maladies #7: you can't handle the truth

Well, well, well, where do I start. The appointment can be summed up in one word: shit. The doctor is shit. His diagnosis is shit. I'd like to throw shit at the doctor. I feel like shit. The doctor is happy with the progress I have made, but is unsure of any next steps other than a very pricey, possibly beneficial, possibly detrimental, extremely painful series of procedures that may, might, possibly, when pigs fly out my ass, could fix the problem. So, now that my pelvis isn't all wonky, he's going to have me continue with physical therapy twice daily for the next three months, and possibly, if I do not feel much worse by that time, I might be able to cut it down to five times per week. But, there is no telling if it will make the pain go away. I might end up with killer six-pack abs, but what good does that do if I still feel like the wishbone from the Thanksgiving turkey.

I'm going back to my physical therapist next week to see if he has any additional or altered exercises for me to do. If not, I will likely not have to see him anymore. There was much talk of deep tissue massage to break up the scar tissue, but the doctor doesn't necessarily suggest that, but he doesn't necessarily not suggest it either. It might work, he said, but it might not. Wow! I found the only doctor who can get by with the mindset of a meteorologist, "it might rain, but it might not - I'd say there is a fifty percent chance." You know what doc, I say there is a fifty percent chance that you'll walk out your door tomorrow morning to find a flaming bag of ... you guessed it: SHIT.

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