I’ve spent the past several days driving back and forth and back and forth and back and forth to Walter Reed in DC, seeing more doctors, having more tests done, being poked at more times than ever. And they still don’t know what’s wrong. Lyme Disease? Nope. Gall bladder? Nope. Infection somewhere? Probably. But here’s the kicker – it very well might be malaria.
You know, I’ve always wanted to go to Africa. Egypt, South Africa, Sierra Leone, a whole list of places. But I never ever dreamed of going. Why? Because I knew that with my luck I’d catch the most random, the most deadly, the weirdest disease possible to get while going to Africa. If it turns out that I got malaria and didn’t get to set foot in Africa once, I’m going to be really, really angry. Forget being Switzerland, I will be one mad sick girl.
The major thing that’s confusing the doctors, and lessening the chances that it’s not malaria, is as Dr. Fishbain said, “You’ve been sick for two months and you’re not dead yet.” Charming, isn’t it? Real reassuring, heart-warming, and comforting, huh? Oh well, at least the bearer of bad news has a really cool name. Fishbain. I think I’ll use that name as the villain’s evil assistant in some book or movie or something. It reminds me of Wormwood, only better – Fishbain!
I’ll find out in the next few days if it’s malaria – as far as I know, a General had to approve the test, since it’s so unbelievably random and rare. I don’t know what will happen if it comes back one way or another. I really don’t know a whole lot about malaria. If it’s positive, no clue. If it’s negative, then I get to have one of the glands in my neck taken out so they can examine it. Hooray! Surgery! Fishbain!
At least one thing went right yesterday. Immediately after my appointment was supposed to be over, I had an appointment to see good ole’ Doctor Dahl, my friendly neighborhood acupuncturist. However, Fishbain was running late, which made me run late, which made Doctor Dahl late. It wasn’t Fishbain’s fault though – he was stuck in a meeting with a two star General, and as he said, you just don’t run out on two star Generals. Halfway through my appointment with Fishbain, I sent Mom down to Doctor Dahl to explain what was going on and to hopefully reschedule the appointment.
However, Doctor Dahl is so nice, he decided to stay late and wait for me. Half an hour later, I finally arrived at his office and he went ahead and took care of me anyway. He was pretty concerned for me and tried his best to cheer me up. But, the funniest thing ended up being an accident. (If you’re squeamish, you might not want to read this bit, but personally, I think it’s really really funny.) Dr. Dahl usually puts a needle into my wrist, just below my hand. Naturally, he did the same this time, only on this particular day, it did something magical.
While he was out of his office for a little while, retrieving some lidocaine he was gonna put in my shoulders, I raised my hands to look and see how red the needle marks had become (if they turn red, that means he’s hit the right nerve and all the bad ‘chi’ is rising to the skin – or as he says, “If it turns red, that means you’re in pain someplace else.”) I was looking contemplatively at my hand when suddenly, I decided to stretch my little pinkie finger out. But, something else happened when I did that – not only did my pinkie move, but so did the needle in my wrist! Every time my pinkie went up, the needle went down. If I curled my pinkie, the needle went up. Right then and there, it was hilarious!
A few moments later, Dr. Dahl returned to his office and heard me giggling. I raised my hand again and said, “Look! I can do a trick!” I wiggled my pinkie and moved the needle up and down. He started to giggle too and then said, “Watch this!” He grabbed my hand, straightened out my pinkie, then told me to wiggle just the very tip of my pinkie. I couldn’t do it and we both started to laugh. He explained that he’d accidentally put the needle into a tiny muscle that controls the movement of just the bottom of my pinkie, but there’s a different one to move the very tip. I wiggled it some more, we laughed for quite a while, and as he started to take the needles out, he said, “You know, I really wish we could leave your new toy in so you could go show your mother.” We giggled some more then started to talk about how you should never try acupuncture on the first date, cause most likely, you won’t have a second. I told him about how I had performed a few acupuncture points on myself while staying with Alastair, and that he got all woozy just at the thought of the needles. Dr. Dahl laughed and said, “That makes it all worth it, doesn’t it?” Finally, he paused as he was injected the lidocaine into my shoulders, turned to me and said, “You know, if anybody else was alone in my office, wiggled their pinkie, and saw the needle move, they’d be freaking out. But not you!”
So I have a kindred (twisted) spirit in Dr. Dahl. I thanked him for staying late for me and he said, “I stay for all my famous patients. Besides, if you were a pain in the butt, I wouldn’t have stayed. But you, you’re sick like me. That makes everything funny.”
He cheered me up enough that the hour ride home wasn’t too unbearable. But, I’ve decided I’ve definitely spent too much time at that hospital. Apart from the frustration, how do I know? The parking lot attendants have a nickname for me now. Not a bad nickname, but a constant nickname none the left. As soon as I drive up, they all smile and wave and say, “It’s Hollywood!” The first time they said it, they said it was because of my cool black BMW and my big black sunglasses. So now, every time I drive up, it’s “Hello, Hollywood! How we doin’ today?”
I’m hoping it’s a sign. I’ve been working on a new TV show lately, malaria and all. And I figure that since in O Brother Where Art Thou the quintessential prophet character was played by an African American man, and that I might have an African disease, AND that the fellow who calls me Hollywood is an African American, that it’s all a sign. He’s the Prophet, just like in O Brother, just like in the Odyssey, and as soon as I get rid of my African disease, I’m goin’ to Hollywood! Hehe.
Yeah. Right. Fishbain! Hehe.