I should have gone to medical school. That's the racket to be in, for sure. Yes, you have to go to school forever, and I hear it's pretty hard, but, you know what they say:
Q: "What do you call the guy who graduates last in his class in med school?"
A: "Doctor."
(insert drum roll--ba-dum-dum!)
After all, for all the money it costs to "follow up" with a neurologist, I fail to see exactly what it is they are doing. I went for an appointment after gamma knife, and had asked for botox injections when I made the appointment. I have annoying muscle spasms in my face, and a little botox can make it stop. So I arrive, expecting to leave a new woman (and planning to claim that the spasms also affected all my "problem areas"). Well, apparently the "botox appointment" is actually an appointment to make a botox appointment. What's more, the doctor says he will only do the botox on one side, which he says will make me look asymmetrical. So, I tell him I'd like to get rid of the spasms--but since I'm not so keen on looking like Quasimodo, I ask if he can just do it on both sides. No. He will only do it in a disfiguring way. And not today. And by the way, that will be $300.
As he picks up his clipboard and leaves the examining room, my mind is racing. This can't be "it"! He's got to do something, right? Wrong. As a last ditch effort I call after him, panicked.
"Wait!"
He turns around, clearly not pleased, with a weary look on his face.
With my voice full of hope, I plead, "Do you think I am 'totally and permanently disabled'?"
He shakes his head and smirks, "No" is all I hear as he shuffles off to collect his next check, leaving me slumped on the table, shattered and defeated.
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