Revenge of the Xiphisternum

I think it's been five years now - since I first went to Doctor Rhamadamadingdong about the lump on my chest and was told I have no lump on my chest. Four doctors, two x-rays and one ultrasound later and I find myself at Dr. Grant's Lipomorium on the promise that this specialist would be the one to determine which of these spreading little beasts should be removed and would be the one to do the removing.

After poking me into oblivion with his bionic finger he announced, "These aren't Lipomas. There's nothing I can do for you."

"Oh. Do you have any idea what they are?"

"Not a clue. I can't detect a thing. I'll contact your family doctor and let him know."

"Oh. Okay. Do you have any idea what kind of doctor I should see about this?"

"Not a clue."

Five years, five doctors and I'm back at square one. Except whatever these frigging masses are, they're many times larger now.

The ex is in the medical industry. I called to see if any strings could be pulled. Some way I could get in to see a good doctor. The kind who don't normally take new patients very often.

"Yeah, for sure. Doctor so-and-so! He's excellent!"

"Really? that would be great! But what kind of doctor is he?"

"He's a pathologist."

!?!?

"I'm sorry. Did you say pathologist? I was kind of hoping for an answer prior to the autopsy. Does he ever examine live people?"

"No. Just cadavers and body parts. Amputated limbs and such."

"I see. Yes. Um. You understand I'd prefer to remain intact, right?"

"Of course. You wouldn't see him in an official sense. You'd come visit me when I'm on evening shift and he could take a look at you on the side. He wouldn't mind staying a bit late to do me a favor."

"Does he work in the morgue area?"

"Yes."

"Okay. We're gonna forget we had this conversation."

Xiphisternum Strikes Back

Cruising along Eglinton Avenue I easily spot the Medical Arts Building. The address, '2000' is displayed on the windowless top floor in numerals roughly eight feet high. Finding unit 103 is another matter.

I must travel down a side road well past the building before discovering a parking lot which might actually be residential parking. I'm unsure. Off of that lot lies a two-tier parking complex where a sign touting Public Parking points to the lower-level entrance. I see many cars heading up the ramp to the second level instead but my mother raised no fools. I follow directions. Oddly - of the three parking areas the only one marked Public is also the only one featuring controlled access - for which there are no instructions provided and for which I have no access card as is obviously required.

Clearly some building manager or sign painter has struggled with the English definitions of public and private and confused the two. Okay. Dilemma solved. I park elsewhere.

I climb the stairs to the plaza and discover a long row of medical type outlets that are clearly marked. Unit 112, Unit 111, etc. I carry on, whistling a happy tune until I reach the door that I expect to be unit 103. Alas there is no unit 103. Only a 103A. So I check the requisition form and it clearly reads 103. Also the name on the form reads Credit Valley Diagnostics and the sign over 103A is - I don't recall - Speculum City or some damn thing.

But there is a doorway to the plaza interior and minimal wandering within reveals a sign bearing directions to unit 103. Bravo.

Inside the waiting room there are two patients apparently in queue and I curse myself for having left both my novel and notebook in the car.

But to my delight I'm ushered straight through. Rock-star treatment. I suppose xiphisternums are currently all the rage and I'm boosting this outfit's reputation by choosing them. I nod smugly as the lady at the desk views my form and keys my info into her computer.

"Where's the sternum?" she asks.

"It's in my chest," I say. She shoots me a very brief tired glance.

"On the second screen," says the woman at the next desk. My lady nods, clicks her mouse and continues typing. Oops. I guess she wasn't talking to me.

I'm led to the hall of curtains where one of them is whipped back revealing a very small cubicle beyond. I'm told to enter, to bare myself from the waist up and to don a gown.

'Oh great,' I'm thinking. 'Bib, you mean.' I'm sure it will be too small. I enter and the curtain is whipped closed behind me. The booth is very very small and is dark and full of signage.


Please put on gown provided. When finished,
deposit gown in white basket.


There's no white basket in here. Just me and a bench and one gown and one magazine. Oh and about seven molecules of air.


If you are pregnant or may possibly
be pregnant please notify us.


I chuckle aloud. Potential fun here. I consider the possibilities but decline.


Please do not stand in hallway. Stay seated in cubicle.
We will come for you shortly.


Oh dear. I shall be come for. How ominous. I lose the jacket, collared shirt and tee shirt while knocking the crap out of the three walls with my elbows. 'How does Superman do this?' It takes a monumental effort to haphazardly tie the various strings behind me. I should have tied them up first and then pulled the thing on over my head. Duh.

I sit as instructed and take up the magazine. It is Aboriginal Banking Magazine and it's extremely thin. Thank god because space in this cell is at a severe premium. I open it to find it's even thinner than I thought. The first six pages are in English and the final six - upside down - are in French.

Did you know that Churchill, Ontario is the polar bear capital of Canada? Or that Cuper's Cove in Conception Bay, Newfoundland was the first permanent English settlement in Canada? I know - because I read all about it in Aboriginal Banking. So there. Did you know that polar bears provided banking services to the earliest English settlers and that they would maul them to death if their mortgage payments were late? Okay - I made that last part up. Sorry. I had you going there for a bit, didn't I?

I hear my name being called. They're coming for me. I exit and am escorted to the lab where a big robotic octopus awaits me with open arms.

The process is relatively quick and almost painless. But it's not enough to stand in the right place and be very still and not breathe. The technician insists that I contort myself.

"Point your elbows back," she says. "Push your chest out." Good grief. What next? Shall I quack like a duck? I'm not at all limber. I'm in significant discomfort.

"Come on. Get those elbows back. Try to push them together!"

'Jesus Christ, lady, I'm not a transformer. What you see is what you get.'

Three pics and the ordeal is done. I'm released. I'm slow to redress. My flank is tender after all the chest thrusting. Probably pulled a muscle I hadn't used in nineteen years. Good thing I'm going back to the doc on Friday.

FWG

Xiphisternum update

I saw Dr. Youssef today. The waiting room is small and the wait was short. Bravo.

"How do you pronounce your name, doctor?" I asked.

"Yow-seff," he replied. "Like Joseph - but Egyptian."

"Ah. I see."

He ran an ECG on me. That's where they hook umpteen electrodes up to you with sticky fly paper. He says the heart is good and yes, I can safely join a gym.

"I want you to run three hours a day," he said, patting my belly. I just about fell over. He shrugged his shoulders and giggled. That crazy Egyptian humour...

Anyways, I quite like him. I have to go for X-Rays Monday and see him again in a week.

My xiphisternum revisited

I've been feeling a bit of discomfort in my chest of late. In fact it seems to get a bit worse every day. Further probing revealed that the lump in the centre of my chest has grown significantly. Enough farting around. Gotta find a Streetsville physician and get this looked after. I'm confident it's just a harmless lipoma as Dr Harry suggested but I get the feeling it's gonna have to be removed. It seems to be raising a bit of a fuss down there. To be honest I'm a tad worried.

The web site for the Ontario College of Physicians & Surgeons offers a very convenient search facility for locating doctors who are accepting new patients. I find some who's offices are located in the neighborhood that lies between the apartment and my workplace and I get on the phone.

"Dr. Tsang's Office."

"Hello. I understand Dr. Tsang is accepting new patients."

"No. He's not."

"He's not accepting new patients?"

"No sir."

"Okay. Bye then."

Perhaps the web site is in need of updating. I call up Dr. Hany Tawfeek Beshay.

"Hi. You've reached the Bristol Family Medical Centre. Our hours are Monday through Friday nine AM to eight PM, Saturday and Sunday ten AM to three PM. We're not available to take your call right now but please leave your name and telephone number and we'll return your call shortly. Thank you and have a good day."

"Hello. My Name's Fantasy Writer Guy. I understand Dr. Beshay is accepting new patients and I'd like to make an appointment please. My number is..."

After a half hour I've received no return call and I'm growing impatient. Screw Dr. Beshay. I go back to the list and dial up the next doctor. The receptionist is clearly the world's fastest talker.

"Medical-associates-of-Meadowvale-can-you-hold-please!"

"Certainly," I reply - to no one in particular. She'd cut me off two milliseconds after voicing the word please. But she comes back.

"Are-you-calling-to-make-inquiries-regarding-the-new-patient-information-form!"

"Um. No. I understand that Dr. Wong is accepting new patients and I was wondering if-"

"No-he's-not-but-doctor-Summersol-is-accepting-new-patients-she-can-see-you-December-third-would-you-like-to-make-an-appointment!"

"Oh. Um. December third? That seems a long way away. I don't think I can wait that-"

"I-can-direct-you-to-an-internet-site-providing-a-list-of-physicians-accepting-new-patients!"

"That's okay. I already found one. I'll just-"

"Goodbye-then!" Click.

"- um..."

Back to the list. I dial the number for doctor Markijan Kramarchuk. I get voice mail.

"Hello. You've reached the Sprains and Strains Sports Medical Rehabilitation-" Click. To hell with that. Back to the list. I try Doctor Philippe Yostos. More voice mail. They're closed Wednesdays. Back to the list. Ooh! Dr. Wang Chung! This has got to be the one. I can't wait to tell all my friends that my new doctor is Wang Chung and we're all havin' fun tonight. I dial the number.

"Dr. Chung's office."

"Hello. I understand Dr. Chung is accepting new patients? I'd like to make an appointment please."

"You need to come down to the office and fill in an application form."

"And then I can see the doctor?"

"No. It's just an application. We'll call you if you're accepted."

Awkward silence...

"Oh. Um. Okay then. Tell me - what um - what kind of patients are deemed acceptable - um - generally? 'Cause - you know - maybe I could get an idea whether or not I fit the profile - of a desirable patient. And if not then - you know - I could save us both some time - um - you know what? I think I may have called the wrong number. Thanks anyway. Bye."

"You're welcome." Click.

What the f...? Have I missed something here? Does Canada still have a single-tiered health system or have I been in a coma for a while?

Back to the goddam list.

"Credit River Medical Clinic."

"Hello. Is Dr. Youssef accepting new patients?"

"Yes. He is."

"Oh. Good. May I make an appointment?"

"Certainly. What time of day is good for you?"

"Any time. I'd like to see him as soon as possible please."

"How does Friday - ten-thirty sound?"

"This Friday?"

"The day after tomorrow."

"Sounds perfect. Thank you."

"Your name please?" I tell her.

"We'll see you Friday. Bye now."

There. That wasn't so hard now, was it?


FWG

The state of all things

The state of the blog

Okay - life has been chaotic of late. The move to Streetsville. The car going ka-putz. Dear old Blue - the miracle dog - almost going ka-putz. Been playing lacrosse in two different leagues this summer. Too much. Too few moments of calm with which to put coherent editorials together.

I've been feeling a little guilty over the neglect of el-bloggo. One or two posts a week doesn't really cut it. I think a blog should ideally be updated daily, don't you?

I'm thinking I should post shorter blurbs but more frequently - and maybe not be so fussy. Generally for every two to three entries I post, I leave one unpublished, judging it too boring.

I realize I've left some stories hanging - thus the nature of this entry - a hodgepodge of updates.

Perhaps I'm starting to take this thing just a tad seriously thanks to the new counter I just installed a month ago. I'm surprised to learn I'm actually getting a few hits now and then. Whether that's just Captain Vino peaking in three times a day or just a steady patrol of search-engine robots, I don't know.

ATTENTION:
ALL SEARCH ENGINE ROBOTS VISITING THIS SITE MUST REPORT TO THE COMMENT SECTION AND IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!

THANK YOU!
IT'S THE LEAST YOU CAN DO, YOU PROBING LITTLE MICRO-TRIPPING NANOFREAKS!

Actually I'm thinking about inviting a guest writer or two to join the roster and thus provide a little more volume and variety. We'll see how that goes.
I'd certainly have gone to Captain Vino with an offer but he's got his own forum:

Freak Magnet Dave



The state of dear old Blue, miracle dog

She has now turned 14. She also had her bandage removed finally and the procedure - thus far - appears to have been successful. She lives on - and seems happy.



The state of Fantasy Writer Guy

FWG is much too tubby. And it's time to do something about it. Or we're not going to live long enough to finish this confounded fantasy adventure trilogy. The 6-step plan:

1. Find the scale that has mysteriously failed to appear through the entire post-move unpacking process.
2. Join a gym
3. Go to godforsaken gym every other day whether we likes it or not.
4. No more dessert.
5. No more outrageously stupid food - like french-fries.
6. Publish results on the blog including any and all cheating. Perhaps fear of public embarrassment will prove motivation where other sources have failed.



The state of my xiphisternum

I never did get my tests done to ensure this lump in my chest is just a harmless lipoma and not something dire. I really should get around to that. Got to find a Streetsville physician.



The state of the eye-clicking

I once promised to conduct a research survey to determine the prevalence of eye-clickers. The results are long overdue. Here they are:

50% of all surveyed reported that they frequently experience a clicking sensation when rubbing their tired eyes.

Number of persons surveyed: 2

Fantasy Writer Guy's surveys are accurate within 2.0% one time in fifty.



The state of the banana boat

Gee willikers. I finally got the plates today. Over a week ago I'd gone to the MTO office with my bill of sale, my safety certificate, the signed permit, my old plates, the plate permit, the transfer portion of the used vehicle information package and a rhino-choking wad of cash. But I was turned away. Be warned. All this is not enough. You also need an emissions certificate.

So - I went to the Canadian Tire Service Centre on Tuesday and abandoned the boat to them for a half-hour. I scoured the nearby Goodwill store (landing seven decent novels and a VHS copy of Ferris Bueller's Day Off - all for just over ten bucks), then returned to pick up the boat and my emissions certificate for a cool $38. I passed but barely. The Customer Service Guy was very careful to point out that my parts per 'm' of 'HC' was 52 and the limit is 52 - one for every card in the deck. No Jokers aloud. I suspect 'm' stands for 'thousand'. I dunno about the 'HC'. Helpings of Crap perhaps? He was actually a little snotty about it - which got my back up. Never mind that this was only the ASM2525 reading and that at 'curb idle' I only had 27 helpings of crap under a limit of 150! Now that is some passing with flying colours right there! That's an 82% crap-helping cushion right there - but did I receive any accolades for that? No. Of course not.

"Perfect!" I told the CSR man. "That's the way I like it. I like to live on the edge!"

Okay - that's a lie. What I really said was "Perfect. That's the way I like it. Can I pay my bill now and go get on with my life?"

I realize that wasn't very polite of me but he was impolite first and more importantly - in the grand scheme of things I was more polite than the average Canadian Tire Auto Service customer. The average customer has something like this to say:

"What? Are you kidding me? Holy shit - that much? Are you crazy? You're ruining me! You're driving me to financial ruin! Why don't you just bleed my wrists! Jesus Christ!"

So there you go. I was a walk-in-the-park by comparison.

Also in the 'What - Are you kidding me' department is another tidbit of wonderment from this whole automobile transition adventure:

I tacked $6600 onto the $9000 purchase price when applying for the loan - in order to cover the provincial sales tax and to consolidate another debt. The Bank of Montreal - with whom I've enjoyed a long borrowing history (since I was 18) - mortgage, credit card, line-of-credit, car loans and credit reserves - all paid in full without incident or delay - turned down the application. I was surprised but not shocked. I brought mom into the picture as co-signer. She has over a million dollars in assets. They turned her down! At that I was plenty shocked. So we went to the Meridian Credit Union with the exact same application. They didn't know me from Adam. No history with them. They asked me why I was offering a co-signer. I didn't need one, they said. They gave me the loan straight up.

They gave me a nice comfy chair, free coffee, plenty of smiles and nice fat cheque. What a marvelous experience! A thousand middle-fingers to you, Bank of Montreal!



The state of the town-slogan project

Two new additions to the town-slogan project. The first was submitted by Porn King:

Welcome to St. Catharines: When you need a little Viagra!

It's only fair, I suppose - to point out that St. Catharines already has a slogan on their welcome signs. It is this: St. Catharines - When you need a little Niagara!

Which brings us to addition number two: Welcome to Niagara Falls: When St. Catharines just won't do!

Send in your town slogan proposals! We're compiling a database!



The state of dear old Grimace, purple blob guy

Remember Grimace - Ronald MacDonald's old purple friend with the dopey crack-head eyes? If you're like me you've been wondering what he's been up to all these years. Well - apparently he's just hanging out at burger joints, molesting small children. He just doesn't make the headlines anymore.

You know I've always been bitter towards Ronnie and his new crowd for abandoning Grimace and the old McGang. Hamburgler, Mayor MacCheese, Sheriff Big Mac and the Fry Guys. He just cut them loose without any career transition plan or even good references. He brought in that insipid bird-lady and her politically-correct friends with their healthy body types and their coherent English and their calculated personalities. To hell with them, I say. They've got no souls.

I love you Grimace! It's not your fault you're a freak!

FWG

My Xiphisternum

A few years ago I went to my Doctor - Doctor Rhamadhamadhingdhong, or something to that effect. I liked her very much because she seemed to have very few patients and always spent lots of time with me, being very thorough.

All my previous doctors were the same. You'd be strapped to a conveyor belt that rushed, very fast toward a square door in the middle of the wall - it was much like airport luggage roulette. You would yell out your symptoms as you were approaching and rushing through the rubber door flaps and the doctor was in the next room, waiting to staple a prescription to your forehead. Then the belt whizzed you away through the next portal into a room where you could get dressed again. One time I came through the first hatch shouting "YYZ!" but the doctor was not fond of airport humor. He was very cross and charged me double.

Okay, I took a fair bit of artistic license with that last paragraph but the essence is true.

Also, Dr Rhamadhamadhingdhong never found anything wrong with me, which was quite pleasant.

As I was saying, I went to her once and said, "Look. Feel. I have a lump in my chest. Right here. See?"

She was rather patronizing, which was not typical of her.

"I'd like to be sure it isn't cancer or something nasty," I said.

"You have no lump in your chest," she stated, and sent me away.

I mention this because I was at my new Doctor's just the other day - Dr Harry (That's his last name) - he's a strange fellow. I quite like him. I like strange people. You should meet my friends. They're all weirdoes.

Dr Harry also takes his time with me. There's no rush - though his waiting room is always packed solid. Whether he's an inefficient businessman or is just fond of me, I don't know.

He asked me about the lump on my chest. He poked and prodded and prodded and poked and signed me up for every test he could think of.

He's confident it's a harmless 'lipoma' but doesn't want to take any chances. I'm cool with that.

'Lipoma' is one of those medical/anatomical type words. You know right away because it sounds very serious and difficult and alien. They're all the same. Lipoma. Duodenum. Vertebrate. Encephalopathy...

But here's an exception: The doc wants me to get an x-ray of my xiphisternum. Now don't be fooled by the spelling of the word xiphisternum. It's a lot more fun than you realize. He pronounced it very casually - like 'ziffy sternum'. As if he'd just said to me 'quickie mart' or 'jiffy pop' or 'zippo lighter'.

He said it with gay frivolity as if he were merely saying 'punchbuggy, no punchbacks' or 'Scooby doo, where are you?'

"...I'm sure it's nothing, Mr Anderson. But we'll just take a little x-ray of your scooby-duodenum to be safe..."

I'm looking forward to this x-ray. It will probably be fun.

Of course there will be nothing fun about it if it turns out to be cancer instead of a lipoma. In that case Dr Rhamadhamadhingdhong is gonna get an earful - since I went to her way back and she didn't believe me. In that case - if I'm gonna die, you can bet I'm taking her with me. I'll go to her office with a gun and two bullets - one with my name on it and one with hers. Well, her name wouldn't fit on a bullet of course but I'll just write Dr. R for short. I think she'll get the idea.

* YYZ is the international destination code for Toronto's Pearson International Airport.