My visit to the quack shop, continued...

Okay, so here goes. My visit to the "neurologist" (I use quotes because that is what he called himself, but I seriously doubt anyone actually gave this guy a medical degree) went something like this:

Wait 1 hour for his office goons to verify insurance (something that should have been done before I even got there, but whatever...). Wait 1 more hour for the head goon, um, I mean Dr. Quack to grace us (Tyler was with me) with his presence. He then gives us this heartfelt apology (yes, there was meant to be a tone of sarcasm inflicted here) for taking so long and tells us that it is because, "a lot of patients had morning appointments and they just decided to show up this afternoon". HELLO!!!! Isn't that what an APPOINTMENT is for? ARG!!! Anywho, he then tells me that I have 2 herniated discs (isn't that what 93-year-old great-great-great grandmothers and professional atheletes have?) between the C5, C6 and C7 vertebraes. He then proceeds to tell me all about the glorious surgery that will "fix it". This is how he begin his conversation? Sure, that is some awesome bedside manner there partner. Let me give you the lowdown on this "quick-fix" of his. You enter from the front (by the way, front means through either your throat or chest, I never got the details), remove, I mean SCRAPE out the remaining discs, replace them with new "parts", fuse, yes, I said fuse, the vertebrae together, and I will be good to go. Sounds simple enough... NOT!!! Then Dr. Evil tells me, "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but you being so young (not a day over 27, of course), we will try some physical therapy first. Heat, cold, traction, etc.". At this point I am sure that I had a look of sheer amazement/confusion/horror/dumbfoundedness/disgust/disbelief/"fill-in-your-own-adjective" on my face. Is this my medication again? Am I in the Twilight Zone? "Why would I be disappointed with not doing surgery?" I asked. Seemed to be a pretty logical question, don't you think? "Oh, some older people come in and want to do surgery to just "fix it", and it does completely fix the problem. We can do surgery if you want to." Yes, I am not kidding. These are the college-educated words coming out of this man's mouth. Oh sure, and why don't you just do a labotomy, hysterectomy and appendectomy while you're at it, you know, for good measure. At this point I figure that he owes a butt-load of child support, or the wifey wants a new Jaguar. Either way, he ain't gettin' either.

After this very brief conversation, he is pretty much done with me. He has no desire to give me any more information, and it is like pulling teeth to get him to give me any direction as to what I should do. I ask about whether I put heat or cold on it, and he says "It doesn't matter...whatever you want". I ask about medication & whether I should stay on my brain-numbing painkillers, and he says "If you need it". After a few more questions, I realize that this man just plain doesn't care. "Go to your therapy and come back in 6 weeks and we'll see what we can do next." In other words, go to therapy, and then come back, we will filet you, scrape you out, weld you together and Mama gets her a new pair of Chrisitan Louboutins. Sure thing doc! Can you imagine how fast I ran out of that office? Needless to say, I will be going to therapy 3 times a week for the next 4 weeks then going to a TOTALLY DIFFERENT DOCTOR to follow up.

By the way, if you know of any good neurologists, let me know.