We had an odd finish to my writing week: it rained – all day. Folks I know in the northeast may not find this in the least bit odd, but in Florida we’re lucky to get any rain at all, let alone all day. Folks around here don’t know whether to take joy in the fact that we’re getting some much needed rain or despair from the gloomy weather. Me, I’ll take it every now and again. It’s a nice change of pace from the unending glare of the bright Florida sun. Last night, as the sun was setting, it was nice to step out on the front porch and soak up the sounds and sights of a good shower.

I finally decided to see my allergist about all of the coughing that I’ve been doing lately. Naturally, he suggested that the problem was likely in my stomach. You may laugh, but I’m not joking. The kicker is that the treatment prescribed to treat this ‘stomach’ problem has helped my cough. I guess that’s why they call him DOCTOR. It’s been something of a relief for a doctor to give me a diagnosis that I’ve heard before, however unlikely I thought it going in. You see, I’ve seen a couple of doctor’s for a couple of different reasons, and all of those “reasons” have lead to the same diagnosis: reflux. If my life had a soundtrack, the Hallelujah chorus would now be playing.

Is there anything more fun than accumulating a backlog of work at the office? Sure there is…working through that backlog. That has been my chosen task this week, and it can be a little mind numbing – sort of like a lobotomy without the surgery. On Monday we welcomed a new person to our little family on the third floor, whom I will be training over the next few weeks. It’s hard to get a handle on someone in a few hours, but the initial signs are positive.

(Note to those of the medical persuasion: I think puncta is the word I’m looking for, but I’m not sure. If I’m wrong, then it’s the word I’ve made up for the little holes in your eyelids, near your nose, that carry tears away from your eye.)

I relented. I gave in to the suggestion that plugging my puncta would solve my dry eye problems. This despite the failed temporary plug test run a month or two ago. You don’t truly know what it’s like to get poked in the eye until someone as tried to plug your puncta. After yesterday, I now know.

It turns out that puncta plugging is a two step process. First you “size” the puncta to determine what size plug is needed. You begin by instructing the patient to hold still, keep the eye open, and look straight ahead. You then do everything you can to get the patient to disobey. You accomplish this by thrusting a “sizer” into the puncta as forceful as you can without rupturing any soft tissue. Once you have simultaneously sized the suspect puncta, and taken away all of the patient’s hope that this will be easy, you insert the plug. The plugging device is a long thin stick with a small silicone object at the end, and which has “you’ll poke your eye out” written all over it. You retrieve the device and thrust it in a manner similar to step one, only this time, take your time. A little lingering builds the suspense. When you feel the slight popping sensation, stop. To make the experience a little more exciting for the patient, don’t tell them the popping feeling is normal until after the first plug is inserted. This makes for some amusing reactions from your patients. You can almost see the blood returning to their faces when they find out nothing important has a new hole. Now that the plug is in, choose your next words very carefully. They can satisfy the little sadist in all of us. “There, now we’re half done” often works quite nicely. As you may have guessed, I was unable to keep still, keep my eye open, or look straight ahead. I was 0 for 3. Afterwards, the good doctor said that my difficult puncta were in between sizes. He said to me, “I decided to try the smaller ones . . . I didn’t want you to pass out or anything.” To borrow a term favored by one of my co-workers: I’m a woos when it comes to my eyes. But in my defense, that was some major league poking. If I were a prisoner of war, it would have been illegal. . .and I would have talked. This evening when it felt like there was something in my eye, I had the comfort of knowing that there really was.

I like trees.

I try to understand that other people don’t, but it isn’t easy. It has been especially hard these last couple of days. You see, my neighbor has declared war on trees, and on their neighbor’s trees in particular. About five nights ago, the neighbor in question came by to declare their intentions to have our trees, which overhang their property, trimmed. The stated intention was to trim the branches overhanging their roof. The use of the word “stated” was deliberate. They “stated” what they were going to do, they did not “ask.” Yesterday, I came home and saw how their stated intentions translated into real life application.

Imagine, if you will, a tree. Now picture the main trunk of this tree set back from a property line about three feet. Now imagine how wide this tree would reach near the mid section and top if this tree were 20 – 30 feet high (imagine an oak, not a pine or palm). Now imagine a vertical line drawn straight up from that property line, and imagine that there was no more tree on the other side of this line. This, to my dismay, describes two trees which border my neighbor’s lot – one of which is my tree. It was difficult to contain my rage. Why do these people so disdain shade? Do they have a problem with saving money on their summer utility bills? Do they have a problem with how pleasant it feels in the shade, even on the hottest summer days? Do they like the look of tree trunks stripped bare, towering over their roof? I just wish they would have asked, or at least been more forthcoming about the extent of the trimming. However, I’m afraid that no amount of talking would have swayed them. I don’t know them really well, but what I do know does not suggest that they are the compromising type. Now that its done, what can I do? Perhaps dad is right, maybe it is easier to get forgiveness than permission. Lucky for me, the limbs they removed also shaded my roof from the sun, so we too will have the benefit of more expensive summer utility bills. My wallet feels lighter already, or does it? No, the verdict on my wallet is uncertain. Will the weight loss from higher bills compensate for the extra weight of leather soaked in sweat? Sadly, I’m not looking forward to finding out.

A columnist I often read in the newspaper once wrote about politicians who feel compelled to begin statements with the phrase “Quite frankly, . . . .” He explained how he was immediately suspicious of the ones who used this phrase liberally. He mused that it was possibly a subconscious defense mechanism; a way to convince themselves, as well as others, they were being honest and forthright. I have come to have a similar suspicion of doctors who begin a statement with the phrase “This is a classic case of. . . .”

I have seen three doctors in the last couple of years about irritation that has persisted in my eyes. Doctor A noted, with a casual tone that almost exuded boredom, that it was a classic case of diagnosis #1. Not knowing any better myself, I faithfully followed through with the recommended road to cure. When the road to cure from diagnosis #1 turned out to be a one way street to continued suffering, I was sent on my way to doctor B. Doctor B noted the diagnosis of doctor A; and with a tone bordering on disgust, declared that I had a classic case of diagnosis #2. I saw this doctor for some time, and had somewhat better results than with doctor A. However, the problem still persisted. To my great disappointment, doctor B moved to Minnesota (hopefully not because of me). My third primary care doctor in as many years unwittingly referred me back to doctor A. I shouldn’t have gone back, but I did. My condition continued, despite my, dare I say: gullible, devotion to treatment for a “classic case” of diagnosis #1. Frustration mounted, and I switched to a fourth primary care physician who referred me to doctor C. The rationale was that we could validate the diagnosis of either doctor A or doctor B. You guessed it, doctor C said that I had a classic case of diagnosis #3. I was sitting in the hot seat when doctor C looked me in the eye and explained what he thought it was. He must have read the unease on my face like it was a neon billboard because his tone was almost defensive. He suggested a treatment for diagnosis #3 which he claimed would work almost instantly, and sat across from me with an expectant look on his face. I replied, “well, if you think it will make me feel any better, let’s give it a shot.” We did, and it didn’t.

I am left with the feeling that having “classic” symptoms of a particular condition does not mean what I thought. Surely three professionals, trained in the same specialty, would recognize my “classic” symptoms as the same thing. O.k., maybe two of three at least. But one set of “classic” symptoms and three diagnoses? I suspect the phrase must be some kind of special code taught in medical school, loosely translated as: “I haven’t got a friggin clue what this guy has wrong with him, but admitting my ignorance won’t make him feel any better.” Or perhaps its just a defense mechanism of their own, as if saying it will make it true.

On the bright side, my co-pay is only $10.

Maybe I’m expecting a full coarse meal at Burn’s for the price of a pound of ground chuck, but at this point I’d be happy with just a salad.