1 + 1 = Worry

I had the annual check up with my Beach Boy Neurotologist, Doctor Michael McKenna on Monday.

Seeing him always cheers and relaxes me. Dunno, but the dude’s got an effect like Power Plant -- he mellows me clean out. Yeah, he’s my fav of the Maderer Pit Crew.

Normally I have all my MRIs and audiograms in mid summer and see Doctors Plotkin and McKenna in the weeks following.

When I stopped by last year to schedule my appointment, his secretary told me that he was ‘on leave’ or  maybe she said ‘medical leave.' I knew that something had happened -- he was ill and I panicked. After all, I’d just lost Doctor O. and Doctor Parker, my longtime general neurologist, had retired.

Sure, sure, I had, still have a new, much loved, spectacular surgeon guy Fred Barker and my neurologist was/is Doctor Scott Plotkin who's the Director of the MGH Neurofibromatosis Clinic and Director of the MGH/Dana Farber Cancer Institute  /Brigham and Women’s Hospital Neuro-Oncology Fellowship Program.

These guys are both big fucking deals so I should be all cucumber calm, right?

BUT I need the third part of the Pit Crew Trinity -- McKenna’s the heart of it. He inspires me, fills me with courage and, did I mention, he’s got a fab-ola smile.

Plus, seeing as I'm halfway in love with him, I worry! I asked the nice, harried lady ‘is he coming back?! Are you sure?! Can I schedule an appointment for when he IS back? You're sure he's coming back, right?!!!’

Yes.

When I saw him last year, I didn’t ask ‘wut up, man. you’re freakin' me out,’ since he had one of the baby docs (interns) in tow -- you know, showing him the Nf2 patient and all.

I didn't want to go all Mother Hen on him in front of the kid.


See? I can so behave appropriately in public!

This year it was just me and him. Fresh off hearing of my friend Sean Vigle’s TOO FUCKING EARLY departure from this small blue marble. I was feeling all fresh in my anxiety over Doctor Beach Boy's health.

He asked how I’ve been doing -- what’s happening. My reply? I told him about Sean and smoothly-ish jeté-ed into my concerns about him with ‘So, you can see that I’ve mortality on the brain. You were out for a while last year; how are you feeling now? How’s your health. What's happening? You OK? I worry.’ (and I talk too damn much too)

The doc’s in good shape. He’s mended, healthy, plans on staying that way and is fully intending to hang in as long as he can.

Phew!

Then we got back to examining and evaluating me.

I’m fine, thanks.