Out with the Dong, in with the Ozzy

I fired my Endocrinologist this morning. He had it coming, and it felt really good to cancel that appointment and tell his secretary that I would be finding a new physician. Not only did his bizarre, inappropriate flirting make me uncomfortable, but last time we met he was pushing me to get more radiation for whatever minuscule traces of thyroid cancer might be left in my neck, which I refuse to do. I've been there, done that, thank you very much.

Ten years ago I endured what I jokingly refer to as "The Silkwood Experience." I was 24 years old and the doctors brought in the poison pill on a little metal cart. No one would touch it, but I was about to pick it up and eat it. After I ingested it they all peered at me for a few minutes to make sure I wasn't going to hork it back up, which would have been classified as a chemical spill and would have shut down the entire wing of the hospital. Fabulous! No pressure.

I was in a plastic-lined room in the hospital for almost five days, glowing from the inside out. I was instructed to flush the toilet three times after using it so I wouldn't corrode the hospital pipes with my contaminated pee. The nurses would open the door, slide food inside the room, and quickly shut it again. The garbage piled up and began to smell by day three.... After the second day a dude in a bright yellow Hazmat suit came into the room and stood 10 feet away from me. He'd aim a Geiger counter at me and that's how they determined when it was safe for me to leave and be out among the general public again. It was a pretty fucking terrible experience, overall, and one that I'm not anxious to repeat.

Dr. Duck Dong refused to listen when I told him that my other doctors agreed that more radiation would do more harm than good in my case, and I refused to be bullied. Hence, we reached a stalemate three months ago when I cried into his lab coat as he insisted that radiation was not nearly as bad now as it was ten years ago... and he enjoyed comforting me just a trifle too much. We agreed to do blood work in three months, but over these past months I've gotten more and more angry that he was so insistent on the "standard course of treatment" even though my particular case has been anything but standard since day 1, which was nearly 11 years ago.

Eleven years. I have been dealing with this "garden variety" cancer for almost 11 years. What a pain in the ass.

So I'm finding a new doctor, one who listens to me and takes ME and MY BODY into account instead of spouting what the AMA says. I'm quitting Dr. Dong, but will remain vigilant about my own well-being, as always. For goodness sake, I'm still struggling to get my voice back - the last thing I want to do is nuke my throat some more!

Suck it, Dr. Dong!

In other news, I heard some killer Sabbath on the radio this morning and it put me in a great mood! I know it's weird, but I have a total soft spot for Ozzy. I like many different kinds of music; you all know I refuse to pigeon-hole my musical preferences. If I like the song, I don't care what genre it's in, I just like the song. And I like "Sweet Leaf," goddamn it.

"Shut up, and listen to the Ozzy."


Quick funny about an Ozzy tune, and then I'm outtie: when I went to the hospital to have my second darling son, Mala took D for the night. Apparently they were rocking out to some Ozzy that morning, because as I was sitting there holding my newborn I heard my oldest son coming down the hallway singing, "Ay Ay Ay Ay!" I recognized it instantly, well before he busted into the room with, "Comin' off the rails on a crazy traaaaaa-iiin!"

See? Hospital settings can provide good memories, too.

So there's that. Have a groovy day.
xoxo