I've always been a reader of a mystery book with assured endings like the works of Erle Stanley Gardner.  Comedic tales or "powder blue" writings I've really enjoyed.

From wherever, I found the book Coma in my house.  Maybe my brain thought it was missing an "m" in the title.

I curled up with the book atop the bed comforter.  I never slept that night.  I finished the book.  Then I did not sleep a few more nights.  My brain was swirling and it still swirls when I think of "new medicines" or "new medical procedures" being announced in the news.  I think of the famous who have had their bodies frozen in hopes for new life in the future.  I image the words from Coma.

After fourteen surgeries  over the years, I've stopped counting.  I'm looking at five this year, if the schedule does not change.  Being smashed to smithereens by a suspended drunk driver in a vehicle with no insurance gives pains, physical and financial  until death.

In August, 2009, my Primary Care Physician with my Ortho sent me to see a "specialist".   I know more about my health than most and have volunteered some years ago teaching elders to keep up with their health and record all medicine and reactions. For this I  received the highest National Honors given because my problems give and gave me insights to assist others.

This new doctor and I chatted and I was telling him my history and had my computerized home-made record so I would not forget one iota.  I emphasized the allergies and I know the medicines by sight.

The doctor told me he would give me an injection to make me feel better.  He refused to tell me what it was.  When I saw what he had, the battle began.  I kept telling him it was the wrong color.  I got, "I am the doctor and I know what I am doing".  I could not move fast enough to leave his clinic.  He popped me with the "wrong color medicine".  I keeled over.  I could not focus my eyes but could hear him tell his staff, "Ignore her, she is having a panic attack."  They listened to him except two women who kept checking on me.  When I was able to leave, I literally had to drag out of the clinic in the hospital.

I had visions from the book Coma swirling in my head.

I ended at "my" hospital emergency room.  That doctor refused to tell my ER what he gave me.  So I got some over the top  loving care in "my" ER.  We learned what the medicine was within a week.  I had never had that medicine before. Yes, it was the wrong medicine.  I'm allergic to what he gave me.  I know it's name and uses.  Plastic surgeons use it for scar removal, not pain.

That doctor is the rear of a donkey.  I'm telling everyone what happened when my noticable problem is questioned.  The situation is almost six months old and I've been to two hospitals and a clinic in another state.  I won't sue him, because I can talk to enough people to refuse to have him attend them as a "specialist".  In this state, the patient, never receives just compensation.

Coma will not leave my head.