Found this on Rockaway Beach. My hour walked turned into almost 2 hours while I called the SPCA for pickup. I have no clue what happened to the guy. He looked like his neck was broken, but then all pelicans look like their necks are broken. He hadn’t been dead very long, and only while I was trying to figure out who was Dead Animal Pick-up in Pacifica, did the ants start crawling on his face. I hate ants sometimes. They are so utilitarian. No respect for the dead.
And the hiatus was only marginally productive. I had all these grand plans and schemes. I did get my author website up. This new article came out in The Monthly too. I did not find my short stories, nor did I edit them, or write a new one that has been rumbling around in my mind for a good long while.
I did go see a plastic surgeon who claimed to have a cure for migraines caused my occipital neuralgia. He was a punk, and a prick – a prick punk if you will. He charged me $250. His secretary said the consultation would last an hour to an hour and a half. It lasted 40 minutes and though NO ONE was in the waiting room, he was 25 minutes late to my appointment. Then, he told me what he really needed was my neurologists’ notes. He’s had them for 2 weeks. I told him so and he said he didn’t have them. He said I was mistaken. We got in a petty argument like the kind you did with your brother when you were 10.
Me: You have them.
Dr. Prick Punk: No, I don’t.
Me: Yes, you do.
Dr. Prick Punk: No, I don’t.
Finally, I told him, I confirmed his receipt of my records with his secretary last week, AND she called yesterday saying she was done with my records. She asked if she could shred them.
With that, Dr. Prick Punk blew out the exam room door, leaving it open. He didn’t say “Excuse me” or “Pardon me while I check on this.” I heard someone go in their little bathroom and use it. I wondered if it was him. I heard the toilet flush and he was back. WTF? Then, he said what he really needed was the radiologist report from the last MRI.
Me: Why? Couldn’t you read the CD I brought you?
Dr. Prick Punk: No, there was something wrong with it.
Me: I can read it at my house.
Dr. Prick Punk: You know how these things are.
No. Really. I do not. I went home and checked my records, and called Dr. Prick Punk’s secretary back.
Me on the phone: Please tell Dr. Prick Punk, I included a copy of the report he is requesting with the records I gave him. I said so in the cover letter, AND included it in the stack. I kept copies of what I gave you all.
Of course, that message is probably gone with the wind.
In the end, Dr. Prick Punk refused to do anything, and in the bigger end, even if he had said he would help me, I wouldn’t let him because he is a prick and a punk. At one point I was telling him about my nerve damage, and he interrupts impatiently….
Dr. Prick Punk: I know how nerves behave. See all this paper on the wall. (He waves his hands at all his diplomas). I wouldn’t have all this if I didn’t know how nerves behave.
Too bad his behavior was so lack luster, and I guess beyond lack luster into ego-centric. He knows nerves – maybe, but somehow I kind of think he knows the textbook version and that’s it. He doesn’t know real life. In the end, he said he was referring me back to the tiny German doctor. He also said there is no way the German doctor’s nerve block could last 9 months – his way of saying I’m a liar. He also said he would be calling the German doctor.
Me: Go ahead. Call him.
Dr. Prick Punk: I need your permission.
Me: I just gave it to you.
Dr. Prick Punk: No. You need to call the German doc and tell him I’m calling.
And so, I did just that. The German doctor’s secretary kind of laughed when I told her Dr. Prick Punk would be calling. She said she would put him right through. I imagine so. I wish the small German doctor would teach him some manners – bedside or otherwise. Or just teach him anything, but I sense that is an impossible task, one the small German doctor can’t even perform.