This Rare Disease is Amazing!

So, I've been recently (over a year now) diagnosed with Multiple System Atrophy.  It's a disease of exclusion, meaning that it's the doctor way of saying, "I don't fucking know.  Have you tried The 700 Club?"  But doctors aren't allowed to say, "I don't know" or they'll be forced to sit at the crappy table at the hospital cafeteria.  And the other doctors will be mean to them, like lowering the tire pressure in the offending doctor's Porsche all the way to the upper twenties.

I wrote all about this here and here.  It's been well over four years ago since I wrote those pieces.  In actuality I can probably trace the start of this thing way back to 07/08 when my alcohol tolerance started changing.

Q: Your tolerance began changing?

A: Didn't I just say that?

Q: You can't answer a question with a question. 

A: It's my fucking blog.  I can do anything I want.  Asshole.

Q: I don't like you. 

A: Opinions vary.  Next questioner.

Q: Your tolerance began changing?

A: Mainly my speech would become slurred way before it should. 

Q: Just how rare are we talking?

A: Fill up the Rose Bowl and besides me there may be a couple of other people there with it.  Even some doctors haven't heard of it and they are omniscient.

Q: So, tell me, what's it like to have a degenerative neurological disorder?

A: Oh it's super-amazing, like bacon-bits on a salad!  Maybe croutons.  Actually, it's like having a malevolent child running through my increasingly useless body, setting fires and plundering the community.  Kind of like that kid in that Twilight Zone episode.

Dr. F-something

"We're going to put you in a wheel-barrow and leave you under that awning.  That way you can keep an eye on my new Mercedes."

Dr. F-something is a skinny Indian dude who always looks like he's midway through a 112 hour shift.  He never has anything good to say.

"You see, we're running dangerously close to hitting forty percent occupancy."

"Is my bed on fire?" I ask, plaintively.

"What are you doing with that hacksaw?  You're planning on cutting off one of my limbs, aren't you?  As long as I get some morphine, I guess it's okay," I say.

Dr. F-something flips through my chart.  He says, "How long have you been taking omeprazole?"

He stops flipping and stares directly into my eyes.  Judging from the look on his face I'm obviously having a pulmonary embolism.  I thought it would hurt more.  He stares for a couple seconds more, then says, "The bed fire can be extinguished with a pinch of baking soda."

"I read that on the internet," he adds.

Just then Dr. McQueen runs in.  He is on a butterfly hunt.  The rare creature lands on my nose and Dr. McQueen's net drops over my head.

"This will look great in my den next to the turtle," he says.

Dr. F-something and I intently watch McQueen reach into the net (and the end of my nose), grab the butterfly by the legs, and run out as quickly as he ran in.

"I need your arms for my Halloween costume.  It'll be hilarious.  And your legs go to a friend of mine, Dr. Strangelove."

Thornhill - Apparently Not Very Hot

Here's the insulting, bullshit summary from my report from an allegedly qualified radiologist.

In regards to the MRI: "... unremarkable appearance of the brain."
In regards to the MRA: "... unremarkable intracranial angiogram."

It's a terrible thing to be judged as unremarkable.  They always tell you, "Everybody is good at something.  Everybody is special," but it's just another fucking lie.  This guy really rubs my face in it though.  I'm at my lowest point in years and my self-esteem has plummeted at least 65 points but he couldn't care less.  He's a sadist.  I'm sure he's seen a lot of brains over the years and I would have thought this fact should have increased his sensitivity to the feelings of those in my position.  Not so.  Instead he launches an angry, ad hominem attack.

"... the major flow voids appear unremarkable ... the globes, orbits, and mastoid air cells are unremarkable."

I'm not going to repeat what he wrote about my basilar cisterns.  It's repugnant.  In short - I'm crushed.  I've spent so much time working on things like my distal vertebral arteries and it's been a complete waste.  I used to think I had a healthy and realistic impression of my body.  I used to think I was somewhat attractive - but it's clear now that I've been delusional.  I'm the proverbial ugly ducking.  It's worse than that.  I'm homely on the inside.  I've been living a lie.  I've got to give some serious thought about what to do now that my hopes and dreams for the future are gone.  I may have to remove myself from society so as not to upset the delicate sensibilities of remarkable people.

Thornhill - Hot or Not?

These pictures are from my recent photo shoot.  Modesty prevents me from complimenting myself very much but I think they turned out well.  I'm kinda proud of my Medulla Oblongata.  It looks just as good in person, by the way.

This is my brain.  There are many others like it but this one is mine.  The void in the center that looks like a jumping whale is actually filled with gin.

I don't know how these worms got into my head.  They don't hurt but I hear them whispering to each other - usually late at night.

I thought I should tell you

So, I'm all fucked up.

Perhaps it's a form of payback by your god for something I did. Judging by what I've seen, I don't think your god is involved much in the day-to-day operations here on Earth, I doubt he's even heard about me, so I don't believe my own theory, and I don't believe in the nutty old man's existence anyway. But it's perfectly normal to ask “why me?” However, with six billion other people here, 200 billion stars like our Sun in the galaxy, each with the possibility of planets like Earth spinning around them, and 100 billion galaxies in the observable universe, I'd bet your god has trouble keeping track of it all. The perfectly normal question ought to be, “why not me?”

The thing is - I now have a pre-existing condition - although it's undiagnosed. I love irony even when I'm the target and a good joke is still good even if it's on me. I wrote that piece long after I became all fucked up so it doesn't really count, and it's not all that ironic. Irony is that guy who ran all the time, wrote all those books about how running was so great for your health, and then dropped dead of a massive stroke while he was out jogging.

Anyway, let's talk about blood - since I've given so much of it lately in order for them to run tests. I was curious so I asked that they find out what my blood type is. It's AB positive. After a little studying at Mr. Google's domestic partner, Mr. Wikipedia (they share a condo together in Silicon Valley but they're not gay, or so they say), I found out 5% of the world has AB+ blood. Odds are that you're type A+, B+, or type O+, which altogether makes up 85% – over a billion barrels. What it all means is beyond my four minutes of intensive research. One thing I found is that if I happen to be low a quart of blood, I can top-off with any old blood I want. You're all potential donors to me!

Your blood will work fine in my system assuming it's still fresh and not too salty. And not if you're an Arab. No offense intended - it's only because I support our country's goal of reducing our dependence on foreign blood, not because all of you are terrorists - I couldn't care less who you blow up. The best part: you probably can't use my blood – it only works for people in my little AB+ clan. Unless we are both AB+ then your body will hate my blood and you'll suffer a horrible, intensely bad reaction to it and it may just kill you. Sorta like a Justin Bieber show.

Anyway, furthermore, while I'm at it, and other unlisted, abrupt transitions, here's the fuckery that has got me all fucked up.  When I speak it sounds like I've been drinking heavily. It's becoming increasingly difficult to talk without sounding like I've had a few. Words with the letter B trip me up.

“A dingo stole my bay-he!”
“A dingo stole your what?”
“My bay-he.”
“Your what?
“My bay-he!”
“Your what?”
“My BABY!”
“There are no dingos in North America and you don't own any children. You're fucking drunk!”
“I wish.”

When I walk it looks like I'm shit-faced. Next time I get pulled over I'll run the risk of getting hauled away for drunk driving because I'll fail the road-side sobriety tests, aside from the breathalizer. As long as I don't have to speak to the cop then I should be okay and (s)he won't have a reason to run any tests.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“You're looking for a stolen bay-he?”
“You stole what?”
“A bay-he.”
“You stole what?”
“A bay-he.”
“You stole what?”
“A child.”
“Outta the car, Thornhill.”

And then there's the dizziness if I move my head too much. Go spin around in an office chair for a couple turns and you'll know how it feels. I have this all the time. In addition, my handwriting and typing skills have deteriorated to the point to where my writing looks like that of a psychopath and my delete key is almost broken from overuse. I've lost all fine motor control. Go drink about six drinks (an average, so-so night for me back in the day) and we'll compare our comparisons. I could go on. I don't feel like it.

All this is controlled by the Cerebellum, which is a region of your brain that looks like a Cauliflower. Why they didn't just call this the 'Cauliflower Region' instead of the Cerebellum is anyone's guess. I'll be getting an MRI scan soon and I'm guessing (in decreasing order of probability) that it will show damage to the Cauliflower Region, from years of massive drinking or an exotic genetic disorder, a brain tumor, or maybe it will show nothing and these problems will stop their progression.

I thought I should tell you.

Pre-Existing Rage

I have a medical condition known as Inessential Redundancy Disorder type six. Sufferers suffer from rage filled, rage attacks when confronted with seemingly ignorant duplication of words. For example, IRD disorder type one (the least aggressive strain,) causes people to freak out slightly when they see an abbreviation like FedEx Express.

“I am going to send you this package via Federal Express Express. I prefer them over that United Parcel Service service. Don't you?”

I have type six, which means I have all the symptoms of types one through five. I don't want to bore you with the details of each one, but type four can cause your white blood cells (WBCs) to mutate. Normal WBC cells are shaped like round circles. Abnormal cells mutate into rectangular square shapes. Then your WBC cells can get stuck in your arteries causing your head to blow up like that guy in that movie.

Do you remember or recall that movie from the 70s where the guy's head blew up and exploded?

That was a good one.

But the hallmark symptom of type six is that when we're confronted with certain redundancies, we become angry with anger. We go out into swamps and poke sticks at turtles. Or, if we're near the sea, we swim out and find ocean going sea turtles and we hold them underwater for a while. If we live in an urban setting then we kill a hooker instead.

Anyway, the hookers are stacking up like a cord of wood (128 cubic feet) lately because of this sick obsession with healthcare. Did you notice the clever pun? Sick obsession? Nevermind.

People who should know better, like the president, go around speaking about pre-existing conditions, and how it's not right to be denied insurance coverage because you may have one. Seems fair, I suppose - I guess - I don't know. It's the word grouping that bugs me.

First off, you either have a condition or you don't. It's that simple.

“Yes, Mr. Thornhill, do you have any conditions?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

Then some ignoramus added the word existing in front of condition because, apparently, they were afraid people would question the objective reality of their goiter, thus withholding important medical information.

“Yes, Mr. Thornhill, do you have any existing conditions?”

“I have an existing condition of life. Before that I had an existing condition of non-life. This is a philosophical question, isn't it? How did Hawkings answer it?”

Still, I can live with the phrase existing condition, even though it bothers me, because I don't let the little things get to me.

“Yes, Mr. Thornhill, do you have any pre-existing conditions?”

“In other words, do I have something that existed prior to existing before it ever existed? I think the correct answer must be yes. Yes I do.”

“What conditions do you have?”

“All of them.”