Doctor Grumpy in the House

You live out in the boondocks.

3 days ago you developed right-sided weakness and slurred speech, which you attributed to "a pinched nerve in my low back."

Yesterday you came to Grumpyville for a funeral.

This morning at the ceremony your friends noticed you were dragging your right leg & unable to sign the memory book, and suggested you come to Local Hospital (conveniently located down the street from Local Cemetery).

So you limped over here "just to get checked out" before going back to Boondockville.

And now you're angry at me because you got admitted, and demanding I pay for any food in your fridge that goes bad in your absence.

Some days I don't know why I do this.

The following is, verbatim, an email that Mary sent me this morning. It speaks for itself.


"Your 11:00 just called. The maintenance people at her apartment building painted her door shut, and she can't get out. She'll call back to reschedule."

This morning I found a records request on the fax machine, with this written at the top.

Dr. Heller: "This is Dr. Heller, on behalf of Major Illness Insurance test authorizations. Who am I speaking to?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Hi, this is Dr. Ibee Grumpy. I'm calling to get an MRI authorized."

Dr. Heller: "Okay, let me look at our file... It looks like we denied the MRI because it isn't clinically indicated."

Dr. Grumpy: "Well, this is a young man with memory problems, and I want to make sure his brain looks okay."

Dr. Heller: "Have you checked labs for metabolic causes? Have you ruled-out depression?"

Dr. Grumpy: "His labs look fine. Depression certainly could be the cause, but I want to make sure he doesn't have a tumor."

Dr. Heller: "Our policy is that he needs to be evaluated by a psychiatrist for this before we do the MRI."

Dr. Grumpy: "I tried that, but your company doesn't cover any psychiatrists."

Dr. Heller: "That's correct."

Dr. Grumpy: "So how do I go about getting this done?"

Dr. Heller: "You're his doctor."

My car battery died on Saturday, so I took it over to Local Car Place.


Dr. Grumpy: "Hi, I bought this battery around Christmas, and it's dead now."

Counter guy: "Hang on, let me check it..." (connects a gadget to battery) "Hey, your battery is dead."

Dr. Grumpy: "Yeah."

Counter guy: "Were you able to start your car with this?"

Dr. Grumpy: "No."

Counter guy: "That's because it's dead."

Dr. Grumpy: "That's why I brought it in."

Counter guy: "Yeah, it's good that you did, because it's dead. Looks like it's under warranty. Did you want another one?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Yes."

Counter guy: "Okay. You'll need one, because this one is dead. It won't start a car."

Dr. Grumpy: "I'll just take a new one."

Counter guy: "Let me get you one. I wouldn't continue using this one, because it's dead."

The week after Halloween is the ideal time to prove the theory of evolution.

Certain species of bugs have developed a really bad taste so predators won't eat them (at least, that's what I've read. I haven't personally done insect taste tests).

Did they actually evolve in that direction? What is the evidence?

Let's look in Dr. Grumpy's break room:


Post Halloween day #1: Everyone brings their leftover candy to the office. We put it in a big bowl in the break room. We are too damn sick of candy to touch it.

Post Halloween days #2-3: Predators (okay, me, Pissy, and the staff) arrive. The choicest (i.e., chocolate) items disappear first. Reese's PB cups, M&Ms, Milky Way, Snickers, Kit-Kats, Twixt, Butterfingers, Three Musketeers.

Post Halloween days #4-5: Other stuff starts to go. Skittles, Laffy Taffy, Smarties, Runts, Starbursts.

Post Halloween days #6 and on: This is when we find the survivors. Just like the unpalatable bugs, some candy types will sit there for quite a while. Candy Corn, Tootsie Rolls, Circus Peanuts, and those horrible taffy things in black and orange wrappers (the latter, I suspect, were only made once in the 1960's and have since just been re-gifted. I think people who got them as kids now give them out as adults, and the cycle continues).


Granted, I have no evidence to suggest that Darwin's staff dumped leftover candy at the office. If they did, however I'd suspect that's more likely to have led him to the theory of evolution than a trip to the Galapagos.

For more background on truly horrible Halloween candies, read this.

Since the overpaid crybabies of the NBA have decided to indefinitely postpone their season, I thought I'd bring you a summary of my athletic career. Which I didn't get paid for at all.


In the mid-80's my college roommate suckered me into playing for the Catholic Newman Center's intramural basketball team at BSU. This was because he couldn't find a 5th Catholic guy willing to play. So I was a ringer.

None of us had any reasonable basketball experience, and had never even met before the first game. In spite of this, we put together an impressive record during the 5 game season:


Game 1: Lost, 83-10 (a record that I'm told still stands at BSU).

Game 2: Lost, 75-15 (obviously, we were improving on both offense and defense).

Game 3: Forfeited, because we only had 4 guys show up.

Game 4: Forfeited, because we only had 3 guys show up.

Game 5: Disqualified because we'd forfeited 2 previous games.


And that was our season.

Mary: "Dr. Grumpy's office, this is Mary."

Ms. Phish: "Hi, this is Cindy over at Dr. Weneverheardofhim's office, and we want to refer a patient to you."

Mary: "Okay, what's their insurance?"

Ms. Phish: "Hang on, to refer them we need Dr. Grumpy's address and Social Security number."

Mary: "Uh, you don't need his SS number to refer a patient. I can give his medical ID, which is what all plans require."

Ms. Phish: "No, this insurance requires the doctor's SS number."

Mary: "What insurance is that?"

Ms. Phish: "National Illness."

Mary: "We work with National Illness, and they don't..."

Ms. Phish: "LOOK! Just give me the doctor's SS number, or we will never send you another patient again!"

Mary: "Goodbye."

When negotiating payments with a hooker, it is not advisable to call the police to mediate.

I'm doing an online research survey on epilepsy patients, and it refers to Partial-Onset Seizures as "POS."

So one question says: "How many POS patients do you see each month?"

On behalf of myself, and everyone else who's trying to diet, thanks for your new line of appetite-suppressing sacral bandage ads.





I don't really know what kind of salad I'd put sacrum dressing on, but right now it could be years before I'm interested in eating again.

Yours truly,

Ibee Grumpy, M.D.

Thank you, Jamie!

I'm heading to pick up the kids, and my cell phone rings. I recognize the number as another doctor's office, and answer it.

Dr. Grumpy: "Hello, this is Dr. Grumpy."

Phone Lady: "Hi, Mr. Lumbago, I'm calling from Dr. Beard's office. He'd like you to see a neurologist."

Dr. Grumpy: "Um, this is Dr. Grumpy, the neurologist."

Phone Lady: "Why, yes. Dr. Grumpy is who he wanted you to see. Are you familiar with him?"

Dr. Grumpy: "This is Dr. Grumpy. You called my cell phone by mistake."

Phone Lady: "No, we can't give you his cell phone number, but you'll need to call his office. It's 867-5309."

Dr. Grumpy: "This IS Dr. Grumpy. You called me! Not the patient."

(pause)

Phone Lady: "Is this Dr. Grumpy?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Yes."

(pause)

Phone Lady: "Why are you answering Mr. Lumbago's phone?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Any other questions?"

Mr. Clueless: "Yeah, but maybe it's not related."

Dr. Grumpy: "What's up?"

Mr. Clueless: "My wife is having a baby soon. When does the doctor poke holes in her nipples to let the milk out?"

It is never good when the chart begins: "Patient suffered a head injury with intracranial bleeding when a fight broke out at his Bible study group."