Ed! Don't Jump!

Ed* is my office mascot, and has been since 2001. While he changes incarnations every few years, his name remains Ed. He is a Betta, and carries out his office responsibilities with great enthusiasm.

So it came as a shock to start my day this morning to find that Ed had attempted suicide sometime during the night, and was flopping around on the floor next to his bowl. He's since been returned to his home, and suicide precautions have been taken by lowering the water level.

I dissolved some Prozac in his bowl, and called for an emergent visit from the aquatic psychiatrist.


*Not his real name. Ed comes from a family with a long tradition of service in the health care industry, and has requested anonymity due to concerns his parents will learn he's working for a lowly neurologist, instead of a surgical subspecialty.

More School Follies

The kids didn't have homework after the first day, but Mrs. Grumpy and I sure did. 7 zillion pages of forms about medications, notifications, field trips, what should they do if one of them pees his pants (really!) allergies to medications, allergies to foods, allergies to medical foods, and this gem:

"Please complete this form only if you are unable to understand English, and require forms written in another language."


The only language on the form was English.

That's Uplifting

Dear Mr. Goldman,

We are sorry about your wife's death last year. She was a kind woman.

However, asking my staff if they'd like to see a picture of you together, and then showing the girls one of you standing by her gravestone, is somewhat misleading about the picture's contents.

And Another One!

I just got a note faxed from an ophthalmologist:

"He has normal vision other than his vision is not quite right."

Okay...............

I was reading a note from another doctor this morning. It featured this line:

"She's had a great deal of stress, as her husband was recently widowed."

This is Not Encouraging

Dropped the twins off for the first day of school.

Marquee in front said "WELCOME BACK! WE ARE EXITED TOO BE STARTING!"


I can only hope this was a joke.

Thus Endeth the Summer

Summer, at least for me, has never been determined by the date of seasons beginning and ending. It's based solely on the first and last day of school. It was this way when I was a kid, and is this way now that I have them.

So today was the last day of Summer. And what better way to wrap it up, on a HOT day, then to go ice skating?

I have never ice skated in my life. Or roller skated. Or skied. As a kid, I wasn't coordinated enough. As an adult, my freakishly large feet give me a convenient excuse not to. No place carries my size in a rental. I bowl in my sneakers, because no bowling alley seems to carry sizes above 14.

So we went ice skating. My kids are good at it from going to various birthday parties at the ice rink. Mrs. Grumpy grew up in cold country, and so knows how to do it. I just sit on the sidelines. I have no interest in going, but use my humungous feet as an excuse.

So today, when Mrs. Grumpy asked me if I'd go, I said no. I can't, after all, because they don't carry my size. But to make her feel better I went over to the counter and asked the guy what his biggest size was. And he said my size.

I was trapped.

I consoled myself by watching my kids go around, and thought "how hard can this be?" So I laced on the skates. Took one step on the ice. And went down on my ass.

While my kids were laughing, I hobbled back onto land and got a training walker from the counter. And took that out on the ice. Now I know what my patients feel like. Even pushing this thing around I still went down several times. Fortunately, I was saved by them clearing the ice for the Zamboni. So I took the opportunity to return the skates.

What is it that fascinates people about the Zamboni? Is this an American thing, or do other countries have it, too? It's been satirized in "Peanuts". At skating parties here the birthday kid gets to ride on it. The whole crowd today cleared the ice, watched it raptly, and cheered when it was done. At basketball, football, and baseball they do all kinds of stuff to keep people in their seats during a break in play. Half-dressed cheerleaders. Marching bands. Half-court shot contests. Cartoon hot dog races. Mascots. And people still get up and go to the snack bar. BUT NOT AT HOCKEY! The crowd stays in their seats to watch the Zamboni drive around in circles and cheer!

By this time the twins had wandered over to another rink, where they had a giant pile of snow. I went over to see what they were up to. As I learned, being the only adult in this area made me the mutual snowball target of about 40 kids. I fought valiantly, but went down in flames. While I was lying in the ice the little bastards came over and put snow down the back of my shirt.

The ice capades ended with them playing YMCA. I'm old enough to remember that song first coming out. I never would have believed that more than 30 years later it would be even more popular than ever. Kids who aren't old enough to walk know how to dance to it.

The only injury I suffered all day was when I twisted my ankle getting out of the minivan at home. It's killing me.

And so the Summer ends.

This Sums It Up

School starts Monday.

Staples used to run this commercial. I don't know if they still do.

They ran it before I even had kids. And now that I have 3 of them in various elementary school grades, the commercial just means SO MUCH MORE.

It's a WORD, Okay People?

(Please note, the following post is NOT meant to convey any viewpoint about abortion. Any comments trying to fight-out or inflame pro-life vs. pro-choice opinions will not be published).

I use the word "abort" in my dictations: "Her migraines are aborted by Imitrex" or "He was seen in ER, where the seizure was aborted by Ativan" or "The MRI was aborted due to his claustrophobia".

At least twice a year, most recently yesterday, I get an angry letter or phone call from some patient who is reading my notes on them and becomes incensed over this. They see the word and automatically assume it means they HAD an abortion (No, sir, that is biologically impossible") or that my use of the word is expressing a political viewpoint ("I'm devoutly pro-life! How dare you use that word in a note about me!").

Usually I just explain to them what it means, and send them to a dictionary. It's amazing how many people are stunned to find out it has some other meaning then THAT ONE, and are fine once they realize this.

In spite of this, in the last 10 years I've had 3 patients change neurologists over this issue. Whatever.

Part of being a doctor is respecting your cultural, religious, and political beliefs. That's why I never discuss mine. Words in my notes are just that. Words.

My 11:00

Hot pink shirt, electric green shorts, bright red shoes, orange purse, purple umbrella, who the fuck dressed this woman?

It's a Guy Thing

I was at the hospital early this morning to see a 70-something gentleman who had a stroke yesterday. He told me this great story, which I'm repeating (to the best of my memory) verbatim. Because I can't write them better than this:


"I drove over to Local Grocery, because my wife had been nagging me all damn day that we needed bread and celery.

"Anyway, Doc, when I got there and tried to get out of my car I found I couldn't move my left arm or leg at all. They were completely paralyzed. So by turning I was able to use my right arm to pull a shopping cart over, and then I used that to support me to get into the store.

"At first I thought I should get help or something, but when I got inside I saw they had those motorized electric shopping cart scooter deals, so I got into one and was able to work it okay with my right hand, though I knocked over a display or two. And all these damn store employees kept asking me if I was okay, like it's any of their damn business.

"Anyway, so I got the bread and celery, and got out to my car, and drove here to the ER. That was a bitch, because my cars a manual, so I had to work the clutch and brake both with my right foot, and that ain't as easy as you probably think it is.

"Then, after I got here, I called my wife and had to wait outside in your parking lot for her to come pick up her damn bread and celery. Then I came inside to the ER."

Blinded By the Light

While I was at work today, Mrs. Grumpy decided to replace the 60W light bulbs (some had burned out) over our bathroom vanity with fluorescent 60W equivalent bulbs.

I walked in there tonight and flipped on the lights.

Holy crap! The new bulbs are beyond bright. Like the light from the top of the Luxor Hotel has been moved into my john. I felt like I was peeing inside a tanning bed. I was frantically looking for Coppertone in the cabinet over the toilet.

While washing my hands I realized that the worst part of this incredible luminescence is the way it shows how many gray hairs I have (of the few left at all). I went out to complain to Mrs. Grumpy, who said she didn't care.

She went in there an hour later, and after seeing her own gray hairs illuminated so clearly, immediately drove back to Home Depot to get significantly lower wattage bulbs.

It's Midnight

Look, lady, I can, in some vague way, understand how you forgot to call for a refill on your seizure medication until you were all out. We all screw up here and there.

And I can even understand you frantically calling me at midnight to get a refill. I guess I'd rather have you do this then get called at midnight by an ER doc because you seized and wrecked a car and hurt somebody.

HOWEVER, I DO NOT have your chart in front of me at midnight. When you wake me up I'm lucky to remember my own name. So telling me you need your refill at "the same pharmacy as last time" doesn't help. Neither does your insistence that "I think it's a Walgreen's, you know, one on the west side". We live in a big city here. There are Walgreen's on every other street corner.

And when you finally find a phone number, don't ask me if it's a 24 hour store, or where the nearest 24 hour place is, or what your co-pay is. I just call in the scripts. I am not the Shell Answer Man.

What Sort of Doc Do You Think I Am?

Lady, the long plastic thing hanging by my exam table is a freakin' shoehorn. It's 2 feet long to help my Parkinson's patients use it without having to lean too far over.

IT IS NOT SOME SORT OF VAGINAL SPECULUM.

And no, I ain't gonna do that, either, to help save you a co-pay. I do what I do for a reason, in case you missed Monday's post on it.

You want that kind of exam, call ER's Mom.