Stage Four – Hit the door!

The tests for the diagnosis

Almost led me to psychosis

I knew I was sick

But doctors are slick

And testing is their schtick!

Medicos are bright, some are young.

They made me stick out my tongue

Are they looking for color or looking for texture?

What does one get from a lingual conjecture?

The days turn into weeks

And more doctors put their beaks

Into my mouth, ears, and nose

I wonder what this torture shows.

They use words I do not understand

My life hanging by a strand

Another expert is needed

And therefore treatment impeded

One more doctor says too long we have tarried

That treatment and I are about to be married.

She writes the insurance man who then approves

And schedules chemo/immune moves.

It takes hours for a session – blood test - wait and wait

And then after you qualify, they measure up your weight.

Then they stick in the needle and leave you for hours

While alarms wake you up from dreams of Elysian bowers.

Sit still, we’ll shoot another infusion

Into your arm to create that illusion

That all is well and never you mind

We’re testing all these chemicals blind.

And then the bills begin to flow in

They make no sense, no logic therein.

A bandaid costs $200 smackers.

The MRI $5 like saltine crackers.

I’ll soon go bald and then reveal

How my bumpy scalp tends to peel

They gave me a turban like the 1930s

The look is Myrna Loy and not real flirties.

Is there a reason I am enduring this hell?

Any chance it will make me well?