Last week, there was one day in particular that the pain in my back was unbearable. I called in sick to work and went to see a physician in the Family Practice.
This is my fourth trip to the family practice since the accident happened in October. And every time, I am given pain pills and/or muscle relaxants and sent on my way. But six months, I think, is a little too long (after weeks and weeks working with a physical terrorist) to still be in pain. So, I took my visit with the doctor to a whole new level. When she walked in, I immediately demanded x-rays, a consultation with a physician who knows what he is doing (the one who used to do my acupuncture), and more pain pills. She gave me all three.
Yesterday, I saw said physician (who knows what the hell he is doing) and he looked at my x-rays and informed me that there may well be a fracture in one of my vertebrae. Something that would have been nice to know…I dunno…say…six months ago. So he poked me with some needles, ordered an MRI and sent me on my way.
Moral of the story: When your gay friend says “I love you”, DON’T PUNCH! Oh wait…that’s wrong…
Moral of the story: Evidently, in order to get anything done in family practice, you have to diagnose yourself. And then order your own testing, refer yourself to a physician, and decide what medication you need beforehand.
I can’t figure out why they don’t pay me a doctor’s salary. Bastards.
Anyway, I am on my way down south. I am hauling my broken ass to Orlando. Then Tampa to watch Fish Head graduate. Assuming I don’t completely fall apart in the next few days, I will be back on Monday. Peace out.