A day at the V. A.

So I'm sitting in the holding cell, I mean the waiting room at the V A hospital yesterday. I dread hospitals, am terrified of doctors, and find the odor of antiseptic to be repugnant. The only way I can drag myself to the hospital is if I google my symptoms. Google will usually push me over the edge, convinced I have body cancer or Ebola, I will trudge like the condemned to the gallows, to the giant house of pain and death on 31st street, the V A hospital. There was a time , when I would smoke a little weed before I went to the V A, it calmed me on the ride there, but once I got there I would freak out, and my fight or flight mode would kick in. I'd run out of there like the lone wildebeest at a lion convention.

Every single time I go to the V A something happens. A few months ago I'm walking up to the entrance, and just as I'm walking in to the revolving door all hell breaks loose. Sirens were going off , really fucking loud sirens. I took that as a harbinger of the apocalypse, or at the very least a sign that my visit for acid reflux would result in one of those botched surgeries, go in for a tonsillectomy, next thing you know you wake up with your ass grafted to your face. I did a full 360 in that revolving door and went and bought some prilosec.

Today was no different. No sooner had I sat my ass in one of those hard plastic chairs, it happened. Code blue , Code blue , Code Blue in the triage, a bored voice said through the shitty sounding speaker. Oh snap, I'm in triage! I looked around me, everyone seemed to be breathing, some barely, and one guy was rocking back and forth in his chair, mumbling gibberish, still everyone had a pulse at least. I figured it was in a different area of triage, or I was having an out of body experience and soon I would be watching the medical staff heroically attempting to revive me. Luckily for all of you, it was the former and I remained in my body, and my plastic chair.

The V A ain't exactly Sloan Kettering, but it has improved, that said, it's still a third rate hospital at best, but third rate beats a kick in the ass and a generic Tylenol. So I get in to see a Doc within an hour and a half. I'm having some stomach issues, I'll spare you the details. A wiry red headed 50 something doctor comes in the exam room, this is a surprise since most of the doctors are from India or Pakistan, not that there is anything wrong with that. I actually prefer the middle eastern docs, they tend to speak slower, while the doctor I had today mumbled really fast. He starts with the questions, hunched over his computer screen.

"Where you ever sexually harassed or assaulted in the military?".......uhmmmm, not that I recall.

" do you suffer from post traumatic stress?"...........I was in the Coast Guard , I never saw action, just drunk boaters in the estuary in Alameda, and an angry seal that chased people going in to the Px.

Doctors have no sense of humor, he looks at me like I wiped a booger on him.

" Do you smoke?" ......What?.... "Do you smoke?"........Cigarettes?......yes. I get the obligatory stink eye, and the lecture that smoking is bad, Mmmmmkay.

On and on the questions go, then we get to the heart of the matter. "What's the problem?" So I go through the list of symptoms, he orders a couple of gallons of blood work, thumps my stomach like he is choosing a melon at the HyVee. "How much did you weigh when you were 20" he asks. I tell him about 165, 170. He asks if I was in good shape then. I respond that I was a stallion. Well he says, your optimum weight doesn't change, you should lose some weight. I ask how much, and he says I should weigh what i did 29 years and 30 pounds ago. I fight the urge to tell him his mother has a wooden leg with a kickstand, and head for the blood letting.

So now I wait for a few days or weeks, they'll get back to me, and either tell me I'M just getting fat, or I have cancer everywhere but the bottoms of my feet. I'm hoping for the fat diagnosis. On a brighter note, my ass and face are intact and in their proper places, although a few of my readers might disagree.