Secret Agent Man

The other day I took my bajillionth trip to the doctors for the never ending headaches I seem to have. You would think that by now I would have seen all the doctors in upstate New York, but alas faithful Internet, there seems to be one doctor that has been kept from me.

So there I am, sitting on the very comfy, very plastic patient chair and I’m divulging my history…yet again. You’d think that after 5 years he’d at least have a vague recollection of me. Especially after that one time where he had to clean and dress the gaping hole in my hand from where my 12 pound cat bit me and I could see the bone through the wound. Not kidding. BONE. That totally would have made dinner time conversation in my world. You would think, at the very least he would have jotted down some freakin notes. Even something simple like, “massively accident prone” or “should live in a bubble”. Hell, I would have even been satisfied with “lacks any sort of ass structure”. Really…I do. Totally flat.

Anyways, you know he’s totally not using that laptop to look at my medical chart…HELLO MINE SWEEPER! But I figure I’ll humor him and give him the whole story again. It goes something like this “I have really bad headaches. Please provide me drugs. The End.” See, it’s totally complex. I mean, I’d have to look up half that shit on webmd.

He asks if I’ve gone to see a neurologist and if I know the name of the doctor. Yes and Yes. I’ve done the neurologist’s office.I really wanted to fake a seizure while I was there. Listen Lady, I know it’s horrible, but I would probably get seen faster. I’m only trying to save valuable time here!  I give him the name of the neurologist I saw and he was all “I thought you might have seen Dr. Perfect (I’ve changed his name to protect him here). He is a headache specialist in Western New York, but I think we should try….”

Blink.

Blink. Blink.

I stopped listening to the end of his sentence because I heard  HEADACHE SPECIALIST.

One second while I step up on my soapbox…Ok and go…

You are telling me that there is a headache specialist IN MY CITY and you have not referred me to him yet? Is the specialist a secret agent man that uses cloaks and phantom of the opera masks to hide his true speciality?  What is this, high school and this doctor is the teenage boy who is trying to hide the playboy magazine from his parents? I’m going out on a limb here, but I don’t think this headache specialist is a deluge of pornographic material so HIDING him isn’t necessary. Perhaps I’m looking at this the wrong way? Maybe my doctor just wanted a good ol’ fashioned game of Marco Polo?

Holy mystery solved Batman! And here I thought all my co-pays were being spent wisely, when in fact, I should have just used them to wipe my kids ass. I left the office. Another 20 down the drain and a measly script for vicodin to show for all my troubles. When I got home, I promptly looked up Dr. Perfect’s number and made my own appointment.  HA…I WIN MARCO!