Ready to Drink

So I think my last blogs were about me buying then falling out of a shower safety seat, right? Or about why I don’t like when doctors insist on being called “doctor.” Speaking of doctors and injuries:

So like the day I was off my cane and crutches and walking about, I went to the zoo. And I rode the little kiddie train. Woooo woooo! Then while disembarking I smacked my skull bone really, really hard on the train’s kiddie roof. Anyway it hurt. Like a bunch. That was August 13th. Today is September 27 and I still get daily headaches from my mild “concussion.”

I say “concussion” because the doctor never actually agreed that it was a concussion. She merely spoke in hypotheticals, like if it is a concussion then take Tylenol, not Ibuprofin. And if it is a concussion, go see the neurologist with her referral note. But to be fair, no doctor has ever diagnosed me with anything in my life. My ulcers were just “could be ulcers” and my back spasms were “back” “spasms.” Like the docs are too afraid of misdiagnosing me that they won’t diagnose me at all. Maybe they are just humoring me?

Anyway, tomorrow I have an MRI (I’d rather have an MRE. . .mmmmmmm. . .ready to eat). The neurologist didn’t want to tell me what kinds of things he wanted to check for because it was unlikely that I had pools of blood in there and didn’t want to scare me but I got the idea that if I had something bad, it would be horrifically bad (so bad he didn’t dare mention it). All I know is the image of crimson pools in my noggin, perhaps with little chunks of floating brain matter, is unshakable. And for some reason it makes me a little thirsty. MMMM. . . ready to drink.

I could be part zombie.