One measure of age is the number of medical and dental specialists you accumulate over time. It can start as innocently as seeing a endodontist for a stubborn root canal that your dentist declines to handle. This soon blossoms into visiting a periodontist for that receding gum line. You add a dermatologist to treat that embarrassing rash that makes sitting for long periods of time, especially in front of strangers in the hotel hot tub, untenable. Your twisted ankle that caused cartilage projectiles to painfully lodge in sections of muscle creates the need for an orthopedist. Plantar fasciitis brought on by an unwise decision to actually jog sends you limping to a podiatrist. Carpal tunnel syndrome which has crept into your mouse hand is diagnosed by a neurologist and sliced away by a hand surgeon. Yet a different general surgeon removes your stone-ridden gall bladder, and a sleep specialist helps you create the right mood for slumber. Your endocrinologist helps keep your thyroid in balance, and your allergist advises you to rid your house of pets. The psychologist provides ongoing therapy, both family and individual, to help you cope with all the other maladies. And finally, the psychiatrist soothes your mood swings resulting from having to deal with the insurance company that denies every claim from all of the other specialists.

Heard in the endocrinologist’s office last week:
"I want to make an appointment."
"What are you seeing the doctor for?"
"Diabetes and something else."
"Something else?"
"Yeah. Something I had to get a mammogram for."
"A mammogram?"
"Yeah. It hurt cause I've got hair around there."

Today was my day to visit the neurologist, on the advice of my family doctor, to have an electromyogram (EMG) to confirm the diagnosis of carpal tunnel problems in my left hand. The EMG itself is rather odd-feeling – a series of tiny electric shocks pass through your hand, causing it to jerk like a Zell Miller bobble-head, to determine the extent of the nerve conduction damage. Just as you’re thinking “That wasn’t so bad,” they stick a needle in various sites along your arm to measure the electrical activity of the muscle. The worst part, however (other than knowing that Cigna will undoubtedly screw up this claim as they have approximately 80% of the others I’ve submitted this year), was having to lie flat on my back on a very narrow, hard exam table for the duration of the test. The least they could do would be to provide a cushion for under your knees, a non-plastic pillow for your head, maybe a glass of wine, and while they’re at it, a massage therapist to help with the “You may feel a little pinch” minor discomfort that results from the test.

It actually isn’t the number of specialists I see (that was a composite taken from several people, so I won’t be accused of fabricating sources of information). It’s the number of days it’s taken me to be able to write an entry that wasn’t one, long boring rant about the outcome of the election. Except for that slip of Zell Miller above, I’m doing pretty well. Although the Kerry sign IS staying up in my front yard until it fucking rots.