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When the Fat Man Needs a CT
I honestly wish they’d send me to the zoo.
This morning, I got a phone call at about 9:30. It’s hit or miss whether or not I’ll even be awake at such an ungodly early hour, but this time, I was awake. And, despite not having the number saved, I decided to answer anyway.
“Hi, Zachary? The is the receptionist from Dr. Jen’s office.”
Sidebar: I do not understand how people are perky and energetic so early in the morning. It makes no sense, and it goes against all of the laws of nature. Nobody should be so wired into well in the afternoon. It’s not like we’re in high school anymore. We’re adults. There’s no reason to be up for the sunrise.
Anyway, once we affirmed that it was, indeed, me, she continued on.
“We just got the reports from your last stay at the hospital, and we noticed the doctor wanted to do a CT scan. So we got that scheduled for you.”
Oh, really? This had never been brought up during my last stay at the hospital, a 2 day adventure where the doctors basically loaded me up with Lasix and tried to get me to pee off a few dozen pounds of water weight; an attempt that only had limited success.
That is, they got a lot off, but there is still a lot left — and enough swelling to re-open the old wounds on my right…
