12 days of school left. 8 days till I put my oldest on a plane, by himself. 4 to 8 weeks left of puppies. 4 hours till I get subjected to another new doctor. Pink purse, pinkish purple shirt, pinkish purple sunglasses. I hate pink. I hate doctors.
I’ve dealt with military doctors for 16 years now. For me, for my kids. Few have been so totally awesome, I could cry. Most have been worth less than the zift on the shoe of a camel jockey. (Zift, in Arabic, is the dirt, sand, tar, mess mixed with poo of all sorts, that accumulates on the bottom of a bedouin’s feet. )
Most notably- the system failed when I broke my right foot straight across the top. It remained broken for almost a year. 9 months into it, I got a radiation isotope scan, to prove to the idiots, that it was broken. In several places. The doctor reading the scan said it would heal in 6 weeks. Not if it’s not booted, casted, or in some other way protected- you effing schmuck. They offered to rebreak it and boot it, 5 months later, after I was already 13 weeks pregnant. With twins. Yeah, yoga sucks monkey butt when your feet retaliate. And yoga is one of my favourite ways to zen.
I could talk about 7 pregnancy tests (in 2 months) that it took to finally see a neurologist for the epilepsy diagnosis, but why waste time? And I won’t mention all the quacks who called themselves shrinks. Two good ones, 16 years and only 2 good ones.
I’m going to see a civilian doc about pain management. I’m excited/anxious/nervous about Dr. Hamster/Amster/Amsterdam. I hope he likes his job. I hope that I can communicate effectively. Hopefully he won’t look at me like a freak, or just another fat housewife. I am hopeful, that he can help get me back to good working condition.
Maybe if I can get my body back on track, the rest will follow. Sometimes, it can be trending for the soul, when you fix a broken body.