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.

Movement to contact: finally

Scott and White have resurrected their bureaucratic corpse and, after the stately ritual of “waiting the required 12 business days to upload a request” — a timeframe that exists solely to remind you that patience is a form of punishment — they’ve decided to do the thing. Mind you, the Austin doc actually sent the PET scan order days ago; Scott and White treated it like an uninvited party guest: visible from the driveway but not allowed inside until they’d finished polishing the silverware.

I, being the helpful patient who refuses to accept being left to bureaucratic entropy, asked the referring doctor at Scott and White to formally refer me for the PET scan. He did — and they responded with the medical equivalent of “this ticket is defective.” He clarified the order later that same day. Poof. Suddenly I’m on the schedule.

Miracle cures do exist: they’re called paperwork corrections.

My PET scan is set for November 11 — appropriately, because nothing says “honor the veterans” like scheduling my medical indignities on Veterans Day. Which will probably find me slightly hungover, because Veterans Day is the hangover to the real holiday: the Marine Corps birthday. Two hundred and fifty years of leathernecks, foxholes, and stoic bad decisions — and yes, we’ll toast it. Historically, my participation in toasting has been… enthusiastic. Responsible drinking has been an aspirational concept for forty years, like utopia or a working vending machine in the barracks.

I’ve sworn to fight the rat bastard charlie with all the finesse of a Marine: take no prisoners, kill ’em all — in spirit, in metaphor, and maybe with some very pointed paperwork. (Let’s be clear: this is cinematic bravado, not a how-to. My preferred weapon is not red tape.)

On the home front, Amazon delivered my first set of eye patches yesterday. Bless their hearts. Surprisingly not as awkward as I feared. Depth perception, meanwhile, bowed out of the conversation without sending a forwarding address. Eye-hand coordination has gone from “competent” to “laughably speculative,” but I’ll adapt.

That’s the plan: prepare for the inevitable eviction of the rat bastard from his current tenancy. Not pleasant. Necessary. Like root canal anesthesia for the soul. And like the really bad punchline of a really bad joke, "I'll keep an eye for you".

As any Marine will tell you, no plan survives first contact. If everything starts looking rosy, toss a map because you’ve wandered into an ambush. So I’ll celebrate, stumble into a PET scan on a national holiday, and keep my hand on the paperwork — because in this theatre the only thing more lethal than a Marine is an irritated veteran filling out forms.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

The Gospel According to the Department of No

Ten business days — a biblical span of suffering — and at last the monolith known as Scott and White stirred. A fax had been received, they announced, like priests unveiling a sacred relic. Somewhere, an intern pressed “confirm” and went home early.

The verdict?

No full-body PET scan. Too dangerous, too decadent. The Powers That Be have declared I only qualify for the Head-to-Hip Experience™, a limited-edition medical safari where the lower body is apparently irrelevant to the mysteries of life and death. From the waist down, I am Schrödinger’s patient — possibly fine, possibly riddled with horror, but officially “out of network.”

The point of the full scan, of course, was to make sure the cancer wasn’t hiding in some far-flung organ, sipping margaritas and laughing at the ophthalmologists. But the decision makers — faceless, possibly holographic — don’t concern themselves with such trivia. They exist in a separate plane, floating above cubicles, feasting on denial forms and cold coffee.

Austin Retina, bless their weary souls, are rolling with what scraps we’re allowed. They sound exhausted, like field medics in a war no one’s sure we’re still fighting. Me? I’m sharpening my K-bar. I’ve sent missives to patient relations, a department which seems to specialize in not relating to patients. Current body count:

1. Emails: Two fired into the void.

2. Voicemails: Three left, unheard, somewhere in a purgatorial inbox.

3. Austin Retina Calls: Two made, four responses. Miracles do happen.

Soon I’ll escalate to emailing board members, those shadowy druids who meet quarterly to divine the meaning of “care.” I’ll craft my pleas in the tone of a man who’s seen the abyss and CC’d it for good measure. Maybe one of them will have a conscience. Or a bored assistant. Either will do.

This isn’t a “journey.” It’s a hostage situation with billing codes. And I’m not interested in being a polite victim. I expect my doctors to go berserk — hand-to-hand trench-knife medicine, blood-and-thunder diagnostics. I want scorched earth. I want a treatment plan that scares them.

If by some miracle we get this PET scan before the biopsy, I’ll count that as victory — not triumph, not salvation — just a brief, cigarette-stained moment of relief before the next round of bureaucratic roulette.

Because make no mistake: this isn’t my first rodeo. But the rodeo clowns?

They’ve unionized. And they’re running the asylum.

Rat bastard charlie must die

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

A Study in Sloth: The Tragedy of Urgency Misplaced

From the moment the clock struck October 16, I declared war. I was ready to storm the gates. “Full speed ahead!” I cried. “That rat-bastard charlie must die!” — charlie, the unwelcome squatter currently renting space in my retina. The battle cry was clear. The troops, however, were apparently on lunch break.

First order of business: contact the Scott & White retina specialist. To his eternal credit—bless his overbooked, saintly heart—he squeezed me in. I dared to hope. Life was briefly good. The gods of medicine had smiled upon me.

He didn’t like what he saw (who would?), but he did recommend the super-doc in Austin—the medical equivalent of summoning Gandalf. Alas, even Gandalf keeps banker’s hours. The earliest appointment? Six days away. Six days! In cancer time, that’s roughly the length of the Mesozoic Era.

I persevered. The Austin appointment arrived, the doctor frowned, and decreed: “Let there be a PET scan.” First, however, a bureaucratic sacrifice to the gods of paperwork—apparently PET scans don’t schedule themselves.

Four days of radio silence later I started calling. Austin first with no update except its in the hands of Scott and White. so I call Scott and White. According to Scott and White, the mighty “fax”—that ancient relic of the 20th century—takes seven to ten days to appear “in the system.” Seven to ten days. The pyramids were built faster. I began to sense a lack of urgency.

I left a message on the patient advocate line—a magical hotline promising compassion and efficiency. The recording asked me to be respectful of their feelings. Their feelings. A delightful twist, since I’m the one with a potential ticking time bomb behind my eyeball.

Weekend passes. I show up Tuesday, fuming like a badly written Greek god. Still no PET scan. The doctor seems... unenthused by my enthusiasm. It dawns on me that the medical profession may have collectively misplaced its sense of urgency.

Then today—ah, today—Austin calls. No labs available until January. January! The scheduler sounds near tears, bless her. She suggests my primary care physician might “help.” Of course—let’s recruit yet another player for this tragic farce. Meanwhile my vision blurs, my eye aches, and my patience files for divorce.

So I take up the banner again. I message the Scott and White retina specialist, pleading for an in-house referral, and leave yet another note with the patient advocates, who by now are probably screening my calls. No reply. Silence.

Tomorrow I’ll try the VA. Maybe they have a PET scanner that isn’t being used as a coat rack. I won’t hold my breath—oxygen might be the only thing moving fast around here.

In summary: There is, indeed, a plethora of lack of urgency. Time is not my friend. And that rat-bastard charlie? He’s probably throwing a party in my eye while the healthcare system argues over who’s responsible for sending the next fax.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Taco Tuesday’s Failure to Satisfy

Ah, Taco Tuesday. The promised land of cheap tequila and even cheaper optimism. Spoiler alert: both ran out early.

The big day finally arrived — the long-awaited eye doctor appointment, a carnival of futility made even more absurd by the fact that the actual test that might tell us something (the PET scan) remains unscheduled. Bureaucracy, thy name is “we’ll call you back.”

So once more into the inferno — the dreaded voyage down Interstate 35, that concrete artery straight to Austin’s seventh circle. Traffic moved like a wounded snail, and every brake light felt like divine punishment.

Then came the usual ritual: eye pictures, dilation, blinding lights, and that special brand of discomfort that only medical professionals can deliver while saying, “It's a bright light.” Translation: “We’re about to interrogate your retina with the sun.”

The results? More loss of peripheral vision. Roughly the top three-quarters of my field of view have packed up and left town. My depth perception has long since retired — probably sipping margaritas with my spatial awareness somewhere in the Bahamas. My hand-eye coordination now resembles that of a drunk raccoon attempting origami.

Desperate times, desperate measures. I’ve been experimenting with eye patches — a series of failed fashion statements courtesy of Amazon’s “Customers Also Cried” recommendations. Today, I’ll go classic: the full pirate. “Arrr, matey, me optic nerve’s mutinied!” Time to swab the decks and embrace my inner buccaneer.

In two weeks, the pièce de résistance: a needle biopsy. Nothing says “comforting medical experience” like hearing, “We’ll just stick a needle in your eye — it’s day surgery!” How quaint. Another step in evicting charlie, that freeloading tumor squatter who refuses to respect the lease agreement.

And then, once again, the doctor dropped the word enucleation. For the uninitiated, that’s Latin for “gouge your eye out.” Romantic, isn’t it? But honestly, if it gets rid of that rat bastard charlie, bring me the melon baller. I’ll name myself Captain One-Eye and set sail for the land of decent healthcare.

And after all that? No tacos. None. Taco Tuesday — a failure on all fronts. Vision: failing. Hope: questionable. Tacos: nonexistent. Margaritas: missing.

If irony were a menu item, I’d be stuffed.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

Monday: Bureaucracy Rides Again

Well, it’s another Monday — that cursed invention designed to remind us that hope has a snooze button. Still no word on the mythical PET scan, the sacred diagnostic ritual my doctor needs to decide whether I’m worth saving or just another entry in her billing software.

The office, bless their mechanized hearts, remains laser-focused on confirming that I will, in fact, show up to appointments that may or may not exist. They can’t tell me whether the test has even been ordered, but they’ll chase me down like a bounty hunter if I dare skip a scheduled guilt session. Accountability, it seems, is a one-way street — freshly paved for them, full of potholes for me.

Yesterday, my neighbor eased on over — on horseback, no less. A fine piece of horseflesh, the horse, not my neighbor. The animal gleamed and smirked, as if to say, I’m what progress used to look like. My neighbor, bless him, came by to check on me and see if there had been any “developments.” Real nice of him. The horse, to his credit, offered the only honest commentary I’ve heard so far — a steaming editorial right in front of me, straight from the north end of a south-bound critic. I took it as a sign of solidarity.

Meanwhile, my hunting buddy calls at least once a day to check in — just to make sure I’m still breathing and sufficiently bitter. If only the medical professionals showed half his dedication. He doesn’t have a degree or a fax machine, but he does have a pulse and a memory, which puts him several steps ahead of the healthcare system.

I even left a message with Scott and White’s so-called Patient Advocacy line. They promise patients can escalate grievances “all the way to the CEO.” Sounds impressive, until you realize they’ve built no actual ladder — just a trapdoor leading to nowhere. I suspect my message is now drifting in some digital purgatory, right next to lost insurance claims and abandoned ethics.

The eye doctor’s office joined the parade of uselessness too. After explaining my situation to the receptionist (who sounded young enough to still believe in justice), I was transferred to the “assistant to the doctor.” Naturally, they’re never available. I imagine them as a cloaked figure, sitting in a dark room illuminated only by the glow of unanswered voicemails.

Tomorrow’s voting day. Everyone says every vote counts. I’d like to cast mine for competence — or maybe just for someone who answers the phone. But those names never make it onto the ballot. So I’ll do my civic duty and pretend it matters — the same way the clinic pretends it faxed that PET scan request.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Halloween: Welcome to the Paperwork Apocalypse

Halloween again.

That time of year when the amateurs play monster. They glue on plastic fangs, dribble ketchup down their shirts, and call it “scary.” Meanwhile, I’m on hold with the hospital switchboard — that’s horror. True, American, existential horror. The kind that smells faintly of disinfectant and despair.

I got ambushed by this latest “medical situation,” which is how the doctors say, “You’re screwed, but we’ll need six meetings to confirm it.” So, being a reasonable man, I wanted to start treatment — maybe get a jump on the Grim Reaper before he finishes his coffee. But after years in the oncology underworld, I know better. Once you enter their realm, time ceases to exist. You are but a number on a clipboard, a file buried beneath a mountain of paperwork and printer errors.

Super Doc — my fearless guide through this bureaucratic wasteland — orders a PET scan. “This will determine the course of treatment,” she says, with all the confidence of the person who won’t have to make the phone calls. It’s the Big Test. The Decider. The sacred relic that tells us whether I’m going to war or just rehearsal dinner for Hell.

Ordered: eight days ago. Results: Ha!

I start calling. The hospital says it takes seven to ten days to “get the fax into the system.”

The fax.

In twenty-twenty-freaking-five. They’re diagnosing cancer with technology that couldn’t survive Y2K. Somewhere in a damp sub-basement, a fax machine hums like an ancient idol, demanding toner sacrifices and human patience.

I call the eye doctor. “We sent it,” they swear.

I call the hospital again — they respond like I’ve asked for state secrets. “We can neither confirm nor deny receipt of said fax,” they murmur, as if I’m in the CIA. Then they suggest I verify the fax number. The fax number. Because, naturally, I should have memorized the secret numeric code of the oncology labyrinth. At this point, my pulse is doing jazz solos. I can feel my Marine vocabulary — twenty-four years of industrial-grade profanity — clawing its way up my throat like a caged animal. I’m ready to call down the wrath of the English language itself.

Instead, I go to the hospital’s “patient advocacy” webpage, which is less “advocacy” and more “gaslighting with HTML.” I find the complaint form. It gives me 125 characters. That’s it. I couldn’t even write a proper threat in that space, let alone a complaint. “Dear Sir, Kindly…” — and I’m out of room. So I typed what I could: “This system was designed by demons who flunked customer service in Hell.” It fit. Barely.

And here I am. Waiting. Waiting for some anonymous clerk to feed my future into the fax god and press “send.” It’s terrifying, really — not the diagnosis, not the treatment. The waiting. The crawling, mind-numbing, soul-sucking waiting while your body runs its own internal countdown.

charlie — that’s what I’m calling the tumor — is in there, lounging around like a tenant who knows eviction takes months. And I’m outside, in the rain, arguing with a fax line. So yeah, happy Halloween. Dress up if you want. But if you really want to experience fear? Try getting medical paperwork processed in America. That’s the haunted house that never ends.

“Trick or treat, smell my feet,” I croak, because apparently Halloween now requires ritualized humiliation before the medical-industrial complex will lift a finger. Give me a PET scan, that would be neat — not for candy, mind you, but to evict the freeloading tumor I’ve nicknamed charlie. I don’t want fairy lights and fake cobwebs; I want fluorescent lights, paperwork, and someone with a badge to press ‘confirm.’ Mercy, in this town, comes stamped and filed. So hand over an appointment like you hand out candy — quick, automatic, and with no small talk — or at least teach your fax machine to fear me.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Sunday Morning Coming Down — A Monologue

(He sits, mug of coffee in hand, staring out at the mist like it owes him money.)

Sunday morning. Calm, quiet, foggy, and damp — like the world just woke up hungover and pretending everything’s fine. Last night’s rain put on a full biblical performance, and the Forest Compound loved every minute of it. Everything’s dripping, satisfied, smug.

I slept great, too — which feels like a minor miracle these days. A rare win in this slow-motion carnival called “waiting to die responsibly.”

Right now, I’m stuck in the “hurry up and wait” phase — that bureaucratic purgatory where you spend your time auditioning for the role of Patient #47. The grand suspense? Waiting for some anonymous PET Scan scheduler to call and tell me where I’ll be irradiated next.

Meanwhile, the dogs keep scanning me daily with their big soulful eyes — mostly for signs of breakfast, maybe a little affection, possibly just checking if I’m tender enough to eat.

Funny thing: the moment I retired and joined Medicare, my oncologist suddenly decided those annual PET scans weren’t “necessary.” Oh no, I’m miraculously stable now. Isn’t that something? Amazing how good news shows up the moment the insurance money runs out. Evidently, cancer just isn’t as lucrative under government rates. Insurance money — sweet ambrosia. Medicare — a stale cracker.

So I sit here, staring at my pill bottles like they’re tiny judgmental trophies. Blood pressure. Cholesterol. Diabetes. A whole pharmacological buffet for one. Do I need them? Probably. But then again, so did Elvis.

The arthritis meds, though — now that’s the good stuff. I could build a small, deeply spiritual religion around those.

And then there’s my eye. Always feels like it hurts, but it doesn’t. Or maybe it does — just enough to remind me I’m still technically alive. The vision’s garbage. Everything looks blurry, like the world’s been Photoshopped by someone drunk and unmotivated. One eye’s fine, the other’s doing a solid impression of a cheap camera lens smeared with Vaseline. Glasses don’t help. They just make the blur sharper. I find myself squinting at things now — not because I’m curious, but because I’m negotiating.

So what’s on the agenda today? Heroic nothingness. I’ll sit here, marinate in my own thoughts, and pretend this is “taking it easy” instead of “waiting for the next plot twist.”

(He takes a slow sip of coffee, staring off into the mist.)

At least the forest’s happy. Somebody should be.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

TEST, TEST, testing 1 2 3 . . .

Ah, the sweet serenade of modern medicine — that glorious ballet of clicks, passwords, and privacy disclaimers nobody reads. Log in, verify your existence three different ways, and congratulations! You’ve unlocked the privilege of viewing your slow biological decline in high definition. The Retinas Doctor’s patient portal: where your medical misery gets archived for posterity. Truly, the internet at its noblest.

So, yes, the three-hour office visit. Necessary, apparently. Twelve tests, eight procedures, and a dazzling five-minute encounter with the ophthalmological deity herself — the Wonder Woman of the cornea. She swept in like a caffeinated oracle, skimmed my chart with divine indifference, and bestowed upon me the great gift of, “We’ll schedule a follow-up.” I nearly wept.

Today, my eye hurts. Or maybe it’s my soul, staging a protest. Hard to know these days. Ever since they confirmed something might be wrong, every twitch feels like a countdown. It’s psychosomatic déjà vu — anxiety cosplaying as symptoms, and I’m the captive audience.

Next stop on the Medical Mystery Tour: Election Day. Nothing says civic duty like voting for the lesser evil in the morning and getting your ocular nerve scanned in the afternoon. On the docket: Dilated Exam, Anterior Segment Photos OU, OCT Macula OU, Fundus Photos OU, A-Scan OD, B-Scan OD, and—because why stop there—a UBM OD. I know what a photo is, but I couldn’t pick my fundus out of a lineup. Still, if someone’s photographing it, I’ll try to look photogenic. Say “cheese,” inner eyeball.

Somewhere in the administrative ether, a PET scan is allegedly being scheduled. My doctor insists it’ll happen “before the next appointment.” I, on the other hand, believe in unicorns, prompt medical scheduling, and other fine myths of the modern world.

And finally, a formatting update: I’m changing the tag font. Something cleaner. Something that screams existential resignation with a hint of class. Helvetica, maybe. The font of quiet panic, corporate emails, and medical records that will outlive us all.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Eating an Elephant

(A Cynical Field Report from the Frontlines of Modern Medicine)

Well, today was the big day — my grand audience with the fancy doctor. Two-hour drive, plenty of time to contemplate mortality and bad radio. I arrived early, naturally, only to begin the sacred ritual of waiting — the medical world’s favorite form of foreplay.

First came the five-page “new patient” paperwork. I half expected a question about my childhood trauma or whether I’ve accepted the inevitability of death.

Then came the eye pictures, courtesy of the biggest Nikon camera I’ve ever seen — thing looked like it could spot a tick on the moon. After that, the usual alphabet soup test: E, F, P, T, O, Z. I’m starting to think it’s less about vision and more about memorization.

Back to the waiting room — the holding pen of the soon-to-be-diagnosed. Twenty minutes later, I was injected with contrast dye. The nurse, all smiles, warned me it’d make my pee glow like radioactive lemonade. She wasn’t lying. Then another twenty minutes of waiting, presumably to let my soul marinate in fluorescent regret.

Eyes dilated next. I hate that part — it’s like being flash-banged by life itself. More pictures. More pressure checks. More poking and prodding to confirm that, yes, I do in fact have eyeballs. Finally, I get ushered into the real chamber — where the doctor, the high priestess of this fluorescent temple, will deliver the verdict. But first, another ultrasound of the eyeball, because who doesn’t love a little ocular sonar with their existential dread?

Then came the news: melanoma. Probably. Ninety-five percent sure, give or take a small miracle. Could also be the encore performance of my previous cancer. The doc, calm as a monk, ordered a PET scan — apparently to decide whether I’m growing new cancer or just recycling old stock.

If it’s melanoma, she’s my gal. If not, I get handed off to a different oncologist — like a defective product in a cosmic customer service exchange. Either way, I suppose I should start pricing eye patches. Nothing says “mystery and trauma” like looking perpetually ready to board a pirate ship.

It’s a lot to process. The kind of news that makes your brain stall out, like a cheap car in rush-hour traffic. So I told myself what everyone tells themselves when staring down something too big to swallow: One bite at a time.

Eating an elephant — one forkful of absurdity after another.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler