Falling Apart, Lost in Space

This morning I had to drag my sleepy self down to the chiropractor in the center of the city for my weekly appointment. Yes, weekly. The older I get, the more my scoliosis drags me down. Sometimes I feel like the freakin space shuttle—I have serious design problems and require a team of professionals to keep me flying. Today I just can’t get off the ground.

Because I was in such a hurry to get out of the house to see the chiropractor this morning, I forgot to take my heart medications before I left. Now it’s lunch time and my heartbeat is out of rhythm as I sit here in the big black chair that serves as Mission Control for my virtual life. As I’m typing, my heart is typing too, keeping pace with my blog brain which means it’s racing ahead, pausing frequently, tripping all over itself. Pardon me while I talk to myself since Houston isn’t answering. (“Take a deep breath V-Grrrl, actually take several, the meds will kick in soon. Hang in there Grrrl--head down, blog later.”)

Later…

Well the heartbeat settled down fairly quickly but by then my energy level was in full arrest. (“ Houston , we’ve got a problem. We’re running out of fuel.”) I dragged my sorry self and my sore back over to the sofa, clung to my favorite afghan like an over-tired preschooler and drifted off into the lovely black space called sleep. An hour later I start to surface and think, “I better call that cardiologist that Clive told me about for an appointment.”

So I call the cardiologist and get an appointment for the routine EKG I need, but as the receptionist is taking down my information, she asks for my primary care doctor’s name. I told her I don’t yet have a primary care doctor here, but explain I have a full report from my former cardiologist and my primary care doctor in Virginia that they can review now, and I will get a primary care doctor soon. No, she tells me in accented English, this is not enough. If I’m going to see a cardiologist, I need to have a letter of referral from a Belgian doctor. Once again I plead my case, once again, she says they can’t create a record for me without a primary care doctor. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Soooo….I get the name of an English-speaking primary care doctor from a fellow American here. I call her office and get a scratchy recording. The message is in Dutch. I have no clue what the hell is being said, though I can tell at one point the speaker is reciting a number. I hope that at the end there will be a beep and I can record a message. No. Instead, when the Dutch ends, I get to hear the whole thing in French. If the recording were clearer, I might be able to catch the number and figure out what to do, but I can’t get it and there’s no beep and I hang up and think, “Houston—we have a problem. You’re transmitting in Klingon. I repeat you’re transmitting in Klingon.”

All systems jammed. I hang my head, then rally and blog for another day. I am Lost in Space. Like E.T., I want to go home.

September 14, 2005