Final Jeopardy…

January 28, 2008

So, for those of you who have been waiting with bated breath for my next post…here it is!!! I must apologize for the delay, I’ve been a tad under the weather since my last post. Aside from the back issues, I apparently contracted some stomach flu-bug that has left me in a constant state of nausea. And, NO, I’m not pregnant.

We left off at Sir Bob Geldof’s less than cleanly office. When I say “Dr. Pain” looked like Sir Geldof, that’s not to say he looks like him on a good day. And I’m not exactly sure what Bob looks like on good day considering he always looks like he’s walking around minus a quart or two of blood, but I digress. Let’s just say that if Bob had been out partying all night, possibly hadn’t showered in a few days, decided to throw on a wrinkled button down and corduroy pants, after smoking at least two packs of cigarettes, then…then…he resembled what might have looked like a very worn out Knight. “Dr. Pain” cracked every bone and joint in my 5’3 inch frame, and then proceeded to inform me that he hasn’t had a headache since 1998. WTF does that have to do with my back pain? I would gather from his disheveled attire, the dirt under his nails, and his “eau d’ ashtray” that he doesn’t have time to have a headache in between drags and torturing nuns! In my stunned haze, after having “Dr. Pain” throw down on me like I was in a WWF match, I agreed to make another appointment for the following day.

I awoke on Tuesday to further back pain and get this, severe nausea! This nausea was the kind of nausea that stops you from blinking because even that movement makes you wanna YAK! So, I cancelled my appt. with “Dr. Pain” and kindly told his secretary that, “I’ll call you if I plan on getting back in the ring for another throw down!” The nausea persisted as did some other plumbing problems, which combined with my “monthly bill” almost led me to write my own eulogy. When the nausea and plumbing issues hadn’t subsided by Wednesday evening, my totally awesome husband suggested that I get into see the doctor the following day. More than anything, I think he wanted to spare himself the torture of another night of watching me burp, breathe heavily, sigh, and then burp again. So, because I love him so much, and because I need to blink, I conceded and made an appointment.

Now, my GP rules the school. She was recommended to me by an Irish friend of mine, she’s trained under a doctor that’s worked in the States, she is young and her office is not in a family home marked “surgery”. All “thumbs up” in my book. She has also been incredibly kind and helpful with the last miscarriage I had back in October. She was attentive, and and helped me get in to see an OB/Specialist for some testing, etc. Which leads me to my current blog title, “Final Jeopardy.” For those of you who don’t know, here in Ireland everything takes a bit longer than it does in the States. Our washing machine broke, and it took one month for them to get a new motor. The reasoning, “we’re an island y’know?” Our car broke, and the mechanic called and asked me to call the dealer for the parts that he needed to fix the car. When I couldn’t pronounce the name of the part he wanted me to get…he decided he’d try to get the parts himself, and it took 2 weeks to get our car fixed. My husband needed a shirt mended that he’d ripped, I took it to the tailor and I was told I could pick it up in 15 days. I had a pap smear done in April, and I was told that it would take 6 months to get the results back. Does the theme song to Final Jeopardy now begin playing in your head?

So, Back in November, my GP had gotten the “OK” for me to make an appointment to see a doctor I had already become friendly with over at the Maternity hospital in Dublin, Dr. Mc”NotFunny”. When I had called, I was told that Dr. Mc”NotFunny” didn’t have availability till December 17th, which was over a month away. I took this all in stride considering it’s Ireland, and…it’s an island y’know? So, December 17th arrives, Dr. Mc”NotFunny” was none too thrilled to see my husband and I in her office when she’s certain that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me, but she’s willing to do the blood tests anyway. Her very serious face and staunch insistence that nothing is wrong with me, led my husband and I to giggle and make uncomfortable jokes in the midst of what was her certain disdain for our existence. We smile, thank her for her kindness time, and I get myself down there for my blood tests the following day. We met with the doctor at THE HOSPITAL and my blood was drawn at THE HOSPITAL. So, after the flobotomist has taken what seems like a “Big Gulp’s” worth of blood, she proceeds to tell me that my results will most likely be back in ONE MONTH! I was under the impression that the “lab” was at THE HOSPITAL because it’s, well…an f’ing HOSPITAL!!! It is apparently, but as the flobotomist so kindly reminded me, “it’s the holidays, so…” (enter the theme song for Final Jeopardy here.)

Cut to my current visit to the Doctor last week where it is decided that this nausea might need to be be checked out further. So, if I could get a stool sample to her by either today or tomorrow, she could have the results back in 48 hours! I’m sorry, WHA? 48 hours? “Is the lab on site?” I ask? “Of course not”, she says, “we send it out.” Sitting stiffly in a chair, clenching my teeth through the back pain and doing my best to avoid blinking, I sat and just took in words that I could not believe had just been said. “48 hours?” I said again. The lovely Doctor just looked at me and laughed in acknowledgement. “I know, nothing in Ireland takes 48 hours.” With this I took the stool sample vile, my prescription for Valium, and walked out into the sunlight with my mouth agape, still stunned. It’ll take the Irish 30 days to fix my washer, 6 months to process my pap smear, one month to test my blood, but they’ll analyze my feces in just two days!? What does this all mean???? I guess it all boils down to…

Those Irish sure know their Crap! (enter the theme song for Final Jeopardy here….)


It’s a Blog…

January 21, 2008

I’ve decided to start a blog, because a) I’ve started one twice before and haven’t followed through with it, 2) because I love making lists that start with A and then move onto 2, and c) because I read so many other people’s blogs that I thought…why the F NOT! 

So, today I’m home with severe lower back pain that started on Saturday night.  And yes, I dare say it…I went to the chiropractor.  I’ve never really been to a chiropractor…Well, I take that back.  I went once and I’ve steered clear of them ever since.  Let’s just say it had to do with stripping down naked, an open backed paper gown, thong underwear, a strange man “chiropractor” manipulating my spine/rubbing my back, an appointment that felt like days, and all the while, my thonged bare ass hanging out the back of the gown in all it’s glory.  I even remember that in my desire to get the hell out of that office, I dropped $300 on “recommended” supplements that included ground pigs thyroid.  Boy am I lucky I’m not Kosher!

So, my day started with me calling around to chiropractors and physiotherpists in Ireland that would be willing to see me right away.  Apparently, I had put my freezing bare ass, and the thyroid supplements behind me.  With my husbands assistance I left the house like a toddler who’d just learned to walk.  He tied my shoes, helped me down the stairs as I waddled in pain next to him, he secured me, nice and snug into my car seat and sealed it with a kiss on the forehead. 

As is always the case in Ireland, the office appearance had a lot to be desired.  I have been to doctor’s offices over here that look like I’ve walked into an elderly woman’s front sitting room.  I’ve actually almost backed out of the door with the word “surgery” painted on the glass, aplogetically thinking that in my iPodian haze I actually might have walked into some poor old woman’s house.   I slowly eyeball the room, the stained crimson carpet, peeling wall paper, dust settling on the dated pleather chairs, and oh wait…there are some surgical instruments over there in the corner…wait, yes, this is a doctor’s office!  Right then, where’s my ass bearing paper gown?

As I waited in the once off white, now black-ish chairs, all I heard were screams, of OW! and OUCH! coming from the room with the door shut.  I looked at my husband weerily and said, “did you hear that?”  He looked up from his Blackberry with eyes a glaze, and said “huh?”, as if I just woke him from a deep sleep.  Damn Blackberry’s they’re always stealing my thunder!  Then, out of the door comes, Sir Bob Geldof and a Nun!  I’m not kidding!  The chriopractor, we’ll call him Dr. Pain, and a freakin’ Nun!  That was a Nun in there making all of those horrible yelps of pain! I expected her to light up a cigarette and look at Sir Geldof, I mean Dr. Pain, and ask, “was it good for you?”  You go Sister! Literally!