You know how people ask how do you know if the refrigerator light goes off when you close the door, and they think they're being clever or something, but it's a stupid question because there's a button that switches the light off when it's pressed, and since it's right in the door track, the weight of the door turns it off? You can press it with your finger when the door is open, for crying out loud. I don't know where I was going with that. I think it had something to do with what I do when I'm not blogging. I'm not some monkey here for your amusement, I've got a lot on my plate right now. It's not like when I'm not posting here, I go into stasis or anything, in a giant, hermetically-sealed Tupperware container 300 feet below the surface of the Earth, where an advanced society of mole-men monitor my vital signs and flood my mind with gamma rays encoded with subliminal messages, effectively making me a sleeper agent in their quest to take over the Topside. That's just silly. How could these mole people even survive up here, what with their poor vision and their photo-sensitive skin?
No, It turns out I've just been on Facebook really busy at work. For like, months now.
But I'm giving you an update, not just because I've been nominated for something, but also because I got myself all freaked out last week about some genetic defect thing that I may or may not have.
It started last Monday. With so many sto---HOLY SHIT! Sorry. They're doing something to the roof at work. We can hear banging and whirring power tools all day. Just now a big piece of...something...just flew past my window, like a big chunk of Styrofoam or insulation. I don't know if they dropped it by accident or threw it down to the dumpster, but it hit my window ledge, a piece broke off, and it continued on the the ground seven stories below. For a second I thought it was a person. Crap, that was scary.
Alright, what I was saying was, with the election dominating the news pretty much since 2006, there were hundreds of weird little articles coming out that somehow involved presidents or elections. For example, do you know why elections are held on Tuesdays? One of these articles was about Presidential diseases. Michele sent it to me because some people believe Abraham Lincoln had Marfan Syndrome, and from the description, it seemed like I might have it, too. Here's some of the symptoms:
Tall, thin stature with long limbs. Check.
For most people, armspan and height are roughly equal - in people with Marfan Syndrome, armspan is longer. Check. 73" height, 76" armspan.
Long, flexible fingers and toes. Check.
Easy dislocation and loose joints, as well as scoliosis or abnormal side-to-side curvature of the spine. Check and check. When I was a teenager, they told me I had Kyphosis (From the Greek Kyphos, meaning hunchback. Fan-friggin'-tastic.) I had to wear a back brace, which didn't really help my already unnecessarily low self-esteem.
Sunken or pushed-out breastbone. Check.
Vision problems. Check.
Weak blood vessels (especially the aorta) and abnormal heart valves. Um...I don't know. But I did have the hiccups for FIVE DAYS.
Anyway, it was all actually pretty interesting, until I got to the "Prognosis" part, where my life-expectancy was basically halved. So, yeah, it rattled me a bit. It shouldn't have, first of all because I can't even confirm I have this thing, and even if I do, it says with proper medical treatment, the AVERAGE lifespan is increased to about 70 years. 70 is the average, so half the people must live longer than that for it to be the average, right? Isn't that how math works?
Well, it's better to get all worked up over nothing than to suddenly drop dead in ten years, so I did something I hardly ever do: I made an appointment to see a doctor. I figured since I was going to be there anyway, I made sort of a Top Ten list of "ailments" or whatever that I've had for years, but were really too small to go see a doctor for on their own. I don't know, I'd feel silly setting up an appointment to tell a doctor that, despite my narrow build, I constantly smash my shoulder on door frames that I have more than enough space to walk through. But if it's thrown in with a list of other stuff, that somehow makes it easier. So, under threats from Michele and my boss, I made an appointment for last Thursday.
The medical center I go to (which I hadn't gone to since the hiccups incident), is right across the street from the Braintree train station, so I took the train from work and walked over there. On the way, I saw a woman walking ahead of me fall to the ground. It's always tricky when someone falls, because if they're hurt, they're going to need help, but if they're not, the last thing they want is for anyone to draw attention to their hilarious pratfall. She had pretty much gathered herself together by the time I reached her, but to be safe I asked if she was okay. The woman turned around and just gave me this blank, eerie stare. She looked like Morton Downey, Jr., with big coke-bottle glasses. I thought maybe she didn't hear me, so I asked again. Still nothing. Well, nothing but an evil, ungrateful death-stare. Amazingly, though her ankles are apparently made of spaghetti, she managed to hold on tightly to her lit cigarette the entire time. I should have pushed her back down, the crazy broad. I only offered to help in case someone I knew happened to drive by and I didn't want to look like a dick. Jeez. And that face is going to haunt my dreams.
After that, I got to the building and checked in. There was some kind of scheduling conflict with the doctor, so they sent me to a nurse practitioner rather than waiting hours to see my primary care physician, who I couldn't pick out of a lineup anyway. It was a good meeting, but unfortunately I don't have much else to report about it for the moment. She took my list, made a photocopy of it, and said while you can't just look at someone and say they have Marfan Syndrome, it looks like I have Marfan Syndrome. I have another appointment coming up, but it hasn't been scheduled yet. The next one will be with a geneticist. I guess I feel better now. I'm not freaked out anymore, it's not really a big deal either way. It just explains my creepy wizard fingers. At least Michele will stop nagging me about going to the doctor. Now all I have to do is go to the dentist. I may have cracked a tooth last Wednesday. I've been avoiding anything hard or crunchy and chewing with the right side of my mouth since then.
11 comments:
Yay, you're back! Boo,I'm sorry to read about your health issues. I'm praying for ya, John. You're gonna be just fine! And, hey, no more Facebook! We need you over here:)
I'm not sure how that award thing works... but don't you actually have to post on a blog to qualify?
As for the marfans... I'm not sure 6'2" is tall enough to qualify. Now if you were 7 feet... well... they do a show on discovery about marfans about once a year or so, and I've seen it two or three times. That makes me an expert... right?
Well you don't have to be giant. If my back wasn't all crooked, I'd probably be a few inches taller anyway. But then my height-armspan ratio would be about even, which could rule me out. So, yay crooked back!
Joey Ramone had it, so did that dude that wrote Rent. Lots of non-dead people have it, too. Of course, I could be fine. Apparently Michael Phelps got checked for it and he was cleared, so maybe I'm like him. I'm already the Michael Phelps of sporadic posting.
Here I was all set to diagnose hypochondria, and then you had to ruin it with all that NP taking you seriously stuff. Maybe a symptom of Marfan is being paralyzed by ghosts in the middle of the night or whatever what sucking out your soul last time. And a sunken-in breastbone can be a sign of rickets.
On the other hand, maybe you just have a tapeworm.
I can see you living in a Tupperware container. Of course, now we know it would have to be enormous and curved to accommodate your mutant back and circus fingers.
I have the geneticist appointment on Dec. 9. They also said to see Orthopedics, so I've to set that up. If you don't hear from me, it means I'm dead.
Actually, the sleep paralysis could be part of it. That's a complete guess but it would be nice and tidy if all this stuff was related.
And for the record, my breastbone is protruding, not sunken in. I wonder what that's a sign of?
I like circus fingers though. They could be like circus peanuts, those orange things made of God-knows-what. Circus Fingers and Fruit of the Womb. Gotta market this stuff.
I never know when you're kidding, or not!!
You know, Tupperware is made out of that plastic that has BAP in it. The stuff that, as it turns out, will give you cancer. So, I don't think it's the Marfans Syndrome that's going to do you in. No. It's the mole people. They are not your friends, john.
PS I was looking for some uplifting stuff to read so I don't kill my co-workers in a fit of whatever, but this will work too. So, another "yay" for your deformed frame.
Every Photo Tells A Story: I really am going to doctor for a whole bunch of different things, but I don't actually live underground with mole people. As for Juicy Fruit of the Womb, the jury's still out on that one.
NYP: Glad you found my imminent death uplifting. Sheesh.
Wait, Tupperware is made of Black American Princesses?
I don't find your immenent death uplifting. I find that you may have figured out why you are you and the way you went about saying it funny. I was looking for uplifting. Got funny instead. Geez. I'm not heartless.
BAP= Bisphenol A Not sure where the P comes in. Maybe for plastic. Like those barbie legs you are checking out in your photo. Perv.
immenent=imminent. *sigh*
PS Actually, I am kind of heartless because I was crying from laughing so hard at re-reading your hiccups post. (It is funny now, right?)
They're not Barbie legs, it's a clothes hanger I found in my grandmother's basement. It's frightening. But yeah, I am looking up it's panties.
I just reread the hiccups one too. It is funny, now that I don't have them anymore. Yesterday some other gross thing happened that I don't want to talk about, but it was gross. And boring.
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