So I went for my super not awesome tests this morning and can confirm they were in fact super not awesome.
In fact I may be so bold as to say that was the single most obnoxious hour of my entire life. Beating out trying to watch movies with Brook, going to dinner with Sarah, talking with paladins in Silvermoon, and Mister Boresaw's 7th grade Social Studies. What can you expect from a 70 year old man with the last name Boresaw anyway?
The topical test was akin to repeatedly banging your funny bone. That's what it felt like. The woman who administered this test had obviously never undergone it herself because she told me it would feel kind of like a very light static shock. No. No, it did not feel like a very light static shock. It felt like you were hammering my funny bone, lady.
She had to keep putting hot packs onto my hands to warm them during the test. I tried to tell her when I arrived and she had me soak my hands in hot water because, "it's cold outside." That my hands are always cold, even when it's 90 degrees outside, but naturally she had to be proven wrong the hard way. Skeptics.
I was relieved when it was over only for the cart with several long sterile needles to be wheeled out. I was ready to get it done and over with, only for the woman to inform me that, "It's only 8:00am, doctor Wiess doesn't arrive until 8:15am. Feel free to relax while you wait."
Oh yes, feel free to relax while staring at a tray of sharp pointed objects you know you're going to be stabbed AND electrocuted with while wearing naught but a skimpy medical gown. That sounds easy. Maybe I am just cranky from lack of sleep and low blood sugar from not being able to eat past midnight... but I doubt it.
The doctor arrives, late as expected, and is a man who by all looks of things is in the wrong field. He looks like every male psychiatrist you have ever seen on film. I swear it. But here he is, a neurologist. He must've been trying to prove a point. He spoke like he was afraid he would scare me away, which meant I could barely hear him and was trying to read his lips through his mustache.
I don't think I need to bother going into detail about the intramuscular EMG. I explained the joys of that in my last post and quite frankly it was every bit as miserable as had been anticipated. Add in the pleasure of bleeding like a faucet.
Now we play the waiting game.