The 3 Part Comedy

Three Initial Day

It was a three-initial day — the kind that reeks of bureaucracy and quiet suffering. One of those alphabet-soup specials dreamt up by Kafka, then rewritten by a hungover insurance adjuster.

First stop: BSW, a.k.a. Baylor Scott & White — the place where optimism files a complaint and never returns. The mission: a PET scan — Positron Emission Tomography for those fluent in medical dread. Essentially a high-priced x-ray that costs more than a used Honda Civic and leaves you glowing like a budget superhero.

After my nuclear date with destiny, I made the sacred pilgrimage to HEB for essentials — Beer, Milk, Sugar. The holy trinity of modern survival. Beer to stay hydrated, chocolate milk for the pre-9 a.m. crowd, and sugar to ferment into homemade moonshine. Moonshine for the nights when sleep’s not coming and the voices in your head demand a drink.

Then it was back to the PFC, Pete’s Forest Compound, where the trees whisper gossip and the neighbors wisely pretend not to exist.

It wasn’t a great day — not a terrible one either. Just one of those days that feels like an obstacle course designed by Satan’s administrative intern.

The Bureaucratic Safari

While at BSW, I decided to make a courtesy call to the fabled land of Patient Relations. The door was locked, naturally — because nothing says “we care” like a locked door. I was halfway to freedom when a warm body appeared. Poor soul made eye contact.

She invited me in — rookie mistake. I explained, calmly but with the energy of a man who’s already seen too much, that their communications system had failed with all the grace of a burning clown car. She clicked through her computer, squinting like she was defusing a bomb, and triumphantly announced they’d found two out of three of my calls and both emails.

A 66% success rate — not bad if you’re flipping coins, but less inspiring if you’re running a hospital. And 0% in answering.

Her grand response? “We know there’s a problem, and we’re working to fix it.” Translation: We’re aware of the incompetence, please stop noticing.

The Glowing Finale

After the nuclear tracer cocktail at BSW, here’s me getting a personal PET scan — because nothing says “fun afternoon” like being microwaved in the name of science. No popcorn, no privacy, no snacks. And back at the PFC? Still no chance of a private snack there either. The universe clearly runs on irony.

All in all, it’s a solid start toward evicting that rat bastard charlie from my eye. Now comes the waiting — that exquisite stretch of time where strangers in lab coats “interpret” your results like mystics reading tea leaves. Then they’ll decide how to kill charlie without killing me. Always a fun little wager.

And so, I wait. The nights are long. The vision’s a little worse. The mind, restless — playing cards with fate and dealing from the deck of doom.