PittsburghThoughts

Like sand through the hour glass so are the days of our lives,

 

I went to see the doctor earlier today. My foot is sore and swollen. The malady seems to emanate from, or, as an accompanying symptom to, the icky, ulcerated spot between my toes that won't heal. I automatically thought diabetes. My blood glucose has been elevated over the last several blood tests, plus, I was sick. My temperature was high and I ached. Thoughts of self immolation seemed reasonable. 

 

The doctor was good enough to see me on short notice and even though I wasn't crazy about going, I think I'm in the mid-hundreds of visits, I went to keep the peace and possibly my toes.

 

Although the doctor is young, he has the aura of a wizened, ancient man of medicine. He is plain speaking and honest to the point that the patients that need sugar coated prognoses, don't care for him. He also listens, and with both ears.

 

I mentioned the recent swelling of my ankles due directly to my liver disease.

 

He answered, " The liver makes ______________ (a big worded protein) that circulates through the bloodstream like the Swiffer  (I made the Swiffer references up) mopping up the excess fluids present in the tissues. Your second rate, discount liver isn't making enough Swiffers and the fluid accumulates."

 

At that point I felt impelled to insert my genital edema joke. It wasn't entirely a joke, I once woke up pre-transplant with a swollen penis. Although I would have preferred the fluid to be equally distributed thereby enhancing my manhood, it listed to the right and looked downright bizarre.

 

We talked liver transplant for a while. I told him I thought that there must be a protocol that keeps doctors from discussing a second transplant because no liver doctor has broached that subject so far. There wasn't any as far as he knew, but he offered me some hope; transplant clinics are sometimes more inclined to do a second transplant on a patient known to follow their instructions rather that wasting a liver on a crap-shoot, bleary eyed, unrepentant alcoholic.

 

Yes Virginia, fuck up your life and not learn from the fucking up, and there is no Santa Claus or liver transplant for you.  

 

During the course of our conversation, maybe with the big picture in mind, he looked dead at me and said, "You won't live to seventy." Ouch!

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You wanna bet? YOU QUACK! I'll show you who's going to live.

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Thanks Doc, I needed that!     Gene

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P.S. According to the two glucose tests given, I'm not diabetic or pre-diabetic. He also ruled out gout. Yea!