Friday morning office hours: Four second opinions for surgery and three independent medical examinations, two sent by AllState. One was a walking wounded, with a large herniated disc at L4-5 on the MRI associated with a missing knee jerk reflex and a sensory deficit on the anterior shin. AllState won’t be happy with the report, but that isn’t important.
The other examinee is healed but claiming persistent symptoms, a fraud without findings, awaiting the green poultice. I asked for several tests that will be accepted by the legal system as hard evidence of normalcy. Justice will be done, if AllState authorizes the test. When they fake continued injuries, they are reaching into the public’s pocket.
The last client was the centerfielder of the New York Nomads. He was having issues with balance, swallowing, walking and driving at night, no wonder they can’t beat the Sisters of Mercy’s girls softball team.
He already had a big work-up at a New York hospital, but the blood work and x-rays were normal. At 19 million a year, the team wanted him on the field, not in the infirmary. The doctors dismissed him as a drunk and the DUI stop in Florida during spring training, served as evidence, even though he registered zero on the BAC machine.
When doctors don’t know the answer, the patient is crazy or lying, or the objective test performed by a machine is wrong, because a doctor never is.
As a doctor, I know we generally believe this lie, to protect our egos. All physicians suffer from the same delusion, DOE, Doctor of Everything. That’s why so many go bankrupt running a restaurant or something. It comes with the hypocrite’s oath. Sorry I digress.
Josh Jones was accused of throwing Major League games. My daughter, Pam, is defending him, because George – her ex – is his business agent and sent the referral.
Josh may not reach the hall of fame in Cooperstown, but after twenty minutes examining him, I know he’ll make the hall of fame of arrogant asses. We consulted anyway, because we are professionals, and he’s sick, physically.
Tink said his aura is sickening, but that should be differentiated from physical disease. The difference between smelling rotten eggs and eating them is the degree of involvement. Doctors smell the cooking, friends of Josh, well you get the picture.
I’m convinced he isn’t bright enough to figure out how to throw a game. He’s lucky to remember how to throw a baseball, or find his way to the ballpark in time for the game, while riding in a limousine with the driver using a GPS.
His disease interfered with his ability this year, but next year he’ll bounce back. I know what ails him. I can get him the cure. I’m a doctor; I know it all.
With the humor of the supernatural, dark thunderhead clouds filled the sky at the end of office hours. Tink laughed, because I had promised Jayson an afternoon at Point Pleasant on the rides. Apparently I didn’t know the weather report. Omniscient for less than a day, so goes life.
The Monmouth sky is deep enough to hold thick black clouds that cause sudden street floods and thunder that rattle Anderson Windows, both panes like Spanish maracas.
Pam had client appointments all afternoon at her Shrewsbury office, and release Jay to our custody. It takes two adults to control a single hopped up eight year-old on a mission of exuberance. He had day-cared all morning. He is getting used to calling Tink, Bubby although she isn’t much older than his mother. I am getting used to calling her snookems, in public, which drives the young guys who want to hit on her absolutely crazy. Yeah, I said absolutely. Her vocabulary is rubbing off on me too.
We reached Jenkinson’s and bought a strip of tickets, as Jayson eyed the rides. I asked him about visiting the Aquarium.
“Grandappy, I like dogs like Bubs, not fish. Fish are yucky. You can’t pet ‘em.”
So we went to the rides. Tink rode the tilt-a-whirl with Jay because I get carsick and have flashbacks to helicopters in Nam. I’m too large to get in the small train with him, so we watched him circle the yard. He begged to go to the water slide, but we all wore Bermudas and t-shirts.
“Next time big guy.” I winked at him and he winked back.
It started to rain. We still had 8 tickets, but I used all 8 to buy a kiss from Tink – the bargain of the day – and she stowed them in her carryall.
Jay asked, “We come back tomorrow?”
We ate at Jenkinson’s Pavillion. The rain didn’t stop, so we drove home to the shore house to wait for Pam. Jay laid out in front of the television and couldn’t care less that nothing in the house was moving except Bubs. She only wagged her tail sitting at the foot of the couch while I read the JBJS. Tink napped.
Dinner tonight at Punjab Ocean Palace owned by my Friend Singh Mack, Chicken Vindaloo. Jayson brought his six-shooter, because he’s sure not all Indians are friendly like Uncle Mack. Too bad I don’t have FBI protection anymore.
The Mad Mutt goodnight.
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