Month: April 2019

A true account of why doctors scare the hell out of us, by Phil Strawn

About a month ago I, I started feeling lousy. I couldn’t finger what was wrong, but I felt like crap, all day, every day. At my age, health issues can be expected and are dealt with appropriately. After a week of misery, I did what most people do; I turned to the internet to find out what’s wrong.

I found a medical site, typed in my symptoms and waited for the diagnosis. Within ten minutes, a web site called “Doctor E” sent me an email with his expert diagnosis attached. It’s a good thing I was sitting when I opened the report because I damn near passed out.
I have symptoms of 14 significant diseases including early onset Ebola and the rare Racoon Flu.
Realizing, that I may not last until supper, I called my wife and asked if I should drive myself to the hospital now or wait for her to get home so I can expire in her presence.
My wife, a wise nurse, knows how to handle delicate situations and tells me to “get off the damn internet and book an appointment with Doc Bones.”

The next morning at 9 am, I see my doctor. He prods, pokes, looks into my eyes and ears, takes the blood pressure, and then hands me over to nurse Dracula for a blood draw. I’ve had blood drawn many times, and there is never a problem, but this woman stabbed me four times before finding a vein. Once the suitable vessel is accessed, she proceeds to harvest six vials of my precious elixir for the lab testing. A half-gallon of blood lighter, I head home to await the lab testing.
In a few days, a nurse calls with the results. My PSA is off the charts, so she shuffles me over to a urologist for further diagnosis.

I meet with Dr. Finger, and he tells me there will be a biopsy of the offending gland. First thing I ask is, “will it hurt?” in which he responds, ” you might feel a little prick,” which in medical terms translates to it’s going to hurt like hell, so bring a bullet to bite.

The morning of the biopsy procedure, finds me laying on an exam table with an alien anal probe biopsy vehicle violating my body. Now I know how those poor alien abductees felt, and I thought they were just whiners.
Two weeks pass, and I see Dr. Finger for the follow-up visit. He doesn’t candy coat my diagnosis: prostate cancer #7, moderately passive-aggressive.
“It’s a form that lolligags around for a while, won’t cause a fuss until it gets pissed off and decides to hit back,” he explains.

My options are robotic surgery to remove the little demon, massive doses of radiation for eight weeks or tiny radioactive pellets implanted into the sickly gland.
Doc says, ” the Chernobyl seed implants work well, but I can’t pass through airport security for a year, and pee will glow in the dark for at least a decade. The massive radiation will leave you weak and whiny as a pre-teen girl.”

The robotic thing catches my attention, I say to Doc, ” I’m imagining the Lost In Space robot zipping around the OR, arms flying screaming “danger..danger.” ” Oh, its nothing like that,” he says. “The surgery is performed by a medical robot called DaVinci. Think of it as R2D2 with a grey beard, a velvet beret and cape with an Italian accent. Very efficient and European. When the surgery is over, little ” Leonardo” paints you a small portrait of the Mona Lisa and gives you a gift basket of wine and cheese from the Tuscany valley. You also receive the evil little gland encapsulated in an Italian crystal jar. It makes an unusual conversation piece at parties.”
Doc and I shake hands, and my wife and I depart for home. We have options to consider, but time is of the essence. Like rust, cancer never sleeps.

I visited my local Sun City H.E.B. a few days ago to shop for the week. Just so you know, I loathe shopping for groceries, negotiating the crowded aisles, and pushing a cart that steers hard left while trying to read your shopping list and dodge the blue hairs wanting to run you over. It’s more than any man my age should have to endure.

The geriatric inhabitants of “Clan Sun City” have christened this store as their domain, and they make their own rules of engagement. I’ve had my toes run over, my legs pinned between a grocery cart and the dairy cabinet, rammed from behind for being too slow, and verbally assaulted by an 80-pound octogenarian because I got the last loaf of “dollar bread.” The old bag pulled out an ancient flip-top Motorola cell phone and threatened to call 911 to report me, so I reluctantly handed over the loaf. She shook a bony finger in my face and growled, “And your little dog too.”

Wednesday is the big day for the sample girls to push their wares on the shoppers. You can’t go twenty feet without a chirpy hostess wearing her “Pioneer Woman” apron wanting to stick a food sample in your face. Forget trying to escape; they track you until you stop and thrust the toothpick-impaled morsel into your protesting mouth. I unwillingly managed to taste sushi, sausage roll, carrot cake, cheese whiz, and wine before I could get to the first aisle, and by then, I needed a Prilosec OTC, so I bought that as well.

Shopping completed, I proceeded to the checkout stand, and when rounding a corner near the book section, I bumped hard into a table partially blocking the aisle.

Sitting behind a 6-foot fold-out table was Father Frank, the priest from my church, “Our Lady of Perpetual Repentance.”
On his table is a stack of leaflets, bottles of water, and giveaway key chains shaped like the Virgin Mary. It’s been a while since I have seen the good Father, so we exchange our pleasantries.

After a brief howdy conversation, I asked Father Frank why he was staffing a table at a grocery store.
With a deep sigh, he explained, “The church is losing so many of the flock that the diocese has put me here to drum up new members.”
Not wanting to offend by asking delicate questions, I say, ” I suppose you have to start somewhere, and the crowd here is about the right age to be finalizing their looming Heavenly travel arrangements.” He thought that was prolific and said he would use that phrase in a future sermon.

Now, more curious, I ask him about the giveaways laid out on his table.
With a big smile, he explains, “The bottled water is actually blessed holy water, bottled right in my church by altar boys. We figured if it was good enough to drive out demons and christen babies, it is strong enough to cure the pallet and insides of foul offenses. It has a slight hint of mint so it may be used as an alcohol-free mouthwash in a pinch. I drank a bottle a few days ago and was confined to the rectory bathroom for many hours. Nothing like a happy gut you know”.
I said, “Yes I know that feeling and my cousin Beverly could have used a case of that for mouthwash if you know what I mean.” He said he did and gave me a bottle for her deliverance.

The good Father is on a roll and excitedly explains that they have made considerable changes to his church to attract new members.
He proudly proclaims, handing me the leaflet, “Look at these pictures! We now have a glassed-in section of pews with flat-screen monitors installed on the back of each bench so the young can access their computer games and social media during the sermon, which is piped into the enclosure by a high-powered HD digital audio system.
To save parishioners time, confessions can be uploaded via your home computer or smartphone, and communion has an optional wine flight that, for a nominal fee, comes with a small crystal goblet.”
Am I not hearing him, right? Preteen kids gaming in the pews, computer confessions, wine tasting? How about the singing choirs, the fire, and damnation, the rock-hard pews that make your butt sweat and your legs numb? A church service is supposed to make you miserable, not comfortable.

I tried to interrupt, but the good Father was in over-drive as he continued to exclaim: “The most daring change and the one I’m most proud of is the conversion of the adult Sunday school room to a sports bar for after-service football games. It’s a brilliant concept; come to church, walk across the hall and watch the game on 70-inch flat screens. We call it “The Blue Nun Sports Bar,” with Mother Prudy’s help, I recruited some of the younger nuns from the Abby to come over and wait tables after their service. The sisters are doing a great job but grumbling about the miserly tips and are threatening to hold a sit-in.”
I told them to stop offering a repentance prayer over every beer served, and the tips may improve. It’s best to reserve a blessing for food service only.
Next thing I know, they are wearing t-shirts with “We Aren’t Your Momma’s Nuns” on the back. I don’t know what gives with these younger sisters. The piercings and spiky hairdos are not what I‘m used to. Nuns are supposed to be stoic and mean, not cute and hip.
Well, I say, ” you’re certainly doing everything you can to increase membership, I may have to come to see you next Sunday. I need a good dose of religion and football.”
I shake the good father’s hand, bid him adieu, and shuffle to the checkout.

On my way out of the store I notice, tucked in by the potting soil and flowers, a table staffed by a young, tanned, rock star-haired, frock-clad fellow flanked by two bikini-clad girls handing out free cold beer and hot dogs.
The sign above them read “Rolling Rock Love and Peace Community Church Membership Drive.” I was thirsty, so I scooted on over. Looks like Father Frank may be in trouble here.