Not Safe For Work

[If you are easily offended please skip past this. It is TMI, NSFW and WTF.]

So what happened was, we ran out of lube. Around midnight on a Monday. At that point, you’re stuck. Kind of literally.

See, here I am with these hips that were overhauled back in February and were shot to hell and back months before that. Hips with the outrageous, inexplicable, corrosive arthritis that I had are almost impossible to abduct — if they were my jaw. I’d have been on a liquid diet — and, well, you can imagine that some things just do not fucking work.

Like fucking.

It figures, I thought for all those months, depressed and bitter and pouring another hit of cinchona-laced bitters which were the only thing that really took the edge off the pain. I get this great guy and the whole wheelhouse comes to a screeching halt. God hates me.

So getting the chassis repaired meant so much for so many reasons. I can chuck weights around again. I can eat hills again. And, well, does the expression “crazed weasel” mean anything to you? “Demented mink?” (It’s something about the mustelids.) So, the ladies out there will know what I mean, you batter the blossom too hard and too often and the adjacent plumbing finally goes into revolt, and you either feel like you’re peeing wire brads or you actually do pee something that looks like motor oil.

Feature me at the Urgent Care at eleven on Tuesday morning, explaining to the layers of ancillary medical personnel that you have to go through, well I just had both hips replaced in February and everything finally works again and fifteen years younger boyfriend demented mink crazed weasel etc. etc. and I have this bladder infection.

Med tech who has just taken my blood pressure (200/110, in case you want to know what being around doctors can do to someone who can throw a perfectly normal reading at home) looks at my chart, see’s I’m sixty-four, and says almost worshipfully: “I want to be you when I grow up.”

Physician’s Assistant comes in, a nice guy I’ve met before, who turns out to be a former orthopedic PA and is yea interested in the hip story. I drop trou and show him the incisions and quote the surgical report, which I have mostly got off by heart at this point. Devoid of articular cartilage was an especially memorable line. I always enjoy it when people ask wide-eyed Both at once? Like I was going to go through that twice.

I explain the genesis of the current predicament. Too much friction. “If you have Amazon Prime they have a great selection and it’s there overnight,” he says, and writes for an antibiotic. I like this guy.

The tech comes back in to take my pressure again. It’s down to 185 over 100. For once, medical people believe me when I say being in a medical setting makes me orbit. Everything from the asshole ER doctor who had four nurses hold me down to a table by all four limbs when I was a preschooler, to the last gynecologist I saw who began shouting swears at me in the middle of the appointment (I think she had early dementia because she abruptly sold her practice less than a year later). Everyone in between has been just about as bad. They hate people who actually know something about bodies and ask questions, and it always ends up with them yelling and chewing you out and calling you names. Gets pretty goddam old, I can tell you.

I like PAs, on the other hand. They get it.

The tech looks at me reverently again. “I really want to be you when I grow up,” she says.

I think they have been selling tickets to me, HIPAA be damned, because as I leave there’s a sort of congratulatory smile on the faces I pass going out to surrender my copay. For the record, the drugs worked fine.

I didn’t even get a chance to show them my delt shot.


2 thoughts on “Not Safe For Work

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