I’m Goin to Gourdland II

So I finally got to see my guy, Dr. Something Middle Eastern, and his office is down where you’d expect a fuck up from Vanderbilt’s to be - i.e. the basement.  You’re more than six feet under the ground in an effort to make sure you stay above it, it’s a bit of psychological mind fuck to say the least.  If you haven’t been taking your meds as directed, have below sea level phobia, or forgot your copy of Journey to the Center of the Earth for comforting purposes, you might find yourself looking for a broken down cardboard container, and a boom box with a Chaka Kahn mix tape so you can start doin’ the seizurepede.  Due to my lead foot (which also lead to me getting a speeding ticket on the return trip), we got to Dr. Brain’s neurological underground railroad about an hour early.  I signed up and completed the questionnaire.  For the record, I responded that I had no clue what could make my visit any better.  Since I could not put down a script for unlimited morphine, I kept it short.  I also had my daily headache, so I was asked to rate it by reviewing numbers associated with circular faces in different states of happiness and/or despair.  I went with a four because I’m use to it, and I thought that particular face probably didn’t get much play because I’m sure the majority of fools up in this underground trailer are fishin’ for opiates and the like. 

To pass the time until I was asked to come on in to the exam room, my wife and I played iJeopardy on my iPhone.  We made a rather formidable team, and kicked Player No. 2 and 3′s asses all but once - and I fucked that one up by not being able to do the math and figure out what we could bet on Final Jeopardy and still win if we missed the question.  We got the motherfucker right, but Player No. 3 had bet the iPhone application farm and kicked our ass.  What I did find humorous, prior to making the cut, was that my wife got pissed about how long we had to wait to see what was behind the big curtain.  You may not have a program, or, this could be your first experience with whatever it is here that I conjured fourth, but she is a what?  That’s right, a doctor.  All doctors make you wait, and expect you to deal with it like waiting for that big ol’ turd you’ve been working on since attending Cheese Fest 2010.  Apparently doctors even make doctors wait, and doctors don’t like it when they are made to wait.  This is like one of those situations where you see a mirror reflecting into a mirror on television.  You never know where the reflections stop.  Like the Golden Hypocratic Oath says, “Do unto other doctors as you would do unto your non-doctor patients.”

Once I finally made it to the Big Show, my wife, my doctor, and I sat in a rather outdated medical holding cell to discuss the state of my gourd - I think I had seen photos of the place with some half nude detainee being abused in it.  Dr. Brain reviewed the computer with all the notes containing my medical history he had wrote, yet seemed to be unaware of my prior existence and the cause of my gourdery.  I showed him my driver’s license.  I reminded him he visited me at least once a day during my week tethered to the wall prior to me seizing out.  I refreshed his recollection, and explained my prior diving through a windshield without a helmet was the cause of the Red River Gourd like dent in the right side of my head.  At one point, I think I saw him type “patient unable to do headstand due to injury” on the computer.  I have no clue why that was relevant, but I can’t say he’s lying either.  The purpose of this encounter was to determine if my current “meds” are doing me right.  I explained I was all about the Lamictal, but also felt like the occasional Ativan was very helpful when I started getting one of those “not so conscious” feelings.  My wife and I explained how we believe my not so conscious feelings are brought on by stress.  Dr. Brain apparently didn’t like this answer too much.  He didn’t say to keep eating the Ativan as needed, ordered up a blood test, and then told me he would see me in four months.  To put it another way, “You ain’t gotta go to another doctor, but you got to get the hell on up outta here.”

So we left and re-valeted my wife’s upper tier Buick – the American luxury brand formerly perfect adulterers used to be paid to flog.  The trip out of NashVegas was uneventful.  We did see a car with bumper stickers that stated he was a Christian supporting Israel, wanted to save pets, and keep jobs American by just saying no to Mexicans.  I picture this guy mowing his front yard wearing a tea cozy with his cat on a leash following his eco-friendly grass killer.  About an hour into it, a swarthy Kentucky State Trooper was sitting off in the darkness in Lyon County and caught me doin what he calculated to be 85 mph.  I had no warrants, did not smell of the strong odor of alcohol -amazingly- nor did I act nervously, so his stop was rather run-of-the-mill and boring.  I had my valid license and proof of insurance hanging out the window prior to his even approaching “my driver’s side”.  I didn’t know the KSP was typing out their tickets, but I was glad Trooper Jones did because it cut down on the time I lost by not being allowed to speed.  He showed me the ticket, gave me the almost obligatory drop in speed, and a brief explanation as to how to take care of it.  I did not play the attorney card or ask about his buddies Troopers Clark, Ramsey, Fields or Detective Ramage.  I just wanted him to end the encounter and let me drive a mere 3 to 5 miles over the speed limit the rest of the way home.  On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give the whole trip a 5 and choose the smiley face that looked constipated to represent it.