I Should Have Had a Model in a Sequined Dress

The results from the Post-it Note NieNie Free Book Prize Drawing are in and there are TWO winners! Yes, two winners! Why? Because I'm saintly. Also, because I decided that Heidi deserved a book no matter what, because within two hours of my quiz posting she had coughed up all of the answers, every whit correct on each and every one. She made me happy. It was also proved to me that the Fates wanted her to have one because I put her name in the drawing for laughs anyway and hers was the first name I drew out. So congratulations to Heidi! As soon as I get the books in the mail yours will be out the door to you.

And the second winner in the drawing was....Stephanie! Congratulations, Stephanie! She answered everything more or less correctly and got it in within the deadline I gave to her since my original deadline was before she even came home from vacation. So she got another day to get them in. Good job to her and to everyone who took the time to take the quiz and trip down memory lane with me in hopes of free prizes.

And now, for your edification, here are the answers:

1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis? Annapolis. Or more accurately, "the blasted city of Annapolis" as Stephanie, one of our winners you recall, answered.

2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous? There's a photo of it up on Cake Wrecks with my poopy Rudolph cake on top of it.

3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert? Janis Ian. Remember, that's just one of the time when I got lost in Annapolis. You see how it all links together with me?

4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you? Jerome Morris. Yes, that Mainer artist extraordinaire who indeed read my blog post about him and never spoke another word to me. I don't think he was nearly as amused as I was. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the theme of my blog is "It's funny when it's not you." On a related note, if you or your wealthy parents would like to pester Mr. Morris during a lovely and relaxing vacation to the coast of Maine, we rent our beautiful family cottage (it sleeps 6! Or 7 1/2 if you like couches!) out for the summer. Email me. We'll talk prices.

5) What is Michael Phelps's real name? Bob Carol. Oh, like he wouldn't be just as good at swimming with a name like that? Please.

6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF? Barbie dolls. A non-collection that has grown since I last wrote about it, by the way.

7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me. DNC, NSA, FBI, Smithsonian . I'd tell them to give it up, but I fear I'm just too addictive.

8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs? He is a former USAF intelligence officer trained in the art of being masterly sneaky. Or as Heidi, our first winner, put it, "Because he was a career USAF officer with Jason Bourne-like skills at hiding documents from the KGB-impersonating counterintelligence guys." Right on, Heidi.

9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they? Celtic Thunder/Celtic Man. To quote Gwennifer, "I didn't realize it was possible to feel physically assaulted by a singing group, but I now know the feeling." So do the rest of us. So do the rest of us.

10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants? The ever-endearing, overly self-confident, and always entertaining Dr. Combat. Did I mention healthgrades.com tells you where your doctors work? And that it told me Dr. Combat is alive and still in the Army torturing others at yet another Army hospital? It's nice to know he hasn't been stripped of his natural environment.

Many thanks again to everyone who participated. I wish I was rich enough to give books to everyone who submitted answers because you all deserve it. For everyone but Heidi and Stephanie, go buy the book! If you buy the digital copy all proceeds go to the NieNie Fund; the hardcopy version gives all proceeds minus $8 printing costs. Hurry! Buy it! Be famous by association! And do something nice for a nice couple with four nice kids who suffered unmeasurable tragedy. Go. Buy. Help. And feel good about yourselves afterward.

Take Two Aspirin

Oh, you'll wait for my "Twilight" review, all right. YOU'LL WAIT REAL GOOD.

So I don't have pneumonia, which is what the doctor was askeered of me having when he heard my symptoms today. Instead, I only have a sinus infection (I won't bore you with the disgusting details of that). The doc prescribed Augmentin ("Amoxicillin on crack" he says), Flonase, saline nasal spray, as well as a humidifier and lots and lots of fluids. He said I should be feeling noticably better in 3-4 days. Yeah, well after three weeks with this I don't care how long it takes just as long as I can stop with the gallons upon gallons of mucus already. It takes me a friggin' hour to blow my nose every morning and it's getting old.

I've never been to this doctor before and I suspect he's new, not just because I'd never heard of him (and apparently neither did the doctor's office since his name was not to be found in the list of physicians approved to work there), but because he actually took the time to explain everything to me. And when I mean explain, I mean he got into college professor lecture mode and explained everything in excruciating detail (even in layman's terms no less!). I felt awkward not taking notes, so I just tried to look as enthralled as I possibly could.

It has been my experience that the new doctors fresh outta doctor school are the most likely to explain things to death. Not only have they just finished having things explained to death to them in school, but they don't hate their patients enough yet to not let them in on their thinking processes. I was amazed that he took as much time as he did to explain my medical situation (things I never even knew about myself, but probably didn't need to know, either) and I complimented him on it. He looked at me questioningly as if to ask why I was complimenting him on what he obviously assumed was a standard practice among his fellow physicians. Ah, naive, young doctor--it will come in time my boy. All in good time.

This got me thinking about how the other medical professionals I've met in the recent past would have handled the exact same situation. Here's my best approximation of their reactions to discovering my diagnosis for themselves:

Dr. Referral: Um...hm. I could have sworn we covered this in medical school....
Dr. Smart-alec: Well I know what you DON'T have...cancer! Seriously though, here's a prescription.
Dr. Guilt Trip (PW's doctor): I'm pretty sure whatever it is, it happened because you're a bad mother.
Dr. Drugs (my neurologist): I've got 57 drugs here we can try over the course of the next two years. Which do you want first?
Nurse Excruciating: Does it hurt if I jam my finger into your sinus? Stop screaming, it's distracting. I've also got a hammer here we can try. How about now?
Dr. Pain: I bet if I tap into that sinus it'll get fixed right up. Wait there while I get my nailgun.
Dr. Combat: *scribble scribble* You're fixed. Now go away.

I think I like this new Dr. Over Explain. Call me and I'll recommend him to you. You know, before he catches on that he's not supposed to be helpful.

"Today I Feel Like the Luckiest Baby In the World...."

Mom's in town. She's been the Peanut-sitter whilst I race around getting things done. She went with me for a follow-up with Nurse Excruciating for my wrist thing and showed off Peanut to unsuspecting patients in the waiting room while I went in to the appointment. After several questions and pokes, Nurse E concluded that the injections hadn't worked. Another case solved, Mr. Holmes! I took the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity and probe the motivation behind the way she and Dr. Pain administer such injections. She declared that that particular injection is the most painful injection that they give, by far. Of this I had no doubt. I said, "Indeed it was. But considering the injection I received before this was a virtually pain-free experience, wouldn't it be better to do it a different way rather than inflicting unnecessary trauma to the area?" She slyly responded, "Everyone does things differently." And she attempted to change the subject. However, I didn't want to. I asked again, "Why cause such pain when it's obviously unnecessary? If there's a better and less painful way to approach it, then surely that would be preferrable?" She refused to look at me, instead flipping through my medical chart to look busy, and quickly changed the subject by saying, "Yes, well it didn't work this time and it probably won't work the next, so I would recommend surgery." Of course you would.

Now, I'm not one for conspiracy theories, despite my many attempts to convince The Husband that I believe every major conspiracy theory in existence, plus a few of my own making. But I honestly believe, given that a surgeon makes most of his money in surgeries and not cortisteroid injections, that Dr. Pain and his accomplice, Nurse Excruciating, didn't care so much about the effectiveness of their injections as they hoped to see me again under more painful circumstances anyway. My suspicions were solidified when I finally agreed with her and she ran (yes, ran) out of the room and called scheduling as quickly as possible to get me the very next available spot that Dr. Pain had. My medical insurance doesn't like his "surgical center" and prefers he "operate" on me at an actual "hospital," so that pushed my surgery appt. to the 20th. As a different nurse was debriefing me on the various requirements for this 10-minute procedure (wash entirely with anti-bacterial soap, do not use perfumes, hairspray, or deodorant, do not wear metal or other jewelry, do not think unpleasant thoughts for 48 hours beforehand, do not listen to classical music that morning, register as a Libertarian, etc.) it came out that I would be in the hospital for four hours. For a 10-minute procedure. Peanut will not take a bottle. So screw that.

My mother, ever the helpful advisor, wondered if I could possibly hunt down Dr. Combat to have him fix my wrists again. First off, if I'm going to stalk anyone here, it'll be Flopsy's mother, per our standing agreement. Personally, I consider stalking anybody in the U.S. Army, let alone someone with ready access to drugs and surgical tools, a foolhardy decision at best. I prefer to think of myself as higher up on the Darwinian intelligence scale of evolution than that. Tracking down Dr. Combat for this purpose could only end in tears, numerous restraining orders, and a possible murder-suicide. On top of that, I doubt the Army itself would appreciate my efforts, rewarding them, I'm certain, with a boot to the face (specifically mine), or time in a Federal prison--neither of which appeal to me. My wrists will simply have to go on in pain as long as Dr. Combat proves ineffective at being in two places at once. Damn you, Dr. Combat!!!

Did I mention my mother's in town? The only thing Peanut wants in this world is to be held 24 hours a day. His wildest dreams are coming true.

Giving Superman a Run For His Money

Here I leave you with the fourth and final installment of the Adventures of Dr. Combat, an enigma wrapped in camouflage. To give you some quick background for this episode, at the time of this particular appointment with the good doctor I had given the Husband the "Band of Brothers" TV series as an Easter gift. He got it as an Easter gift because I couldn't wait until the next applicable gift-giving holiday to see it. Since then we had been watching the series like crazy as they are quite addictive. I came to be obsessed with "Band of Brothers." What an excellent production in every sense of the word. End background.

I was convinced that Dr. Combat was in an uncharacteristically bad mood (despite what I've let on previously, he was usually in a good humor around me--usually) the moment he walked in. I thought myself very "hip" on the current language that the young whippersnappers are using these days, and I amused myself with the greeting, "What up, doc?" He did not find that clever or funny as he looked up only long enough to glare at me before proceeding to his chair with my medical chart. He made with the doctoring, and as he moved to his desk to write out his notes at the end of it all, I began talking. Now, recall that Dr. Combat was not one for talking, or at least not to me. Everyone else, absolutely and please. Me, no. As I rambled on, he would occasionally look up at me with a most unpleasant look that mostly said to me, "SHUT. UP." He even let out an irritated "Hphf," that sounded not unlike a dog when it's been annoyed one too many times. As a kindness I quieted down long enough to let him jot some more notes before asking, since he was not officially my doctor, if I was allowed to switch to him since I was essentially now his patient anyway. Without looking up from his notes he said that while I was certainly welcome to see him anytime, switching to him officially would be pointless as he was transferring soon to the 101st Airborne. I marvelled excitedly, "Like Band of Brothers??"

What happened next requires its own paragraph. Now, as a child I became infamous for my glare. People dubbed it The Abby Look. I reserved it for those advertising the very stupidest of behavior or comments. I know how to glare. But it was in that instant in his office that I came to realize I was but an amateur sitting at the feet of The Master. His head didn't even move; only his eyes flashed upwards and targeted their unholy wrath upon me. I'm convinced that they alone could have stopped the Earth from spinning on its axis, extinguishing all life as we know it. Instead, he focused their incensed and hateful power squarely upon me. I was too terrified to cry out and therefore opted instead to quietly evacuate my bowels into my pants. Satisfied that I had been effectively silenced, he went back to writing. Fearing dismemberment, I stayed completely silent until he finished scribbling notes and finally stood to usher me out the door.

As we both stood, he suddenly brightened and declared, "It's so great to see you again, Mrs. [Abby]! I've been looking forward to this all day. I saw your name on my list of patients this morning and I got so excited! It really was good to see you!"

I said, "Oh. Thank you. You're very kind. It was nice to see you also."

I thought: "Whiskey Tango Foxtrot??"

I will go to my grave wondering how many different kinds of crazy made Dr. Combat tick. But It can also be supposed that if he were completely sane, would I have been as entertained by him? I contend not.

And so it is with a fond fairwell that we say our goodbyes to Dr. Combat, who may or may not still be alive today. I naturally hope he is; how else will scientists be able to unlock his powers and direct them for good? Innocent bystanders may be glared to death in the process, but I think we're just going to have to take that risk. For Science's sake.



[Author's notes: my sincerest thanks go to Mr. Howie Long for managing to appear straight long enough for the NFL to take the photograph seen above. It helped immensely in recreating Dr. Combat's physical features.
In addition, through my adventures with healthgrades.com I have confirmed (if indeed the information in his available profile is current) that Dr. Combat is still alive, still an Army doctor, and I assume, just the same as he always was.]

Diagnosis: Ugly Baby Syndrome

In order to begin this episode of Dr. Combat I must start by describing Peawhistle as a baby. Every mother thinks their babies are beautiful. That's the only thing keeping the little screamers alive sometimes. Naturally, I thought Peawhistle was a beautiful baby myself. I wondered from time to time if it was just me, but then someone else would make a comment that reassured me that I wasn't the only one who found her attractive. From the start, I had people stop me and tell me that Peawhistle was the most beautiful baby they'd ever seen. The phrase "porcelain doll" came up about every other time in describing her (although I admit I've seen my fair share of ugly porcelain dolls, but I figured they weren't talking about those). And it wasn't just the old ladies who stopped to gawk, it was women with babies of their own telling me she was the prettiest baby they'd ever seen, it was children of all ages saying how beautiful she was, and even grown, manly men stopping me in the Commissary to say, "Now THAT'S a beautiful baby." Total strangers begged and begged me to let them hold her. I swore she was going to be kidnapped at any second, and I was prepared with my latest Karate Kid moves. Peanut gets his fair share of attention now; he is very popular wherever we go. But nothing like what Peawhistle got. Peawhistle, was in fact, a very pretty baby.

Dr. Combat disagreed. He never outright said, "Your baby is ugly and I hate her," but I have evidence, spanning three distinct events, proving that he didn't find her particularly easy on the eyes. I'll let my readers be the judges.

Exhibit A:
The day after I had given birth to Peawhistle, Dr. Combat, whom I had not seen for a week, popped his head in the room to wish me a hearty congratulations. After they moved me to the post-partum ward, he joined the nurses in the nursery to lend a hand and administer newborn examinations. As I was wheeling Peawhistle down the hallway in her cart to get some ice from the snackroom, I came upon Dr. Combat coming from the opposite direction. He smiled brightly and said, "Awww, let's see the baby!" He bent over her expectantly. He just stared at her. "So what's her name?" "[Peawhistle]." And then he just stared at me. He gave me a look that suggested, "You're one of those idiot parents who just makes up names, aren't you?" For the record, Peawhistle's name is centuries old, a Catholic saint's name, and not uncommon; and yet, there are still those who have never heard it before in their lives and are convinced I invented it (I had to explain to Peanut's nurse the other day--a Catholic no less--where the name originated. She only sparked with recognition after I pronounced it the way its country's origins do. Go figure.). Dr. Combat was one of these people. After all of that, the best he could muster was, "Congratulations." And he walked away. Hm.

Exhibit B:
The next time I saw Dr. Combat it was at least a couple of weeks after Peawhistle was born. I was coming into the hospital at all hours of the night for reasons I won't disgust you with. I picked him out immediately, as he was the only person talking up a storm to every nurse in the vicinity. After he assisted me and my issue, he asked how Peawhistle was doing. I told him that she still wasn't back up to her birth weight yet, mostly because she kept falling asleep while she was eating. He said, "Well, I would too. You're eating, you're warm and cozy, your mom's rocking you to sleep, she's singing to you...." Note: Peawhistle did not enjoy my singing. She typically responded with singing of her own, namely the kind that shatters your eardrums. I learned not to sing to Peawhistle. Attempting to add an alternative suggestion of my own, I instead inserted, "...and telling her she's cuter than all the other babies." He looked at me with a harsh "You wish," sort of look. Man, tough crowd.

Exhibit C:
I'll be the first to admit that fresh-out babies look strange as far as human beings go. But by around the second or third week they begin to look the way they're supposed to look: cute and babyish and stuff. After the last encounter with my unexpected visit to the hospital, Dr. Combat wanted to see me back for a follow-up in the clinic. I made an appointment a few weeks after that and brought the baby to the appointment in her carrier as I had yet to find a suitable babysitter for my young child. At the end of the visit he said very happily, "Now let's see this baby!" Peawhistle was looking her best. She was sleeping. And she was adorable. I waited for him to finally admit she was attractive on some level. He looked at her for a second, stretched a thin smile across his face, and flatly declared, "Cute." Ouch. The appointment was over and I left with my ugly baby.

Perhaps he couldn't help it. It's very possible that he was merely used to his own children, who likely were so gorgeous that no human could gaze upon them without falling into a coma. Perhaps he had higher expectations for my offspring, what with my being so particularly stunning myself. Perhaps he was momentarily possessed by baby-hatin' demons. On three separate occasions. Regardless of the reason, would it have killed him to lie? Did he think he would be barred from the AMA if he did?

For an example of how it's supposed to be done, here's how my 6-week post-partum conversation went with my OB after Peanut was born. After she requested a peek at him, I removed the blanket over him so she could see him.
OB: *gasp* "ABBY! You didn't tell me you made such gorgeous babies!"
Me: "I thought that went without saying."
OB: "He is so perfect, so beautiful."
Me: "But then, every baby's cute, right?"
OB: "No way. I've seen some ugly babies in my time."
Me: "And what do you say to their mothers?"
OB: "'Oh, how precious!'"

See, even if she was lying, she was convincing enough that I'd never know it. One thing's for certain: Dr. Combat is not a good actor. It's just as well he's otherwise occupied during the day or he'd starve.

Dr. Combat vs. the Girl Scouts of America

As promised, here are the Continuing Adventures of Dr. Combat. As a side note, these adventures are not necessarily in order--that would take too much thought and organization.

Let me begin by making one thing very clear: Dr. Combat never, EVER found me funny. In fact, he never even realized I was attempting to be amusing at any point in our strange-yet-entertaining relationship. If I tried to make a joke out of something he would immediately implore me to "calm down" as if I were about to tear the room apart. My tendency to joke about things with a straight face probably didn't help, and it clearly threw him off. He, on the other hand, had an easily identifiable sense of humor. I would say that it was a mild, family-friendly humor, suitable for holidays and dinner parties. To give you an idea, one conversation went thusly:

DC: "Do you have any allergies?"
Me: "No."
DC: "Just to doctors, right?"
Me: [insert mercy chuckle here]

Not exactly my style, but I was kind nonetheless and usually at least smiled at his harmless jokes anyway. To recap: I always knew when he was joking. He never knew when I was joking.

Now with the disclaimers out of the way, on with the adventures. I first met Dr. Combat in the Labor and Delivery unit of an Army Hospital in the DC area. I had mild pre-eclempsia (gestational hypertension combined with proteinuria) with my first pregnancy and had to be monitored twice a week in L&D for the last two months before giving birth. As a Family Practice physician, Dr. Combat also worked in L&D as an OB/GYN. In his own words, he and the rest of his Family Practice compatriots were Jacks of all trades. I resisted the temptation to complete the phrase for him with the well known "and masters of none," thinking better of it. Considering his overly developed ego, it was likely better for my health that I refrained. He later proved, after also being adept as a pediatrician working in the baby nursery and elsewhere, that perhaps he was not far off the mark with his assessment. I had visions of him walking past a brain surgery in progress, popping in, and having his own go at it. Such would not have surprised me.

I had been going to L&D for about a week before Dr. Combat first showed his face in the unit there. His first remark to me was, "There's glucose in your urine." This, after a nurse knew this and did not tell me, let alone a week's worth of doctors and nurses apparently knowing this and not telling me, irked me a little bit. To top it off, he said it in such a way as to suggest that I should have known it on my own and was purposely failing to correct the problem, likely out of spite. I asked, "Well, why didn't anyone tell me that before??" Looking back, I may have sounded more upset than I actually was, especially given his reaction, which was to stare at me and, I do not exaggerate, slowly back out of the room without another word. Such was only the start of Good Times to Come. At the end of my appointment that day he commandingly instructed me about my diet, which obviously was inadequate, despite the fact that I was following the hospital's dietician's guidelines for pre-eclempsia to the letter. He told me that everything I was eating was bad and I had to do better, providing me with his own version of what my diet should consist of, which boiled down to next-to-nothing to eat for the next two months. For his wife and children's sakes I did not at that moment strangle him with his own stethescope. Instead I stomped out of L&D, forcing the Husband to remain and get the rest of the instructions from him.

To avoid a confrontation and to avoid the dreaded, telltale glucose, I did indeed follow his dietary guidelines. Again, he found glucose in my urine (too much information? too late) and proceeded to diplomatically accuse me of cheating on my new diet. And again, I spared his life. He quizzed me on everything I had eaten over the past 48 hours, only to conclude that I must have left something out.

There was only one instance in all of my visits when my urine was satisfactory to him, upon which he declared that it was beautiful; he was truly happy the rest of the appointment. The reason, of course, for all of the hubbub was that glucose can be a sign of gestational diabetes. It finally dawned on the doctor in charge of L&D to test my blood-glucose levels, which amazingly, registered perfectly. No one ever mentioned the glucose in my urine again, despite my having suggested for weeks that perhaps if my kidneys leaked protein, perhaps they could leak glucose too. But I'm not a doctor so what do I know, right? Incidentally, my hunch was correct, confirmed by Johns Hopkins, in case you were wondering.

My strict diet went on. Each and every time I came to L&D I had to be weighed, and despite not gaining weight, he always looked at me as if he dreaded the hour when he would have to make a call to the Army Corps of Engineers to get a crane just to get me out of my apartment. I had ordered Girl Scout cookies before it was discovered that I had this condition, and they were due to arrive any day. I had begun to dream about them at night, and certainly fantasize about them in my waking moments. The intensity with which I longed for them was magnified by Dr. Combat's ban on anything that tasted good in any form. I couldn't stand it any longer. Finally, at the end of one of my appointments, I confronted him with my problem, pointing out that the cookies had penetrated my subconscience and were taking over. He looked at me and said, "All right, you can have one cookie a day."

"ONE?! YOU'RE CRAZY!"

(Exasperated sigh) "OK.... two."

It was the way he said "two" that made it very, very clear to me that he was never going to three. I smiled sweetly, "Thank you Dr. Combat."

And then I went home and ate half a box each of Thin Mints and Do-si-dos. Now, don't get me wrong. I started out with the best of intentions. I won't bore you with the thought processes and rationalizations that took me from "only two cookies per day" to "only two cookies in my mouth at a time," but sufficeth to say that it happened. The next time I saw Dr. Combat I had gained an impressive four pounds, making my total weight gain to that point (for the pregnancy as a whole) 23 lbs. He read the nurse's notes wrong, and thinking that I had instead lost six lbs, he congratulated me heartily. His smile quickly disappeared when I corrected his misgivings, and he replaced it with a very Ward Cleaver-ish look of disapproval and disappointment. To make myself feel better, I whined to my midwife, who immediately declared all men incompetent and incapable of understanding the most basic of situations. We both felt better for it.

At a later appointment in which he threatened to put me on hypertension medication if my blood pressures didn't improve, never thinking for a minute that at least some of my high blood pressure was a direct result of my interactions with him, he admitted that he "learned a long time ago that [he] had to speak very quietly and calmly" to me. I chose not to be offended by his remark, choosing instead to see him as a doctor who saw a need in his patient and did his best to meet that need and help me by adjusting his own behavior in response. Even if he was off the mark a bit, his solution is still an example of what I think good doctors should be aiming for in the doctor-patient relationship, and unfortunately, something that escapes many doctors now. And I still respect him for his efforts on my behalf. Even if he couldn't tell I was only joking.

Stay tuned later for More Adventures of Doctor Combat in which he Thinks My Baby Is Ugly!

Your Christmas Wish: A Long-Winded Medical Account, Right?

Because you care (and by "you" I mean me), I have de Quervain's Tenosynovitis, aka Something I Can't Pronounce and Assumed Was a Made-up Name But Hurts Like Heck. This is a condition where the tendons leading from your thumb to your wrist become damaged, swollen, and painful. This syndrome, sometimes called New Mother's Wrist, they believe is caused by the unusual position in which you are forced to stretch tendons previously unstretched in order to do things like pick up a baby under his armpits. Apparently the scooping motion combined with forcing the thumbs outward causes the problem.

I had this in my right wrist for several months after Peawhistle was born. My doctor at the Army Hospital (we'll call him Dr. Combat; few things amuse me more in this world than seeing my physician eternally dressed in BDUs and combat boots) injected the tendon with a cortisteroid mixture and all was well without any further pain. That is, until Peanut was born. For nearly four months I have had the same thing in now both wrists, the left being the worse culprit this time around.

I have a new doctor through Johns Hopkins. She's a lovely individual who is kind, patient, humble and welcomes criticism. In the negative column, I don't think she typically knows what she's doing. However, I think she knows this, and thus when something comes up that is unfamiliar to her she is more than willing to admit it and if necessary send you off in the direction of any number of specialists who hopefully have a better understanding than she. This is why I like her. She's basically me, but with the legitimacy of a doctor and access to prescription and referral forms aplenty. Thus, I'll call her Dr. Referral. Going in to her about the recurrance of the wrist pain I had an inkling that she would be at a loss, particularly with how to treat it, so I brought along Dr. Combat's medical notes he made at the time. As I started to describe my symptoms to her and the confusion began to spread across her face, I whipped out Dr. Combat's notes and she was simply delighted. She had to look it up in her online medical dictionary (always the willing learner, that one), noted the remaining treatment (injection), declared she couldn't do it and wrote me a referral for an orthopedic hand specialist. She attempted the test for deQuervain's, called Finkelstein's Test (pictured below), which is supposed to result in consideral pain, confirming the diagnosis. "Does that hurt?" "No." She did not administer it correctly. Nevertheless, she sent me to the specialist with her blessing.

I came home and did some research of my own, given that Dr. Combat never told me what the condition was even called (I think he felt such communication was unnecessary and pointless). He had written it in the notes, but I couldn't even read it until Dr. Referral looked it up with me. I realize that it is a cliche that doctors' handwriting is unreadable, but I seriously contemplated sending my medical record to NSA, convinced they would immediately offer Dr. Combat a job designing the country's newest unbreakable code. But back to my point, I found Finkelstein's Test and decided to administer it myself. My result was something like this: "AHHHHHHHHHHH!!! SON OF A .... AAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!" I administered the test correctly.

The next day I went to the specialist and his nurse-practicioner, who both poked and prodded me individually and then together. First, the nurse (aka Nurse Excruciating) took notes, did the test, ("AHHHHHH!!"), and then called in the doctor (aka Dr. Pain). He did his own exam, intentionally inflicting pain and then asking if it hurt. Fortunately he asked before doing the Test again: "You've already done the test, yes?" "Yes. And we're not going to do it anymore." "Fair enough." I elected to have both wrists injected in the same visit as I am not one for making unneccessary trips. I didn't understand at the time why they then gave each other "a look." I certainly understood afterwards.

To give you a better understanding of my willingness to have both done, let me explain how Dr. Combat treated me and my conditon. First, the diagnosis went like this:
Manipulating my hand as little as possible, he asks "Does this hurt?"
"Depends. Are you even touching me?"
(exasperated sigh, which his conversations were well peppered with when it came to me) "Fine. You do it."
"OK, it hurts when I do THIS."
*scribble, scribble*
He leaves to go get the medications for the injection. I wait 10 minutes while he chats up every person in the hallway (the man talked more than a 13-year-old girl), strongly tempting me to get up and yell out the door, "Hey Oprah, could you cut the interview short? I'm in pain here!" until I recall that he could very well inflict great pain upon me "accidentally" so I keep my trap shut and patiently wait for him to make his jr. high locker rounds.
He finally returns having got the talking all out of his system enough to continue his habit of exchanging as few words with me as humanly possible. He holds my wrist in a very comfortable position, gently and slowly injects the cortisteroid, massages and works it into the tendon, and then checks on my pain level. The pain has disappeared utterly and completely. He laboriously scribbles some more, hands me my chart, and shoves me out the door with his fondest fairwell. Overall, a satisfying and pain-free experience.

Nurse Excruciating and Doctor Pain do things differently. After deciding that it would be better to send me into complete shock, they choose to do both injections at the exact same moment. Forcing my wrists and thumbs into the most painful position available to them, they jab each tendon with the needle and dispense the medication as quickly as possible. They seem perfectly oblivious to the neverending trauma they are inflicting. To ebb the now-steady flow of blood from both injection sites, they apply large bandages to each wrist, which, to the unknowing observer, now strongly resemble a botched suicide attempt on my part. I am instructed to obtain specialized braces for each wrist, which incidentally my insurance does not cover through their office, forcing me to travel into my arch nemisis, Annapolis, to obtain them. I made it out by the very skin of my teeth, particularly given that I cannot move my wrists or thumbs in the new braces. Apparently, those are important in operating a vehicle, reducing my ability to steer to that of your average, large household pet. I am to go back to the specialist in a few weeks so I can tell them that their hack job didn't do the trick, leaving surgery as the final available option. They strike me as the sort who would do it without anesthetics, too, possibly on a dare.

It was not until this week that I became fully appreciative of the level of competence displayed by Dr. Combat, the medical one-stop-shop. Not only did he immediately know what was wrong with me, including that horrendous name for it, but also how to treat it, how to administer it himself, and with as little pain as possible. He did the work of three people, only better. Incredible.

Stay tuned later for the Complete Adventures of Dr. Combat, where not a single encounter ever resulted in anything less than complete amusement and entertainment on my part (on his part: an ulcer)!