Mud in Your Eye: A Love Story Between Me and Modern Medicine (A Cynical Field Report From the Ocular Trenches)

Once upon a time, humanity delighted in tossing around adorable little expressions like “Here’s looking at you!”, “Here’s mud in your eye!”, and the always–charming oath, “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” Wholesome. Folksy. Quaint.

Allow me to provide a reality check from someone who recently had a needle in their actual eye: It is not cute. It is not charming. It is not folksy. It is, however, a fantastic way to reevaluate every life choice you’ve ever made.

The Cleansing Ritual (Because Clearly I Live in Filth)

Monday was Needle Biopsy Day — a Hallmark occasion if Hallmark specialized in medical anxiety and bodily intrusion. My doctor, apparently convinced I spend my evenings rolling in coal dust or wrestling feral raccoons for sport, insisted I take two antiseptic showers within eight hours. With Dial soap.

Not antibacterial soap. Not a hospital-grade decontamination ritual. Dial. You know, the stuff they use in commercials starring people who have clearly never sweated in their entire lives.

Either she owns stock in the company or she truly believes cleanliness is a spiritual calling. Cleanliness, godliness — both spelled oddly, both policed by spellcheck, both suddenly my personal burden.

Release the Goats

Up before dawn — a time usually reserved for bakers, insomniacs, and people fleeing a crime scene — we fed the goats, fed the dogs, and started the pilgrimage to Austin.

Every hospital I’ve ever been to is under construction. I suspect hospitals are actually perpetual construction projects with occasional medicine practiced in the scaffolding gaps. The directions didn’t mention this crucial detail: you can’t actually get to the building if you follow them.

We ended up in a parking garage approximately four zip codes away. Fortunately, a scrubs-wearing angel appeared, looked at me with pity, and said, “I’m going to guide you. You’ll never find it on your own.” Reader, she was right.

The $612 Sit-and-Wait Extravaganza

We arrived, filled out enough paperwork to qualify for citizenship in a small nation, and were rewarded with a modest little co-pay: $612. A bargain, truly, for the privilege of sitting in a chair for two hours in a state of scenic medical anxiety.

Ah, medicine — that glamorous industry where punctuality is treated as a ceremonial gesture before segueing directly into indefinite stagnation. I’m getting good at waiting. I may add it to my résumé: Professional Sitter, Level 3.

But wait — things get better.

The moment the card reader beeped its approval, confirming my financial sacrifice had been accepted by the gods of healthcare, I was marched off to a holding cell. Fine, technically it was a prep room, but the vibe was very “minimum-security correctional facility.”

I was instructed to get naked and scrub all exposed body parts with special antiseptic wipes, in a specific order, as though I were participating in some sacred cleansing ritual. Then came the open-backed gown — a garment designed by people who believe dignity is an optional accessory.

Freshly sterilized and mooning the world, I waited.

Eventually, the surgeon swept in, all brisk confidence, and informed me she was running late and my procedure had been pushed back another 90 minutes.

So I did what I do best. I waited. And waited.

It’s a miracle no one offered me a loyalty card or punch-pass for the Waiting Experience™. At this point, I’d have earned a free coffee or at least a sticker.

Showtime: The Needle Approaches

Eventually, the staff wheeled me through the hospital maze — a labyrinth so complex that I’m convinced the Minotaur would get lost and die of dehydration before finding an exit.

They parked me center-stage. Hands came at me from every angle, adjusting pillows, tucking sheets, arranging tubes. A mask went over my face, and someone told me to “breathe normally.” Sure. Let me just breathe normally while preparing to have my eyeball frozen, pierced, and harvested like a microscopic smoothie ingredient.

The man in green leaned in and said, “I’m starting the anesthesia. You should…” —and that was the end of that sentence.

Reanimation and the Holy Water

I regained consciousness with all the grace of a disgruntled corpse and was immediately asked, “How do you feel?”

“I could use some water,” I croaked.

Sweet, sweet water. Nectar of the gods. Ambrosia of the desperate. After 12 hours of forbidden hydration — on top of my naturally arid mouth — it was bliss.

The Escape and the Barf Bag That Wasn't

Once dressed, I was chauffeured back to the forest compound. Note to future self: any post-hospital car ride requires a barf bag. I spent the entire trip contemplating whether the sacred water I’d just consumed was planning a dramatic reappearance.

I survived. Barely. Collapsed into a nap like a tragic Victorian heroine. And now, 18 hours after first opening my eyes, I offer this report — vision obscured, face bandaged, dignity questionable.

Final Thoughts

Needle in your eye? Just say no. In fact: HELL NO.

Based on the current throbbing sensation, I suspect the “procedure” was carried out using a combination of axes, shovels, and pure enthusiasm. Tomorrow, when the bandage comes off, I’ll know the truth.

Tune in for the before-and-after pictures. Assuming, of course, I still have an “after.”

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Hangry: A Tragedy in Clear Liquids

You know those commercials where some poor bastard is losing his mind because he’s “hangry” and all he needs is a Snickers? Well, I’ve surpassed that. I am no longer hangry—I am spiritually hollow, morally compromised, and one grapefruit juice away from committing mild crimes.

Most days, I forget to eat until after dark anyway, which is its own lifestyle choice, but today? Today the medical-industrial complex has forbidden me from consuming anything that could be described as “food-like.” No solids. No substance. Only “clear liquids,” which apparently includes broth but only if it’s as empty and meaningless as my will to live. Nothing floating in it. Nothing interesting. Nothing that would make you think, “Ah yes, nourishment.”

By 9 a.m., the fridge had become a shrine to everything I’m not allowed to have. The cookies in the jar whispered to me like seductive carb sirens. From the freezer, the frozen burritos call out like long-lost lovers. And the pecan pie—oh God, the pecan pie—basically tried to throw itself into my arms.

Instead, I’ve had two cups of beef broth and three coffees, which means I now resemble a malnourished Victorian chimney sweep with anxiety. I broke down and made Jell-O, that wiggly symbol of defeat, but it hasn’t set yet. So I made more, in another flavor, because apparently I’ve become the kind of person who stress-manufactures gelatin desserts. Remember when I used to want a big, juicy ribeye? Yeah. Not anymore. All I want is Jell-O. Jell-O. How far the mighty have fallen.

And I have to do this until after the eye-stabbing on Monday.

But after Monday? Oh, we’re stopping somewhere—anywhere—that sells edible matter. Burger King, Wendy’s, a gas station with questionable egg salad. Hell, I’ll eat a hot dog spinning under a heat lamp since 2014. We might even need emergency donuts just to keep me alive long enough to locate a drive-thru. Sure, there’s a great little Mexican place in Temple, but that’s an hour from the hospital, and frankly, I do not expect to survive the journey.

Right now, I’m twelve hours into a thirty-hour fast. Time has slowed to the pace of a dying sloth. Every minute stretches out like an eternity of culinary suffering.

Lucky for me, vodka is clear.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Calm Before the Storm: Fear and Loathing in the Ophthalmology Ward

The whole thing started on a Friday morning, the kind of morning that feels like the universe is slowly cranking up a chainsaw. I was barely awake when BSW blasted a notification into my skull: PET scan results available. Jesus. Someone over there must have sobered up long enough to actually look at Monday’s radioactive glamour shots of my internal machinery.

I opened the report with the trembling hands of a man who knows he’s about to witness a crime scene. And there it was— “2.0 cm mass… marked hypermetabolic activity suspicious for malignancy.”

Hypermetabolic. Christ. That means the bastard in my eyeball lit up like a Vegas casino caught in an electrical storm. A glowing, feral tumor in the “lateral right globe,” which is just medical code for YOUR EYEBALL IS HOSTING A DEMON. A rat bastard demon called charlie.

But the doctors tried to soothe me with their icy reassurance: no signs of cancer in the chest, abdomen, or pelvis. Lovely. A clean body, except for the small nuclear reactor in my right eye socket.

And then they tossed in some casual nonsense about “focal radiotracer uptake in the prostate,” which sounded like something a bored intern added for fun. PSA was low in June, so that’s probably just the prostate waving for attention like a drunk at last call. I’ll deal with it later.

Before I could recover from the PET scan debacle, Austin Retinal Associates rang me up. A voice too cheerful for human civilization informed me they were “trying” to get me into Seton Hospital on the 17th, 24th, or maybe December 1st, depending on whether the planets aligned and the surgeon felt spiritually prepared.

We were already told the 17th last week, but I held my tongue. You don’t argue with people who control the sharp objects.

She checked the schedule and—hallelujah— I was already on it. Jesus, a victory. A rare diamond glint in the medical sludge.

Then came the commandments: Shower twice with antibacterial soap. Eat nothing after midnight like some doomed gremlin. Follow the directions. Don’t wander off. Don’t lick anything.

But the real madness came an hour later, when Seton Hospital called. Their nurse had her own list of rules—nothing to eat from Sunday onward except clear liquids, all the food of an ascetic monk or a man awaiting execution. Stop all medications. No breakfast of champions. No mercy.

Then she asked what procedure I was having.

“A needle biopsy on my right eye,” I said.

A pause. Then: “No, no, no, it’s your left eye.”

My soul left my body.

I slammed my left eye shut, stared into the yawning black void of my right, and declared:

“IT. IS. MY. RIGHT. EYE.”

The nurse, clearly rattled, said they’d need to “call ARA to confirm,” and I imagined a circle of medical staff passing a chart around like a joint.

Then came the second curveball: I needed a follow-up appointment the next day, but Dr. Day would be in Waco. “Fine,” I told them. “Waco is closer anyway.” A logistical triumph, small but glorious, like finding an unbroken cigarette in the apocalypse.

So now I wait. Sunday, they’ll starve me like some deranged vision quest participant. Coffee is allowed, thank God—black, savage, life-sustaining.

And if this ordeal ends with me in an eyepatch, so be it. Pirates ruled the seas for a reason.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

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