Pick Another Letter...

This is the official follow up to Pick a letter..., as posted several days back. So all of you can pick another letter, any letter, just one out of twenty-six scintillating choices.

The Letter Em

The letter 'M', for maybe.

I went to see a Otolaryngologist, which is slang for Ear, Nose, and Throat Doctor.  I guess you have to go to school or something for that, and then they saddle you with a title that few people can spell and fewer still can pronounce without sounding like a developmentally challenged twelve year old with a bad case of swollen adenoids.

Dr. Ent works at the Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center, which boasts the best number one expertise and treatment plans for head and neck cancer in the entire nation.  You don't get to be number one by writing sarcastic blog entries and drinking Irish coffee for breakfast - or so they tell me.

Dr. Ent sent his right hand man, Fathead, in to examine me.  In between inane questions (Do you drink?  Do you have firearms in the house?  Have you fallen recently?)  Fathead tried to strangle me, and the pain damn near drove me to my knees.  No, I'm not kidding.  The right side of my neck is sensitive enough to send me into orbit if squeezed, and this genius really laid into me.  I regained my self-control before I pasted him one, and he stepped back out of range.  He proceeded to shove a tongue depressor down my throat, which triggered a gag reflex.  He did it twice more, then looked into my ear, pulling on it hard enough to get a rise out of me.  I hate having my ears pulled.  Then he went to fetch his master, Dr. Ent.

Dr. Ent's a decent sort.  His English is atrocious, but he gets his point across.  In summary:

• I'm busted.  There is something wrong with me (yeah, no shit.  Stop laughing, you bums.) but he doesn't know what it is.
• Given the length of time I've been cancer free, it is extremely unlikely that my cancer has reappeared.  It's possible, but very unlikely.  The odds are better on me being struck by lighting or winning the lottery.  Or something.

Dr. Ent scheduled a CT scan for me, set to take place on Tuesday, July 24^th, in the Year of Our Lord Two-Thousand Ten-and-Eight.  When he gets the results of the scan, he'll diagnose me and prescribe treatment.  Until then, I'm to hang tough.

The other good news is that the pain has been steadily lessening over time.  This isn't due to the pain medication, but due to some other factor.  I probably should add that I've been on the water wagon since this whole business started, and it doesn't bother me.  Much.

To give both of us credit, I think I may have put Fathead off by my answers to his intrusive questions.  Imagine yours truly, an elderly, prosperous looking curmudgeon, sitting in an examination room the size of a walk in closet, talking to a skinny, neatly coiffed twenty something who is obviously pretentious and clearly thinks he's all that and a box of cookies.  As best I can recall, here you go:

Do you drink?
Why, what happened?  Did I miss a round?

How much?
Depends on who's buying.

Do you have firearms in the house?
Sure.  Doesn't everyone?  Well, I mean everyone who isn't a door knob sucking, bull dyke fearing, freedom hating commie liberal, anyway.

Have you fallen recently?
No.  That is, unless you count that time last week.  I was on my third martini and got off the bar stool a little too quickly, and damn' near measured my length on the bar room floor.  But no, outside of that one time, no.

I kind of think Dr. Ent caught what was going on and treated me accordingly.

So while the jury is still officially out, the man in the men's room with his ear pressed to the ventilation duct tells me that I don't have cancer.  And today, I'll settle for that.

My thanks to all of you for your prayers, well-wishes, and words of encouragement.  They truly mean a lot to me.