Excerpts from my book….If 40 is the new 20….I must be 10

“Kneedy Knee Clinic. May I help you?”
“I need to speak to your Needy nurse.”
“Dr. Kneel’s office,” Nurse Ratchet replied.
“It seems my records were never sent to the ‘Eura Pain in the Butt’ Clinic.”
“I’m sorry, but, as I told you before, those files were certified, copied to a hard drive, and skydived to Dr. Hamn’s office last Tuesday. No way around it…I had to make another call to that pain in the butt nurse.
“Eura Pain in the Butt Clinic,” the receptionist said. “Oh, it’s you again. You’re becoming a big pain in the butt.”
“Speaking of which,” I said. “I called the Kneedy Knee Clinic and they said my records were sent to you last week. I suggest you double check your daughter’s Barbie lunch tote or tweet the janitor before I file a complaint with the chief butt in your cracked corporation.”
There was a long pause. Finally, she came back on the line, and her voice was sugary. “Oh, my gracious goodness,” she said, ever so sweetly. “Your records were here all the time, in this little ole filing cabinet. Now, when would you like to come in for your first appointment?” Before I could answer, she said, “How about next month?”
“No problem,” I told her, “I shouldn’t need to walk, bend, or pee until then. I’ll see you in thirty.”
The day of my appointment arrived. I found the clinic, and hobbled into the building. I took a wrong turn off the elevator and nearly signed up for a colonoscopy. Talk about a pain in the butt. I’d rather drink poison grape juice at the “Mission for Mad Men” than ‘expose’ myself to that.
Finally, I found the correct waiting room, signed my name, filled out a dozen more forms, and sat down. The waiting room was full. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know there are many butts in this world. I had barely opened a magazine when a lady called my name. Excellent, I thought. I’m going to get right in. But, it was the restroom where we were headed.
“We need a urine sample,” she said. “Tinkle in the little cup, put your little cup in the little drawer by the little sink, and go back to your room. I’ll call you when it’s time for you to come out again.”
I had the strange sensation that I was being potty trained. I did what “mommy” told me, and marched into the waiting room.
Eventually, I was taken to an examination room. Two cute girls were in there. I assumed them to be eleven or twelve. One of the girls sat in front of me, armed with a clipboard.
“Are you a smoker? Illegal drugs? Goose down or cotton? Plaids or stripes? Elvis or the Beatles?
No doubt, these were serious questions, but I wasn’t clear about their relevance to my problem. I asked, “Is there anyone here who can help me with my back and hip pain?”
“Of course,” the twelve year old told me. “The doctor will be right in. But first, we need to check your blood pressure, measure your shoe size, and get an inseam.”
I soon determined that I might possibly have wandered into the fan club for “Idiot’s Anonymous” when a white -cloaked doctor walked through the door.
“Hello, Mrs. Smith, he said. “I’m Dr. C.U. Hamn, and I will be shooting you in the butt. Do you have any questions?”
“ I have a list here,” I said, pulling a three paged, single-spaced note from my purse.
“Go ahead, shoot,” he said.
“First of all, when will I get shot and where? How many shots will be fired? Can I be heavily sedated when you shoot me?
“The shooting will take place at our clinic,’ “ he said. Our target area will be the site of your worst pain. You will be put to sleep, unless you choose to stay awake and kiss your butt goodbye.”
“Sounds good,” I said, obviously speaking with my head up my butt.
“Bend over the exam table, and pull down your pants, “ he said, way too fast for our first date. I wondered what he must think, staring at that mound of misery.
“Hmmmnnn,” he said. Does this hurt?” he asked, his right hand now pushing a large knot at the top of my right thigh.
“OOOHHHH,”I moaned in pain.
“How about here?” he asked. He poked my lower back.
“OOOhh, EEEee!” I said, too loud. “That’s the spot.”
“Looks like we have a sacroiliac joint inflamed, with two spurs at lumbar 5, pressing on nerves 2, 4, 6, 8, and 9. These pressed nerves are not happy.”
He walked over to his cabinet and retrieved a stethoscope. He placed it on my lower back. Then, he said, “Your lower back and sacroiliac are sending a message from pain central. It’s coming in loud and clear.”
“Wonderful!” I said, now delirious from the pain. “What are they saying?”
“The message sounds like this,” he continued: “Ooh Eee Ooh Ah Ah Ting Tang Walla Walla Bing Bang. Ooh Eee Ooh Ah Ah Ting Tang Walla Walla Bing Bang.”
“The witch doctor song?” I squealed, jerking at my pants, now fearing he was aiming a spear at my derriere.
“Yes, that is correct,” he was saying. At the ‘Eura Pain in the Butt Clinic’ we use both prescribed and alternate methods of treatment. Our witchin’ method is highly recommended for back pain.
“This sounds like a bunch of hocus pocus,” I blurted out, “I thought this was a reputable clinic.”
“Allow me to explain,” he continued. “This witching method works precisely like water witching. We dig down into the spinal cavern, find the line, tap it, and pull out. Simple enough?”
And so, as the song goes, he seemed quite nice, so I took his advice. I’m no miser, and needed someone wiser, so I told the witch doctor:

Mr. Witch Doctor, I’m so afraid of you.”
Mr. Witch Doctor, I don’t know what to do.
So, Mr. Witch Doctor, my butt belongs to you.”
And he said:
“Ooh Eee Ooh Ah Ah Ting Tang Walla Walla Bing Bang
Ooh Eee Ooh Ah Ah Ting Tang Walla Walla Bing Bang.”
And then the Witch Doctor, he told me what to do, he said:
“When we probe to the center of your sac,
Find that leak and plug that drain,
You’ll be dancing, doing some tap,
Free of worry, free of pain.”
Well, I could name that tune with three notes, so I signed on the dotted line. In a matter of weeks, I was sitting in the pre-op room. A nurse was holding a clipboard. This place was using more paper than the press.
“I need to ask you some questions,” she said.
“Shoot,” I said.


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