After a morning of diagnostic exams, neurological tests and CAT scans, I found myself in the chair of a maxillofacial surgeon, learning about treatment options for a condyle fracture of the tempromandibular joint. Ostensibly there are three, but only one (immobilization by wiring the jaw) gives consistently good results, so there wasn’t much of a decision. But I had issues. I’m pre-diabetic — how would I manage my blood sugar on a liquid diet? This highly recommended surgeon (a dead ringer for the Property Brothers BTW) was out of network — could I find an in-network doctor to see me right away instead? If not, what was this going to cost me with Dr. Property Brother? And I would need sedation for the procedure, but I was alone and wouldn’t be able to drive myself home. But, eager to get started on the road to recovery, I set out to solve all these challenges as soon as possible, in order to proceed asap,
In retrospect, I’m rather astounded by my will and concentration at this stressful juncture. I was in pain, and I must have been in shock, but I somehow marshalled my wits to do the needful. I Googled, I made calls, I texted, I researched providers on the Cigna website. Dr. PB got much better reviews than in-network doctors, so I sat with the office manager to affix a dollar amount to the procedure and to authorize it with the insurance company. (This is a good example of the absurd cruelty of our health care system — that someone with a broken bone in her FACE is expected to cope with such BS and try to make an informed decision about emergency treatment.) Google and my endocrinologist’s nurse persuaded me that I could find healthy liquid nutritional options, and my 20-something son was summoned via Uber to the office and drive me home. All systems go.
Side note: I got my first laughing gas that afternoon. (Not sure any of my previous dentists even used it; don’t recall it ever being offered.) I informed the assistant, doubtful I should experiment with a new psychotropic substance at my advanced years, but she casually crooned, ‘it’s g-o-o-d,’ as if she were describing a particularly nice batch of sativa. Boy, was she right — I sat there inhaling, feeling myself floating higher and higher. (Broken jaw? I have a jaw? What is a jaw? Strange word, jaw…) But I knew she’d soon be back to check on me, and in the paranoiac way of all high people interacting with straight people, I tried to prepare a normal, dignity-preserving response when she returned. Useless! When the assistant returned with a breezy singsong ‘how are we doing?’ I heard myself squealing helplessly in response! So much for dignity.
Linnetontheleaf 
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