Blah, blah, blah. Oh, they’re all “reach out and touch someone” right up till you try to put a personal spin on it, like in my headline, and then it’s “oh, somebody needs a little time-out!”
Yes, she does. And she would like to take it at a hotel on Mustique, thankyouverymuch. You know where the Paypal button is.
In related news, apparently I function as a human voodoo doll, and the doctors at Mount St. Joseph’s are actually using me to get back at award-winning actress and international star Marion Cotillard. Behold:
This is what they did to me:
So, that’s about four inches long and three across at the widest part, and a week later it looks much the same. Those dots you see aren’t pores: they’re where the freezing went in. Over and over and over. And yes, it still hurt.
and this is what happened at the same time, somewhere in France; coincidence? Hardly likely!
While being awarded the Order Of Arts And Letters in Paris today, the French Minister pricked Marion in the chichi and pretty much made her nipple bawl blood tears.
The poor woman has tried to protect herself the only way she knows how: by getting in some spares.
I shoulda thought of that myself.
I wonder what she did to piss off the boob docs? Other than stick with her original, home-grown set. I mean, she’ll never get anywhere in Hollywood with those measly flesh pimples!
In any case, and only tangentially related to the above, I’d like to bitch about my new doctor for a second. God knows what happened to the old one; perhaps he was shanghai’d by the Meerkat Army in an attempt to learn the secrets of Operation Global Media Domination (what, whaaaaaat? I’m perfectly sober! Why are you looking at me like that?). That would explain why the hematologist who was on the case the year I had to take off work to battle Hodgkin’s Disease is also missing. Perhaps they ran away together? Won’t their wives be surprised!
So both the doctor I’ve been going to since shortly after puberty and the doctor who treated my cancer have vanished in the last year. And my new doctor is a lovely, lovely person with execrable taste in office decoration (think Dolores Umbrage by way of Olde Russia) but, apparently, absolutely no juice in the medical community.
Socialized medicine works like this, in case you didn’t know (this is where the “social” part comes from, not really the payment system, no matter what they tell you): your doctor needs to refer you to a specialist, so s/he calls up the ones s/he knows socially or who owe him/her favours and s/he gets you in fast if, in his/her opinion what you have needs quick action. And what I may have includes The Big C, and I am something like three years overdue for my checkup.
And I have been waiting since October for a referral to a hematologist, which is entirely too long. When I needed a biopsy the first time, it was a week’s wait and then the head of St. Paul’s thoracic surgery performed it (leaving, may I say, the faintest scar the universe has ever seen; the man is a genius with a scalpel). I mean, I know it takes time to get an appointment with a specialist, but they haven’t even booked the appointment, which is typically six months out from the time of bookage. I’m about ready to take up a station outside the Burrard Medical Building and ambush the next person I see coming out of there wearing expensive shoes, just on the off-chance they’re a specialist.
Oh, and the clinic that set up my tests of last week promised to get the Cancer Agency to set up another biopsy, and it’s been a week and I’ve heard nothing. I mean, it’s not like their calendars only go two weeks ahead. Time to give them a ringy-dingy, methinks, before I have to stalk the Cancer Agency too, and who has time for that?
I mean, my time is valuable. More valuable to me than theirs is, quite frankly.