

I had forgotten the song "Jazzman" entirely, even in its Simpson incarnation. Which version, coincidentally, is now stuck in my head. Oh thank you. I can haz one o ur Darvocet?

D. Sidhe said...

You have my sympathies. I read this aloud to my partner, who has been nagging me to go to the emergency care place for the last month because it's possible I've done something genuinely stupid to my arm. I would say I'm positive it's not broken, but the last time I said that it actually was, so maybe I shouldn't jinx it.

As of tomorrow, though, I'm uninsured for a month or so, and really, no matter what it is it should be all better by the end of January.

I suppose if it's not, I'll go let my doctor scream at me for not coming in sooner. The good thing about your doctor knowing you ignore broken bones for two weeks, though, is that she knows it's not a scam for painkillers. The bad thing about it is, she won't give you any anyway by then, because she figures you're too damned stupid to get the bottle open safely.

It's okay, though, since vicodin makes me hallucinate rats, and I'm not sure how they would get along with the hallucinated zombies.

Good luck with the leg. Let's hope it's something cheap and non-permanent.

horatio said...

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My thoughts exactly, dude.

LittlePig said...

Katherine said...
You deserve Sched. II drugs just for listening to that music.


Full concurrence on that. My sincere condolences. Hope the knee gets better, too.

AnnPW said...

What the hell are Anonymous and Horatio talking about? I'm pretty sure that playlist is what the medical establishment tries to substitute for Schedule II drugs. I hope you didn't let them get away with it. Wishing both you and D. Sidhe a speedy recovery.

Heydave said...

May I share my own cathartic event of these past holidays? Thank you.

I finally plodded through my vinyl collection and managed to dump 59 albums that have caused me embarrassment and angst in my advancing years. Little River Band, purchased on a poor whim, was in the bunch that I discarded at Half Price Books.

Thanks again.

Anthony Cartouche said...

Was it time for a cool change, heydave?

heydave said...

Sorry, I should understand the reference, and I think I do, but mostly it was just getting off my ass after years of telling myself I had a lot of shit in my record collection. That, and I was headed to Half Price and happened to think of it prior to, as opposed to, arriving at the store.

heydave said...

Ah, OK, so I looked up the phrase and found out it was just what I thought/feared it was.

More importantly, shouldn't you be ashamed you knew the lyrics?

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