A Study of Two Misdiagnoses

I must thank you all for expressing your concern about my recent liver ailment. Even thought it turned out to be merely a case of overwork and old age and a sore diaphragm, not a liver ailment. You have warmed the cockles of my hepatic vein. And I must especially thank my newest commenter, whose comment you will not read in the comments section, but here, on the blog proper:

My name is WITHHELD, I am from Ukraine, I am 32 years old man. I don't smoke cigarettes and don't drink alcohol. My blood is O+ and I have a good health. If you need liver transplant I am ready to give part of my liver, but I want to receive a big compensation for that. WITHHELD@yahoo.com WITHHELD@yandex.ua P.S. This is not a joke and I am not a scammer or cheater.

What a selfless act of generosity! WITHHELD is willing to part with a part of his liver. Just for ME! Of course he would like a big compensation. Selfless generosity has its price, it seems.

Thank you for the offer, WITHHELD. But I think I'll keep my own liver. Old as it is. It hasn't failed me yet. And you, WITHHELD, I am awarding a berth of honor in my 5PAM folder. For old time's sake.

Genius was not amused by my malingering liver. He sat with his head propped up in the corner of the exam room at the convenient care clinic last evening, rocking a 100-degree fever that he had battled since Sunday. To pass the time while waiting on the nurse practitioner, I regaled him with tales of my aches and pains.

"I can't take it anymore," Genius announced to the walls that had ears. To the entire waiting room full of virus- and bacteria-shedding ambulatory Petri dishes on the other side of that thin sheet of drywall. "I can only take so much stupidity in one day. I have reached my limit. Make it stop!"

I might add that this came after a Scooby Doo gummy treat plopped onto the floor in front of The Pony, who was swinging his legs from atop the exam table, running interference for a time with those eavesdropping diseases-in-waiting by crinkling the paper atop the table to beat the band.

"What is wrong with him? How can you have a gummy fall out of you like that?"

The Pony looked at the ceiling. "I don't know. I don't remember eating a Scooby Doo gummy today. It must have been in my pocket for a loooong time."

Let the record show that I wash and dry The Pony's clothes every week. No gummy would survive intact like the green Mystery Machine that sprang full-blown from some portion of The Pony's person. The Pony hopped down. Picked it up. Inspected it. Threw it away. As we left the office and crossed the parking lot, I spied a spilled-open packet of gummies in a vacant parking space.

"Huh. I'm guessing you took that path when you walked into the office to meet me."

"I think I DID walk that way."

Diaphragms impersonate livers, and a Scooby Doo gummy hitches a ride on the bottom of a shoe. It's a crazy, mixed-up world out there.