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If It Wasn't For the Graffiti and Hairy Legs, I Would Be Clueless

I do not have a pain-management problem, I have a pain problem and maybe a slight case of Trypanophobia.

Blog title inspired by House. Picture, just because.

I had my second doctor's appointment scheduled for today. 

That is to say, I showed up when I was supposed to. 

Just like last week

Me and about a dozen other people (I think maybe I even recognized a few of them, could be they were still waiting, from last week) staring at Fox News.


Me?  I watched the day float right on by know...give me the finger.

Now that I think on it some more, it's sort of ironic, really:

  • We ALL had appointments
  • We ALL sought treatment for various neurological and/or spinal conditions
  • We ALL just sat there, way passed our appointed time(s)
  • Patiently listening for our respective names to be called
  • Shifting from one cheek, to the other
  • Or, in one guys case, shoulder blade
  • Came in an ambulance, wheeled in on a stretcher
  • He still complained
  • We were all, like, dude, at least you're laying down
  • Shuddup

Aaaand then, I swear, you could hear our collective spinally-impaired selves breath a heavy sigh of "WTH?!?" watching some other schmuck limp in ahead of us.

Fast-forward 2 hours.


[cue choir of angels]



Basically, the MRI confirmed what I already lower back...she is fubar.

"You have substantially moderate damage to discs at L1 and L2."

In other words, less clinical lower back, she is fubar...good news is, however, there are two options...other than surgery:

Requiring either a) an undisclosed voltage of electrical current or b) a sharp implement, jammed deep into my spine.

Ironically enough, they call it pain management.

So, I'm considering my options (needle, electric current, skewered, or fried?) while washing the dishes (dish washer, she is broken too) when I hear: 


It was my 13 year-old son.  I sent him upstairs for the laundry basket because, you know, my back, she is fubar. 

Only it was more of a screechy sort of undulating:  "SCR-UHHHHHHHHH-EEEEEEEEECH!" know...he's 13 and his voice is changing...SNORT!

[eyes go wide]

Howwwwwever, I was much, much more, "WTH?!?" at the time, as the laundry basket comes flying down the stairs.




...laundry...on...the...stairs...wait a minute...a bee...seriously?!?

"Come on down Bud and I'll look at it."

Now, I'm hearing heavy panting.


Fast-forward 2 hours...just kidding...but, the bee was sitting on the laundry and he didn't actually see where the bee went, after it popped him and, well, it took a while for him to come downstairs.

"Wow, it popped you...twice!"

Go figure, the only one in the house to ever get stung by a bee...5 times...would find the one bee...that got in the house.

"Dude, calm down, it's only a bee."

Mind you, as I'm scouring the floor, on my hands and knees, with a flash light, looking for the damned thing...beeeeecause:

  • The boy is nearly 6 feet tall
  • There is NO MORE ROOM in my bed
  • I have to get up at the buttcrack of dawn
  • To take my parents to the hospital, tomorrow morning
  • Mom's arm, she is fubar
  • Dad's back, she...I mean...he is fubar
  • Aaaaad my back hurts


[get that choir of angels back here, STAT!]

"See, it doesn't have it's stinger and woulda died anyways."

I know, I know, the boy is 13.  Still, he's been stung, wait...make it 7 times...can you blame him?

I'm just happy he did not puke.

"I...[sniff-sniff]...feel like...[cough]...someone jammed...[sniff-sniff]...a couple of needles into my body"

[eyes go wide]

Aaaaand, then I puked.  The End.

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