True picture from The Chicken Doctor’s office.
Now, I recognize that doesn’t look too medieval. In fact, with that little piece of 1985 wristwear wrapped around its neck, it looks practically friendly in a jazz-hands and shorty-shorts Richard-Simmons way. Only? After leading me into the exam room, asking a few preliminary questions, and disappearing for about 2.3 minutes, the nurse returned just long enough to place that contraption on the counter, aim it at me, nod to herself as she glanced at my forehead, and leave the room. For over an hour. More than sixty minutes of that can pointing at me. And it didn’t take long for me to tune out happy-screechy-manic Richard delusions (I can only take so much of that anyway, even in my imagination) and start overanalyzing the nozzle situation and its potential for erasing my face in the very near future.
“It looks like a butane tank,” I told Mr. Goodbar nervously.
Apparently, and judging solely from the expression on his face and the slow shaking of his head at me, either (a) I have no idea what a butane tank looks like, or (b) there is no such thing as a butane tank.
Fine. Whatever. THEY’RE GOING TO BLOWTORCH MY FACE, OKAY?!!?
Whether or not I know what a blowtorch looks like might have been called into question, too, except I took that opportunity to seize several brochures about skin cancer and my husband, he knows to enjoy the quiet before the storm of the next self-diagnosis I’m working my way towards.
Anyway. The can wasn’t a blowtorch, either.
Dr. Chicken, M.D. used that can to freeze two tiny spots on my forehead and then used some OTHER device, one I couldn’t see (on account of gauze above my eyes), to burn holes through my forehead, behind my skull, and into my brain. I am not even kidding, as I sit here typing there are two little holes burned into my brain. I am a little bit kidding. Or maybe in denial. About what, I can’t be sure. I’m confused. Which is probably a side effect of the holes. That I don’t really have. That are causing me to not know what I’m talking about.
Why is it I cannot see a wrist sweatband without thinking of Richard Simmons? Also, striped shorty-shorts. Think of either one and BAM there he is. Think of him and BAM there they are.
Why couldn’t Chicken Doc have strategically burned away the Sweatin’ to the Oldies memories while he was erasing things on/in my head? That’d have made him The Chicken Doctor of Merciful 1980s Erasure Benevolence.
Erasure. Wow. Haven’t thought of them in a loooooong time.
Wait. Huh? How’d we get here . . . .
Weirdly (in a sea of weirdliness) he (El Doctor de Pollo–not Richard or the Erasure fellows) noted a third spot on my forehead that looked to also be a blocked oil gland, but wanted to wait to treat it until the followup. He’s a twisted one, Dr. Chicken.
Mainly, I’m just going back for the material. And more pictures. And maybe because I’m a little twisty, too?
That, and already met my deductible for the year. So now it’s just me, my copays, a sea of specialist and physician options . . . and 5.5 months left in the year. I’m trying to make good use of all that, too: in the last month I’ve had the annual under-the-hood checkup (you’d think with all the stirrup visits in the last year there’d have been a two-fer in there somewhere–but no), two holes burned into my forehead, an array of blood tests, and I’m on the lookout for other medical opportunities. Thinking I might go get The Fallopes one of those x-ray-and-dye roto-rooterings. For fun.
Then, maybe I’ll get all crazy and quit wearing pants when I weed-eat. Or self-test my Ginsu-chopping-dicing skills. Or pick an afternoon when I’m home alone to carry the excess boxes from the attic down to the garage. Or walk blindfolded and barefooted through the house in an open dare to all of the furniture legs.
I’m a real edge-liver-oner.