Graphic

Dr. Grumpy: "Any health changes since I last saw you?"

Mr. Otitis: "I had an ear infection, that was about it."

Dr. Grumpy: "Okay, so at your last visit I ordered an MRI of your back..."

Mr. Otitis: "It was a bad ear infection. I had to see my family doctor for it."

Dr. Grumpy: "All right, but..."

Mr. Otitis: "I mean, it was like bloody diarrhea, except it was gushing out of my ear."

I stop stirring my coffee and push it away.

Mr. Otitis: "Anyway, can we talk about my MRI?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Let's do that."

The Beyond

Saturday afternoon

 

Andy: "Local pharmacy, this is Andy."

Dr. Grumpy: "This is Dr. Grumpy, returning a page."

Andy: "Thanks for calling back, we've been trying to get a refill for Alma Childrin, on her Fuximab?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Hang on, let me look her chart up... Actually she died last month."

Pause

Andy: "So is that a no?"

When in doubt, cut it out

Dr. Grumpy: "Have a seat... So what can I do for you?"

Ms. Calgerepep: "I'm not sure I'm in the right place... I thought I was supposed to see a brain surgeon."

Dr. Grumpy: "That's definitely not me. What were you referred for?"

Ms. Calgerepep: "I have migraines."

Dr. Grumpy: "Actually, I do handle that. You are at the right doc."

Ms. Calgerepep: "What do you do for migraines?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Well, we can get into more detail on that later, after I take your history, but there's a large number of medication options."

Ms. Calgerepep: "I don't want medications. I just want the migraines taken out."

Dr. Grumpy: "I understand that, but treatment is really more finding the right medication for each person, why don't you tell me..."

Ms. Calgerepep: "See this is why I wanted to see a brain surgeon. I want someone who can just go in there and take the migraines out."

Dr. Grumpy: "Migraine treatment doesn't work that way, unfortunately. There really isn't a specific thing to take out."

Ms. Calgerepep: "Now you're lying to me. You just want to be able to bill me, when you aren't even the right doctor. We both know I need a brain surgeon to fix them."

Dr. Grumpy: "Ma'am, I promise you that..."

Ms. Calgerepep: "You must be in this with my family doctor. I'm out of here."

She leaves, slams door.

Seen in a chart

Thank you, B!

Random pictures

Okay, time to hit the mailbag for stuff you guys have sent in.

First we have this ad. Beer (at least  in my area), isn't typically sold as a "family pack."

 

"It's a good deal. I mean, isn't kindergarten old enough?"

Next, from the "It may be explosive, but I'm not so sure that's a spaceship" department:

A reader who ordered take-out pizza says the box stickers made her think all the guys working in the CPK kitchen were wearing condoms:

Then there's this unappetizing-sounding menu item:

"Why don't people order our crab rangoon?"

And, finally, a reader cleaning out some old boxes found this catchy-named catalog:

Multiple choice

Dr. Grumpy: "Is your family doc still Dr. Stevens?"

Mrs. Unsure: "No, I had to change."

Dr. Grumpy: "Okay, who..."

Mrs. Unsure: "I think she moved away, or retired. Actually, she may be on maternity leave. I could have that mixed up. She may have died, or maybe she didn't take my insurance anymore. Anyway, it was one of those sorts of things. I'm not really sure.

Mary's desk

Mary: "Dr. Grumpy's office, this is Mary."

Mr. Nmda: "HI! DOES YOUR OFFICE DO KETAMINE?"

Mary: "No, we don't. You might try the Ketamine center on the west side."

Mr. Nmda: "THAT'S TOO FAR TO DRIVE! DO YOU HAVE, LIKE, FREE KETAMINE SAMPLES OR ANYTHING YOU COULD GIVE ME? LIKE FROM A PROMOTIONAL THING?"

Mary: "No, that's just not something we handle in our practice."

Mr. Nmda: "IS THERE ANYONE IN YOUR BUILDING WHO HAS KETAMINE? I'M DOWN IN THE LOBBY, AND IT LOOKS LIKE THERE'S A LOT OF OFFICES HERE. SOMEBODY MUST."

Mary: "Not that I'm aware of."

Mr. Nmda: "IS THERE A BATHROOM IN THE LOBBY DOWN HERE?"

Mary: "Uh, on the west side, by the stairs and water fountain."

Mr. Nmda: "THANK YOU!"

Click

 

Zzzzzzzzzzzz

Sunday morning. 2:18 a.m.

 

Mr. Sleepy: "Hello?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Hi, Mr. Sleepy, this is Dr. Grumpy., we met yesterday afternoon. I'm the neurologist taking care of your mom."

Mr. Sleepy: "Ummm yeah. What time is it? You woke me up."

 Dr. Grumpy: "Sorry. I called because your mom took a turn for the worse about an hour ago. As you  know she had a stroke, and it looks like around 1:00 she had a serious heart problem develop. We called in a cardiology team, and I came in, too. Unfortunately, even with our best efforts, she died a few minutes ago."

Mr. Sleepy: "My mom died?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Yes, sir, the cardiologist is still in the room with nursing, but asked me to call you. He'll be out in a minute to answer..."

Mr. Sleepy: "You woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me my mom died? Are you serious?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Well, we thought..."

Mr. Sleepy: "I can't believe this. I mean, I'm not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that if she's dead now, she'll still be dead in the morning when you could have called me at a more decent hour."

Dr. Grumpy: "Yes, but..."

Mr. Sleepy: "Don't they teach you people common courtesy in medical school?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Sir, I..."

Mr. Sleepy: "I'm going back to bed. Tell the nurse I'll call in the morning to make arrangements."

Click.

Seen in a chart

 

Needlework

Early last week I received a text from Local Hospital, saying that my name had come up in the hospital's mysterious vaccination hierarchy, and gave me a date and time to get my COVID-19 shot.

 It was in a part of Grumpyville that, quite literally, I didn't know existed. I assumed there was going to be a secret password or knock, but it wasn't included in the text.

So, at the appointed time, I drove to the secret site, which turned out to be the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall. The building itself, long-devoid of dollar stores, drive-thru liquor emporiums, porn shops, landscaping companies, and crematoriums, was apparently chosen for its massive parking lot, rather than the building itself.

 

"Are you shitting me?"

Local Hospital had set up a bizarre array of tents, traffic cones, folding tables & chairs, and outdoor heaters. Realizing that putting up a sign that said "COVID VACCINES HERE!" would bring in hordes of people who'd found it after taking the wrong freeway exit, they simply had signs that said "PRIVATE EVENT." This had the intended effect of making passersby think it was simply a large outdoor wedding, the kind that are commonly held in snow at an empty strip mall in the freezing Midwestern winter.

In fact, it fooled me (and most everyone else) judging by the number of confused people who pulled in and asked the heavily-swathed security guard (I'm pretty sure he had a flask of brandy somewhere on him) if this was where the COVID shots were .

 It was.

 

"No, it's not a cartel meeting, why do you ask?"

 

So I pulled up to the first table. At this point there was a sign saying to roll down the driver's side window and leave it down. I suppose this wouldn't matter back in my ancestral home of San Diego, but here in Grumpyville it was a balmy 28°F (-2 C) and there was a mild snowfall. And I'm sitting in this, with my car window open.

I pulled up to the table where another unidentifiable person/biped/android checked my hospital ID, driver's license, and appointment time, asked me if I had an elevated temperature (which really wasn't possible at that point), ran through a list of Coronavirus, SARS, and Ebola symptoms to make sure I didn't have any, then waved me on to the next table. It was kind of like being in the line of boats at the beginning or end of Small World, but without the music. And a lot colder.

At the next table they checked my temperature, pulse, and blood pressure. Like wearing masks, having someone point a gun-shaped thing at my forehead to check my temperature to go anywhere would have seemed entirely bizarre and creepy a year ago, and is now normal.

Finally I pulled up into the vaccine tent itself and stuck my left arm outside the car window. They asked me to put the car in park, as understandably a sudden lurch forward with sharp objects involved was undesirable. It was also the closest I'd been to one of the giant propane heaters, for which I was grateful.

After a minute, a person in some sort of giant Hazmat suit came over with a syringe and asked to verify my name.

 

 

"Ibee Grumpy."

"Hey, Ibee! Good to see you, it's me, Kim McBoob, under all this. Haven't seen you in a while."

 

Kim and I had gone to medical school together a LONG time ago. She went into radiology, then specialized in reading mammograms, and somehow we'd both ended up at the same hospital in Grumpyville.

 

Dr. Grumpy: "Kim, what are you doing out here?"

Dr. McBoob: "I was bored, no one has been coming in for mammos between the pandemic and holidays, so I volunteered to give shots."

Dr. Grumpy: "When was the last time you gave shots?"

Dr. McBoob: "Before today? Same time you did, back at the Big City VA."

 

At this point I was more terrified I was going to lose my arm than have a reaction to the vaccine. Dr. McBoob tried to make me feel better by saying...

 

Dr. McBoob: "Don't worry, they had us watch some Youtube videos on giving injections this morning. Hold on, this will sting a bit..."

Dr. Grumpy: "Aren't you  supposed to swab the site with alcohol first?"

Dr. McBoob: "Oh yeah, you distracted me. Hang on... There ya go! Now you can pull over to area 51, there, where the guy with the blue flag is."

I pulled over to the largest part of the parking lot. The wind had picked up and it had started to snow more. There a fellow gave me, literally, the following instructions:

"You doing okay? Good. Pull into space 27 there, where the lady with the yellow flag is. You'll need to wait 15 minutes. If you feel like you're having a serious allergic reaction, or you're, like, about to stop breathing, please honk your horn and turn on your hazard lights so we can come help you. Also, remember to leave your driver's side window down and the doors unlocked so we can reach you if needed."

Really, he did.

I pulled into space 27, by the lady with the yellow flag. She handed me a paper with the Lot number of my shot and the sentence "If you develop anaphylactic shock please remember to honk your horn and turn on your hazard lights."

 

"Pardon me, may I borrow your Epipen?"

 

 

So there I was. I've received a remarkable scientific breakthrough, and all I can think about is that my arm hurts, it's freezing cold, and snow is blowing into my car through the window I have to keep open. I was wondering, if I did call for help, would a rescuing nurse, doctor, or St. Bernard be more appropriate?

 

 

"You the guy who honked? Hello? Hello?"

 

Maybe I could ask the security guard to borrow his flask. After all, I'd now been vaccinated.

Faced with my bleak prospects for the next 15 minutes, I did what countless previous generations of Americans did in difficult circumstances: I played Toon Blast. Although my fingers were, admittedly, starting to get numb with frostbite.

After about 10 minutes yellow-flag-lady came over and asked me if I was having any trouble breathing. When I said no, she told me I could leave because they needed the parking space for the next person. I was more than happy to be able to roll up my car window and crank the heater up, 

For those of you who are curious, it hurt for about 2 days, longer than the flu shot, but not nearly as bad as the shingles shot.

And I'm still pretty pissed that it hasn't, to date, caused me to develop cool superpowers.

 

 

Also, is anyone else pissed off that Cyborg replaced the Martian Manhunter in the JLA reboot?

 

Legal adults

Craig: "What's that?"

Marie: "It's a box of mini-quiches Dad got from Costco. I'm making some for breakfast."

Craig: "Is there more than one kind?"

Marie: "Uh, it says some are spinach and cheese, and some are bacon and cheese."

Craig: "Can you make extras and I'll have some?"

Marie: "Sure."

Craig: "What kind do you want?"

Marie: "I'll just make the whole tray, and I'll eat whatever ones you don't want."

 

Fifteen minutes later

Marie: "Hey, how came all the bacon ones are gone?"

Craig: "I ate them."

Marie: "WHY DIDN'T YOU SAVE SOME FOR ME?"

Craig: "You said I should eat whatever ones I wanted, and you'd eat the rest."

Marie: "So you only left me spinach ones?"

Craig: "I hate spinach."

Marie: "You still should have saved me some bacon!"

Craig: "That's not what you said!"

Marie: "But they're my favorite, you dickhead!"

Dr. Grumpy: "Uh, I have to go to Costco today, I'll just get another box."

Marie: "And I get all the bacon ones."

Craig: "I'm not visiting your island in Animal Crossing if you're going to be this way."

Memories

It's been about 9 years since BlackDog died, so here's the whole story.

She'd been in declining health for some time. Not visibly suffering, but obviously going downhill bit by bit.

Toward the end she'd gotten increasingly lethargic, and at work one day I suddenly realized she'd died at home just then (don't ask me how I knew, I just did).

So I went home before the kids got there, and sure enough she was gone. She was in her usual sleeping place by the couch, looking pretty peaceful. I got a stethoscope out of my hospital bag to check (I'm a neurologist, so it was the first time in years I'd actually used one).

Obviously, getting rid of a decent-sized (60 lbs) dog isn't something easy to do. She was too big to quickly dig a hole for, I wasn't going to toss my longtime friend in a dumpster, and other things just didn't seem like a good idea:

So I carried her out to the car and called our vet to warn them I was bringing in a dead dog.

When I pulled into the lot the office manager was waiting out there for me, to get me in through the back door. She didn't feel, somewhat understandably, that a guy carrying a large dead animal in through a crowded waiting room would be good for business.

So she led me in through the back and had me set BlackDog down in a room while she went to get some paperwork.

At this point Dr. Hypervet wandered by and glanced in the room. Apparently no one had told her that a dead dog was coming in.

She ran in and began yelling "TECH! I NEED A TECH IN HERE! THIS DOG ISN'T BREATHING!"

Some tech ran in. Dr. Hypervet started listening with her stethoscope. I calmly tried to tell her the dog was dead, but every time I opened my mouth she'd "SHUSH!" me, like she was a possessed librarian.

Finally, I yelled "STOP!"

She looked up at me like I'd just climbed out of the air vent.

"Look. She's dead. I brought her in for cremation, that's all."

Dr. Hypervet looked from me to the office manager, who'd just come back.

"SHE IS? Oh, I mean, of course, uh, yes, she is. Why didn't anyone tell me in advance?"

I said "I tried to."

The office manager said: "I did, but you said you were busy."

Dr. Hypervet carefully put her stethoscope back on and firmly said, "Well, I absolutely agree with you," and walked out of the room.

I think even BlackDog was laughing.

Seen in a chart

 

Medical inventions

Several years ago I posted about Local Hospital's bizarre "washing your hands entertainment system," where the soap dispenser has a screen that shows you seemingly random items while you lather up. This is on a par with the TV screen that provides apolitical bubblegum news while you're pumping gas.

Anyway, over time you guys have sent some of your own pics of this "keeping-your-mind-busy-while-getting-an-ATV-rider's-cortex-off-your-hands" distraction, so I thought it was time to share them.

First we have this, which may come in handy if you ever hear yourself saying "I'll take 'marsupials' for $400."

 

Then there's this one, which I'm guessing sent people back to their phone wondering "who?" and looking it up before they rejoined the code-in-progress:

 

Bizarrely, this next one is incorrect. That number is per day, NOT per hour:

 

One can only hope no one was injured when the ICU doc came back from washing his hands, called the respiratory tech over, and said "the hand-washing machine says we're doing this wrong, turn her rate up to 384 breaths per minute." 

 

 

 Here's this one, which gets back to the childhood "whoever smelt it, dealt it" game.

 

 

 

 

Finally, there's this pick-me-up, in case you need a reason to feel grateful after cleaning up an unhelmeted motorcyclist who attempted riding between 2 semis.