Lucie’s “Atypical Problem”!

Can anything ever be “normal” for me?

Seriously.

I sometimes feel that my life is just one blog short of a trip to St. Jude’s Laughing Academy!

I go to specialist #1 last week to deal with some “weird health issues” that have me “rocking and hopping in my bed at night” and he tells me that I’m a “special patient with some rather interesting health problems”.

Uh-Hun.

“Hm…,” mutters the “special patient”, credulously eye-balling the young Dr.Kildare lookalike from the 60’s NBC medical TV show of the same name.

“What do you think I’ve got, Doctor?” I skeptically ask, with a cocked left eye brow.

“Am not really sure,” says the young, highly educated, very costly Dr. Kildare. “But it may be something called ‘atypical migraines’,” he informs me, as he patiently tries to explain the reasoning behind his diagnosis.

“You present with some unusual symptoms for Lou Gehrig’s and MS, so I’m pretty sure you don’t have them. Let’s start with some blood tests and go from there,” he confidently continues.

Hm…

“OK,” I’m thinking to myself, “It’s not the first ‘atypical’ diagnosis that the medical profession has used with me before, so this shouldn’t be anything that gets my knickers into a knot, right?”

Uh-Hun.

The problem is – I’ve NEVER, I repeat, NEVER had a problem with head-aches.

I have a myriad of health issues, People, but I assure you, head-aches have never been one of them.

According to the Princess, I have been known to give them, but she’s not aware of me having any.

Uh-Hun.

“OK, I’m not a medical diagnostician. I’m game. I’ve had ‘weirder diagnoses’ in the past. I’ll check it out with my GP on Thursday,” I skeptically say to myself, as I’m leaving the office.

“Sounds like the reasonable plan of action to take,” I quietly assure myself.

Uh-Hun.

So, on Thursday morning, I get into my car and start driving to my GP’s office and decide to throw caution to the wind and open my rarely used sun roof and enjoy the trip there. It wasn’t hot that day and I thought I could use a little fresh air.

Right.

I eagerly push the button to open up my roof-top and suddenly hear this low, lion-like moan emitting from the heavens and I think, “Lord, I’m no mechanic, but that doesn’t sound too friendly to me this morning.”

Uh-Hun.

I get to the doctor’s office, pull into the parking lot, and push the sun roof’s button to close the roof.

Yep.

Nothing….zippo…..no movement….no low moaning growl…nada.

The sun roof ain’t budging – not one little iota.

Cazzo!

I just dished out $1600.00 last week on this Model T. I’ll be damned if I spring for a sun roof to be repaired!

No-siree, Bob!

I’ll drive around with the damn thing open before I pay-out any more money on this jalopy this month.

Yeah, right.

Like I can afford not to have it fixed?!

I have a serious case of vitiligo (a skin condition that gives me that ever-popular brown and white cow look)  with salt and pepper, curly hair, and am not exactly what you’d call a “convertible kind of person”.

“Cazzo,” I anxiously say to myself, “You need to force this damn roof close and get to your appointment.”

Uh-Hun.

So, I grab ahold of the roof, pull on it and give it the old college try.

Nothing. No movement.

“OK, I’m an intelligent woman,” I reassure myself. “I can deal with this situation, right?”

Yep.

The next thing I know, I’m precariously kneeling on my driver’s seat, Buddha belly awkwardly sandwiched between my steering wheel and the back of my car seat, with my cotton top head sticking through the car roof, like an attentive ostrich intently looking for potential predators.

I’m wrestling with the glass portion of the sun roof, when I suddenly hear a vaguely familiar lion’s moan emerging from my now working sun roof.

“Cazzo,” I’m sarcastically thinking to myself. “If this situation gets any worse, I’m going to end up imitating a decapitation scene straight out of HBO’s now defunct, ‘Six Feet Under’ with me as the head-less  guest star!”

Right.

I miraculously get my Buddha belly and I out of harm’s way, of my now demonized sunroof, quickly compose myself and hightail it to my scheduled Dr.’s appointment.

Mei Xing, my doctor’s demure, kindly assistant, efficiently takes my vitals and nonchalantly says, “Lucie, your blood pressure’s through the roof today. I think you’d better talk to the doctor about increasing your Lisinopril, and maybe look into a different exercise program.”

Uh-Hun.

I’m thinking maybe a visit from the men in the white coats from the infamous “St Jude’s Laughing Academy” is in order.

But what the hell do I know?

I’m an “atypical patient,” in need of a “different exercise program”, don’t ‘cha know?

Have a great week, People, and be kind to one another. You never know what life is like living in someone else’s shoes.

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