My head has special needs. I have seen more specialists about my head than all my other body parts combined – and I am fairly average where body parts are concerned. Not satisfied with the all the psychiatric attention it receives, (oh, like you couldn’t figure out I was slightly unstable by yourselves?) it has discovered a new way to garner attention: it aches.
So simple. It aches from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep. It aches through a haze of weed, it aches through the fog of whiskey. It aches through prescription pain killers, and through the over-the-counter ones as well. And it aches through all of these aides combined, although it was a little more fun. (The image makes sense after the jump, I swear.)
I went to two doctors, I took the drugs, I rested and meditated (gee, that was fun), did gentle exercise and stopped drinking and smoking. All the healthy living did shit all except reinforce how much more fun life is when under the influence of anything. Especially when you have a headache. I had a CT Scan, they found that I indeed had a brain and it could ache, but not the reason for it. So, the next step is a visit to a neurologist. Luckily, in the lucky country, health care is free so I don’t have to sell my cat on ebay, and I also have private health insurance. This, apparently, is supposed to guarantee shorter waiting lists and a free pair of orthotics every year. I can’t be arsed getting new orthotics, something to do with the wet plaster on my feetses weirds me out. Although not quite as weirded out as I am by the fact that feetses is not picked up by spellcheck. Anyway, I digress. Neurologist. Six shitty weeks. I have to wait six bloody weeks for my head to get some more attention. There aren’t that many people in this country, and I can’t imagine many of them have daft brains like mine, aching for attention. As far as I know, and granted, that isn’t much in the area of neurology, there isn’t much they can do to a brain, right? It’s a big grey mass of intestines that has disastrous consequences if you poke the wrong part. Unless it’s a bloody great tumour, or an aneurysm, what else could they do to it? Psychiatrists have the market covered on chemical imbalances, believe me, I’ve taken full advantage of that. So why are there so many other people queueing up to get their heads examined? If this is an epidemic, I’m jumping on the sensationalist investigative television journalism bandwagon and blaming the government. I bet this is because there’s not enough money for climate change, or the children, or working families, or the old standby, seniors. If I have to ache until our seniors are bringing bling to the bingo, then I’m going to be incredibly pissed. Oh wait, it could be that we need more investment in healthcare, but that’s a can of worms I can’t contemplate in this state. Seniors in bling is far more where my brain is at right now.
So, here’s to six more weeks, hoping for a miracle spot on the cancellation list.
(And yeah, I tried the advice of Peaches, but fucking the pain away, while very pleasurable, did fuck all.)
