&$#@)*?%**&^#@

I am becoming more and more agitated that I can't reach the doctor, or the doctor's nurse, or anybody who gives a damn, for that matter.  The thought comes to mind that they are blowing me off because I need pain pills.  They could also be blowing me off because I've become their "squeeky wheel."  Too damned bad, because I intend to squeek for as long as it takes.  There is not enough WD-40 in the world to shut me up, dammit.

The older and weaker I get I notice the longer something like this takes to get done.  Ten years ago, they would have been kowtowing at my feet.  Sweet Jesus on a pony...I wonder how much disrespect I'd get if I was an actual senior citizen.

If I thought I could actually sit in a chair for 10 hours a day, I'd go apply to be their office manager.  Wouldn't they all just shit golden bricks at the mere thought?

Ok, 46 minutes on the phone has gotten me nowhere.  It's time to get dressed--yes, that means putting on the torturous bra, to go there in person.  More later if I make it back in one piece.


10:52 AM
YAY  just as I was walking out the door, my phone rang.  How fortuitous. The nurse agreed with me, that Ultram and antidepressants don't mix, causing what's called serotonin syndrome and major seizure risk. DOH! how many people have they given this combination to before me, since I'm apparently the first one to notice its ill effects?  WTF?

Bad news, the doctor is out of town this week, so will have to fax a pain script from wheverever he is.  Who knows how long that'll take. I have a feeling it won't be today.  In the meantime they are working to get me into a pain specialist.

I have a sudden urge to go door to door and see what kind of pain pills exist in the neighborhood and would they be willing to part with them for a small fee.  On the other hand, my neighbors wouldn't lend me a cup of water if I was ON FIRE.  I guess I'll be staying inside, miserable and braless.