It’s All In My Head

“You have a very beefy uvula and your tonsils are too fat.”

That was the official diagnosis. I’ve been having strange headaches and occasional dizzy spells since October. Since I have dope-ass insurance, they had tested me for everything. MRI, CAT scan, EKG machines, hearing tests, balance tests, sleeping tests… blah blah blah. The best anyone could come up with until now was, “It’s a stress and tension headache. Here’s some pills. Also, you should go to the gym more.” That was the official diagnosis of my hippyesque neurologist. But, that was 5 months ago. This time, it was my snarky, lesbian ortohinolaryngologist’s turn to make a ruling.

“I’ll be honest. It’s going to be ten days of hell, but I promise to give you percoset.” She was a tiny woman, but she could totally kick my ass if she wanted, and she knew it. “Your tonsils are blocking air while you sleep and your uvula is choking you. They need to be taken out.” I noticed more than a hint of excitement when she said the words “taken out”.

Apparently, the cause of all my maladies is bad sleep. Poor rest is the root of all my evils. It is connected to poor energy levels, which I thought I was suffering from simply because I am old now. It is the instigator of slow metabolism. I will now blame my weightiness on not sleeping for a full eight hours during my lifetime. Most importantly, if air is not getting to your brain while you are sleeping, you can suffer from headaches and dizziness. I have noticed that I will sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, but then go right back to bed. Turns out, this is because my uvula is cutting off my breathing.

“We definitely need to shave your uvual. It’s so big!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Is it going to hurt?”

“I always tell my patients that I would rather have ten tonsillectomies, than one shoulder surgery. Now THAT is real pain.”

“Oh? You have shoulder problems?”

“Yeah. A lot. I used to play tennis.” Of course she did.

“If I’m a good boy, do you have lollipops to give away after the surgery?”

“Oh, we have them, but you don’t get any. Too much sugar. You can stand to have a healthier treat.”

Look, I get it. I should probably lose some weight. But, really? Does EVERY doctor need to keep telling me this? I have joined the YMCA and I try to go every day. I DON’T go every day, but I have made a really great “Gym Bunny” mix on my ipod for when I do!

Dr. Dykey is scheduled to perform my surgery next month. It’ll be my first time “going under” for a procedure. I can’t WAIT to take a video of me waking up from the anaesthesia!

Valentine’s Day

A complete list of activities I was involved with on Valentine’s Day -

1. I bought new pants. Plain, black, work pants.

2. I took myself to see “he’s just not that into you”. 600 single ladies had the same idea.

3. I treated myself to a fountain Diet Pepsi at KFC. I resisted buying a biscuit.

4. A homeless lady told me I was handsome.

5. Masturbated in a warm bath.

6. Sleep.

Roofied

I was drugged this weekend. Yes, for real. Yes, as in someone slipped something into my drink. A horrible sense of nausea and dread overcame me. I remember leaving the club, but I do not remember getting home. I “woke up” from my zombie walk when I threw up all over my bedroom floor. I was in bed until 7pm the next night, getting up only to drink water and spew chunks.

If someone went through all the trouble of slipping me a roofie, I wish they would have at least raped me. What a waste.

My Achey Breaky Head

I went to see a neurologist today.

Saying that sentence out loud makes me feel rich. All the sudden, I become an older lady of some importance who, after being driven by her caucasian chauffer from the Upper East Side, must meet with a brain specialist.

The doctor was very small. His little office was adorned with tiny Buddah statues and impish bamboo plants. An explosion of green spirituality. Dark, red oak lined the walls and his rug was clearly from a castle in China. Fancy digs. He made me do some weird little tricks to see if my brain was working. I felt like I was being given a field sobriety test. Turns out, I hadn’t been drinking any tumors, so apparently I passed. It’s a good thing I don’t have a brain tumor cause that would’ve been really annoying.

I’ve had a bizarre headache for the last four weeks and I had gotten it in my head that there was gonna be something in my head. I did a ten hour stint in the ER a few weeks ago because I had felt dizzy and achey. They ran cat scans, x-rays, and even an EKG machine. They took blood, urine, and the last remaining ounce of my sanity. By the time I was discharged, I was ready for a padded cell because I had been there so long.

It’s been four weeks and the headache hasn’t gone away. I’ve been officially told by an official neurologist that I officially have a stress & tension headache. Between sitting the same way at my desk and life’s little stresses, my body has focused it’s sadness into the lower left side of the back of my head. He gave me pills, told me to exercise more, and to eliminate any sources of stress. So, I guess that means I have to kill Sarah Palin.

Hmm. I wonder if I get busted by The Feds if they’ll realize that’s a joke.

Great, now I’m stressed about using the phrase “kill sarah palin” in my blog.

My stress & tension headache is stressing me out and causing me tension!

5 to 31: Purgatory

Too hot in my room. Radiator hisses, sounds like snakes? I am not sure what snakes sound like at this point in my illness. The inner workings of my chest are bruised. My feet refuse to stay warm. Ice tootsies. For the first time today, I thought that maybe I should go to the hospital, but that would just incur another bill that I would run away from. I hallucinated while I was watching ‘Flavor of Love 3′ at 6:00am. Brian’s tribal mask, that hangs in our hallway, made a stupid face at me. I went back to my bed and pretended that I wasn’t going to fall into the cold, wet basement. Time bends. Chills overtake me. Dying hurts.

I think I feel 9% better than the last two days. Hope is alive!

6 to 31: Dead

It hurts to type this. My frail, brittle body is turning to dust. I just watched a really long commercial about the acne medicine, ProActive. The before pictures of clients just made me barf.

No joke.

7 to 31: Dying

I’m hella sick today. I woke up at 4:20am (hmm) and thought my nose fell off and my head exploded. I called out sick today. Using my voice proved difficult since my esophagus was on fire. I’m going back to bed.

There’s a porcupine in my throat.

Webmd

I have had an ongoing issue with my left eye for about two months. It burns, itches, and has a slight, watery discharge, like tears, not pus, and occasionally I wake up with crusted over eyelids. A real life nurse looked at it and told me it was not pink eye. Hmm. I looked at www.webmd.com to see what they had to say, and if I were a hypochondriac, this site would kill me. I would never leave my house.

According to webmd, I either have Lyme Disease or Bird Flu. At least I have it narrowed down.

Pink Eye or Gay Stigmata?

My left eye has been leaky off and on for about a month and a half. It’s not itchy or scratchy, just consistently wet. No discharge, no color, just plain old tears. Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, my eye is crusted over and I can’t see. Since, I rarely remember my dreams, I assume I am crying in them. Whether it’s daddy issues, unrequited love or realizing your DVR didn’t record the entire episode of ‘The Amazing Race’ because a fucking football game went into overtime, my eye has become a physical representation of pain. Like, when statues of Jesus start bleeding!*

* Not saying I am a Jesus figure, just comparing apples to fat oranges.**

** Actually, I take that back. In the last two days, three different people in three different parts of my life made the comment that I appear to be losing weight. They would be right! I have lost 27 pounds since October 1st, more than half of my goal of 50 pounds by New Year’s Day. Thanks to those three people! You win The Best People Of Jeff’s Week So Far Award!

I am not a fat orange.

Dick Clamp – Part Two

While Dr. Johnson went to do some “prep work”, I was given an IV full of anti-biotics. I was very poud of myself for not passing out when the needle was injected into my arm. I felt like I was being plugged into The Matrix. After the bag of liquid seeped into my dead arm, I had to pee really bad. A nurse told me that I should use the restroom which was “down this hall, make a left, then another left, then go past the children’s area, and make a right after the kitchen”. So basically, I got lost on my way to piss – dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and two purple hospital gowns. I had to wear two because they were so small, I didn’t fit. I saw several old people hooked up to breathing machines, a kid without an arm, some people crying, Dr. Camillo yelling at some druggie dude, and the girl who drank too much gin had, just like she warned, vomited all over the place.

Upon my return to my cozy room, there was a young guy with a gunshot wound in his chest that was on a gurney blocking my door. The old man who was next to him said ‘Oh he’s back! Mister I-Have-A-Room is back!’ The gunshot guy just sort of moaned. He had bloody bandages wrapped around his chest. A nice Jamaican nurse moved him out of the way for me.

I sat in stressed anticipation. Listened to my happy music and began using my new tools I have learned in ‘The Secret’ to combat the dreaded proceedure. I kept catching myself say ‘I don’t want to hurt my penis. I don’t want to hurt my penis’. So instead I made up a new mantra. One of positivity and light – ‘I’m gonna have a happy penis. It won’t hurt that much!’ I said it over and over, making up a little tune to go along with it.

Finally the proceedure took place. Dr. Johnson came in along with the nice Jamaican nurse, who I noticed was half asian as well, so she was Jamasian. I splayed myself out on the table, like an alien experiment. Sudah, the nurse, had layed out all sorts of implements of destruction – scalpels, needles, a weird razor blade thing, cotton, guaze and something that look like a tiny rope. I warned them that I may talk alot or yell or perhaps sing. “Oh you gonna sing like Sanjaya? You watch American Idol?” Sudah asked in a pleasant tone. She had me sized up. Gay guy who loves reality TV. So, as the doctor shot 4 goddamn shots of novacaine into the base of my goddamn DICK SHAFT, Sudah and I sang songs from ‘Rent’.

Five hundred twenty five thousand six HUNDRED MINUTES!!!!!!!!!!! Five hundred twenty five thousand moments SO DEAR!!!!!!! In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights in CUPS OF MOTHERFUCKING COFFEE!!!!! You get the idea.

“Can you feel this?” I did so the doctor shot a 5th and final shot of novacaine, only this one went directly into the sore area which was located at the underbelly of the head of my fucking cock. After that, I couldn’t feel anything – on my dick, in my heart or in my soul. A little piece of me died on the operation table. While he cut and diced my willie, I rambled on about my 21st birthday, a show I had written, the summer camp for adults with disabilities I volunteer at, and how hard it is to find a job in New York. The doctor then said that he “found a forgeign body”. Apparently the cause for all this commotion was an underdeveloped kidney stone that had passed when I was much younger, but was never completely ejected from my penile region. It was a very small, corn kernel shaped obstruction that, during intercourse, had ruptured.

The doctor then used the following analogy for my mangina….”Much like the Titanic when it was sinking, and the chambers were filling up with water, your penis hit an iceberg and began swelling, leaking fluid to the layers of your foreskin. It’s a good thing you came in today.” Thank you for comparing my dick to the fucking Titanic, doc!

He mentioned something about ‘adult circumcision’ that made me freak out. I told him that I WAS circumsized and he said he would like to re-do it. I am sorry, but there is no re-dos when it comes to circumcision. Its worked great for 30 years and looks fantastic, lets just hope for another 30, OK?

While I was receiving some dope-like pain meds via IV, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything except a Cliff Bar in the waiting room. It was now close to 5:30pm. Sudah brought me and the old man on the gurney a little brown bag of lunch. A ham sandwhich, some cookies and ice cold milk and apple juice. I was so happy. It was surprisingly tasty! The old man in the hallway yelled ‘What the fuck is wrong with you stupid people? I don’t eat pork! Shit!’ He threw his lunch down the hall. Get me the fuck out of here.

The next day I had to remove the packed guaze by myself. I had to call my mommy and have her stay on the other line in case I passed out. Hilarious, I know, but necassary. I pulled a good six inches of bloody wrapping out of about a half inch of space inside my sad sausage. It hurt just as much as the first shot of novacaine. When all was removed, I shouted ‘Victory! Victory!’. My mom laughed at me. She doesn’t have a penis so I guess she is allowed to do that.

This is certainly the most ridiculous thing that has happened to me in a very long time. Lame. Lame. Lame. The doctor said I can ’start using it’ again in about two weeks. Yikes!

Dick Clamp – Part One

I spent almost 11 hours in an ER in Harlem last week. When I woke up, I noticed that there was a huge swollen area on my goddamn dick shaft. I immediately ruled out any sort of STD type of craziness because I am always a safety boy – except that one time I got fucked on the Lower East Side, but that turned out alright. After inspecting my bulbous bulb, I searched the internet for a free hospital. Luckily, there was one a few blocks further into the heart of Harlem from my apartment. I hobbled there as fast as I could.

I walked in the ER at 8:30am. Clearly, I was the only white person anywhere to be seen – from old men in the waiting room to the nurse who took my pee pee sample. I got a few stares from people, staff and patients alike. I don’t know what the problem was because I am just as broke as any of ‘dem hardcore thugs in Harlem.

There were about 8 people in the waiting room. Not bad. I signed in. We watched Maury Povich and Jerry Springer while we waited for our names to be called. A group of white haired ladies talked at the TV screen the entire time – “See, that’s what is wrong with America! That crazy white bitch ain’t got shit fer brains!” Meanwhile, the teenager who sat next to me kept telling her friend that she was going to vomit – “I swear to God, I will never drink that much gin again! Oh fuck, I am gonna throw up all over the fucking place!” I turned on my iPod and started listening to Arcade Fire.

Finally I was told to follow the yellow line to the ER admissions room. I was led into a room where the first doctor came in to look at my pecker. Her name was McCullough and she looked and acted like Larissa aka ‘Bootz’ from VH1’s Charm School. She made me tell her ‘what happened’. I wasn’t sure ‘what happened’, but I told her that I did have some ‘rigourous intercourse’ recently and perhaps something was damaged in the encounter. Bootz asked me if I had protected sex and I said ‘of course’. She gave me a disbelieving look only a black girl could give a white gay man. I assured her that yes, indeed, I was in fact, ACTUALLY having safe sex. She told me she didn’t know what it was and excused herself to get the senior doctor on duty.

The senior doctor, Doctor Camillo, had a rushed, frenzied look about her. She looked very much like Adriana Barazza from ‘Babel’, but not all glammed up, more like she actually looked like in the movie. I asked how she was doing and her reply was ‘Let’s see it’. She had a very adorable bedside manner. She groped and prodded my tender teddy and finally told me that it was an abscess and she would have to send the urologist down to look at the infected area. Then, she got on her broomstick and flew away.

While waiting for the urologist, an old man was wheeled on a gurney just outside my room. He banged on the wall and demanded to know why I got a room and he had to ‘waste away like a piece of filth’ in the hallway. At one point he kept hitting my wall and saying over and over ‘I want that room. I want that room’. I felt like a new prisoner in OZ. Fresh fish. A lady gave birth to a stillborn baby right outside my room too. I knew this happened because she kept screaming ‘GET MY BABY OFF THE FLOOR!’ I slowly closed my door.

About an hour later, after I made a happy music mix on my iPod and listened to it twice, Dr. Davis Johnson (appropriate for an urologist), came to inspect my swelling peter. He reminded me of a very business-like, grown up version of Carlton from ‘Fresh Prince of Bel Air’. He took a look at my problem and told me indeed it was an abscess. He then told me what proceedure was to come next. He said that my abscess, which was on my goddamn dick shaft, mind you, would have to be “clamped” and “lanced” and then “irrigated”. I almost fainted. Those are three words that should not EVER have anything to do with anyone’s ding-a-ling.

Stay tuned. Tomorrow I will tell you Part Two.