In which I ain’t right


Chances are if you’re reading this you’re not a doctor, since most people aren’t, but I bet you can look at my x-rays there and pick out at least one thing wrong: that being that my kneecaps are in the wrong place, and pointed in the wrong directions.  As it turns out, my femurs are rotated a bit to the outside, and then my tibias are rotated a bit to the outside more, thus resulting in my fucked-up feet that point outside instead of straight ahead like they ought to.  My knees apparently hinge properly, and while there’s apparently a bit of wear where there ought not to be I’m not in danger of the damn things falling apart on me anytime soon.  Basically I have some deformities (the doctor used the word “deformities” a lot) and that’s about it.

Solutions are as follows: surgery, which would be stupid, cortisol shots followed by knee braces followed by some physical therapy, which would likely be long and fairly pointless, or I could just be less of a fatty fat-fat and lose some weight.

The doctor didn’t quite say “fatty fat-fat,” but he made sure I heard it.  Also, I only know the things I talk about up there because he was busy explaining them to the med student he had in the room with us.  He barely talked to me at all.  Like, the whole conversation was third-person.

I’m kinda tired of dickish doctors right now.

My new book, Tales: The Benevolence Archives, Vol. 3 is now available for pre-order on Amazon!  Just $2.99 for the ebook edition!

On hubris and honesty

So I just had a job interview.  For a job back at my old district.  Not a teaching position, mind you, but teacher salary and mostly teacher schedule, and I’d have my goddamn weekends back.  And I was in this weird place throughout the entire interview where part of me was like Look, literally ask any fucker I’ve ever worked with in this district and they’ll tell you I’m the best person for this job and the rest of me was both trying to rein that part in, because who talks like that, and simultaneously trying to prevent myself from literally begging for the job.

And here’s the thing: I am, if not literally the most qualified person for the job– although I might be– a really fucking solid candidate, and this shit’s perfectly 100% in my wheelhouse.  And there’s nothing wrong with doing my damnedest to make that clear, but when combined with my fucking neediness that I’m trying to keep under control, because I need to not be selling furniture and working 17.5 hours every weekend anymore, it can get out of control quickly.

And then– get this– on the way out of the elevator, after ascertaining that one way or another there will be a second round of interviews and this isn’t happening in the next few days and I need to be patient, I ran into a friend of mine who was there to interview for the same job.  Who, in fact, I had listed as a reference on my application.

Luckily, she was also interviewing for a couple of other positions under the same umbrella, which made me feel a bit better, because– and I say this with full knowledge that she reads the blog and occasionally comments here– a good part of my brain was going I will step over your body if I have to for this while we were talking in the hallway, and I kinda prefer it if that part of my brain stays locked away, right?  That part of my brain is why I don’t drink, because it’s best for everyone if it never gets let out.

Fuck it, she’s known me for years, this is probably not a surprising reaction.

But yeah.  I think that went well.  But I’d prefer to know now, please, so if karma would take my toiling in the furniture mines into account and get this shit moving along, that’d be dandy, thanks.

My new book, Tales: The Benevolence Archives, Vol. 3 is now available for pre-order on Amazon!  Just $2.99 for the ebook edition!

Well, that’s new

13-5I did, in fact, manage to make it through my doctor’s visit yesterday without any invasive examinations, which I mostly wasn’t super interested in anyway.  The part of me that was super interested was the bit that writes blog posts, though.

I discovered a new way that the world can degrade me today, though: I needed to visit the doctor mostly because she needed to re-up my refills for my blood pressure medicine, and she insists on twice-yearly checkups for anyone on maintenance meds, which I’m okay with in principle.  The real reason, on my end at least, was that I’ve decided it’s time to start moving toward getting robot parts, and I need referrals for that.  My knees are fucked up, guys, and fucked up in a way that manifests itself by my feet sticking out in directions that feet are not supposed to point while I’m walking.  As you all know, because I gripe about it all the fucking time, I have three eleven-hour shifts a week at my job in addition to the two six-hour shifts, and at the end of those shifts I have to drive home.  By the time I get home, half an hour or so later, my joints have locked themselves up so thoroughly that I can barely walk.  I occasionally wonder whether the neighbor kids have made a sport of being by the windows when I get home from work so that they can watch me hobble down my long-ass driveway to check the mail.  I’m fat, yes, but there are tons of people way fatter than me and my mobility issues are, I think, at the very least at the long end of the tail for people my size.

So, yeah: can I have a referral to an orthopedist, please?  Or whatever a knee doctor is called, because I always feel like the word is the wrong word even if I’ve just looked it up to check?  And most of the time I want the word “osteopath,” but I’m pretty sure osteopathy is voodoo, even if I like to say the word better?

Sure, patient, you can have an orthopedist.  Which one?

(As an aside, the horrified look on both my doctor and the types-rapidly-on-the-laptop person who always seems to come into the room with the doctor nowadays when they really looked at my feet for the first time was hilarious.)

Well, my mom liked this one dude who replaced her knee.  Can I use him?


And then I wait a day, and then the degradation happens.  Get this: I got a call from my doctor’s office today, from the incredibly apologetic person who drew the short stick and had to make this call, and get this: this orthopedist who I specifically requested said that he was not willing to treat me because I’m too fat.  As in, I’m not allowed to even darken his fucking door.  Not “you’ll need to lose weight before we do knee replacement surgery.”  I’m not even at “you need knee replacement surgery” right now despite all the jokes about robot parts.  I want a medical professional to tell me what to do about my knees, and yes, I’m fully expecting to hear “losing weight will help,” and yes, it will, but it will not solve the problem that my feet point the wrong fucking direction, and that’s not because I’m fat, even though the fatness makes the pain and stress on my knees worse.  But maybe I don’t need new knees!  Maybe I can just wear a brace or something!  I don’t know, that’s why I need a doctor!

But no.  He won’t even see me, because my BMI is too high.  What’s my BMI?  I dunno, but it’s apparently over 40, because he flat-out refuses to see any patients with a BMI of 40 or above.  Ever.

So fuck that guy, gimme an appointment with someone who isn’t a dickhead.

(Which, by the way, I just GISed “40 BMI”?  And holy shit I do not look like this:


BMI-Infographic-1Anybody with the profile of the King Kong Bundy-lookin’ motherfucker on the right there has got to be pushing 500 pounds, if not more.  I’m 5’10” and just over 300, which, granted, is probably the heaviest I’ve ever been, but my profile matches the gray one in the middle much more than either of the other two.  Holy shit.)

Anyway, here’s to hoping that my new doctor isn’t an asshole, and can fix my stupid knees and my stupid obtuse-angled feet, and fuck that other guy.