Friday, September 25, 2009
Ready for a new groove
I haven't had an appointment with Dr. B1 since the middle of August, and a lot has happened in those six weeks.
Not with me —with him! My head and neck doc got married last Saturday —on a farm in Iowa, no less. Cowbells were ringing across America's heartland.
So when Dr. B1 enters the exam room on Monday morning I hope he will temporarily set aside talk of tumors and tongues and tracheotomies and allow me to ask him questions about his farm nuptials. Was the ceremony interrupted by barnyard bleatings? Did guests toss horsefeed at the couple when they departed for the honeymoon? Did they drive away in a tractor? (Actually, in light of what happened on Mad Men the other night, I hope all wedding guests were required to wear close-toed shoes and stay clear of all farm equipment with blades.)
Then I will need Dr. B1 to return to his doctor persona and tell me something to give me some more hope than I've been feeling these days.
I haven't been myself recently, Reader.
The rigor mortification of my face has marched forward over the past six weeks. I'm feeling as much pain as I've ever felt during the course of this cancer ordeal, and I've earned merit badges in sleeplessness, crankiness and pessimism. Drug stores throughout the city can't keep enough Extra-Strength Liquid Tylenol on their shelves to satisfy my need.
I've been so absorbed and depressed about my situation that while walking up the hill to the Greek Theatre on Thursday night to see the Pet Shop Boys perform, I found myself staring at the ground and managed to follow the sidewalk into No Man's Land in Griffith Park. Thank God the park authorities have been thinning out the coyote population recently, or I might have arrived for the Pet Shop Boys' performance with claw scratches all over my marbleized mug.
So I hope that Dr. B1 will have something more inspirational or instructional to say to me on Monday than "We have to wait and see, Mr. Serchia" and set up an appointment to see me in another six weeks.
If that happens, I'll probably throw a fit in Kaiser's Head and Neck Department, like one of the Pet Shop Boys' West End Girls, kicking in chairs and knocking down tables, thinking I'm mad, too unstable. "If, when, why, what?" indeed.
You guys will be the first to know what happens.