Return of the Anti-Christ

No, I'm not talking about Captain Asswipe, the new resident of the White House. I'm talking about Dr. Dickhead, aka Goofy, Tombstone Teeth, Matthew "Bucky Beaver" Buckland. Just when I thought I was safe...no such luck.

I've been at one hospital or another nearly every day for the last three months. I've been so filled with radiation I'm probably going to render everyone in my path completely sterile (that should cure overpopulation)-and I should be glowing in the dark by now (no such luck. I tried).

I've had so many MRIs that I'm surprised I haven't been attracting every paper clip, stapler, and fax machine. I have had a really nice, permanent headache though-all the headbanging. My last MRI was on Thursday evening-and I must admit that, since the tech was kind enough to put music through the headphones, there was a lot of singing and toe tapping at the beginning (until they asked me to stop). But who doesn't sing along to Al Green?

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the clinic and waiting to see the doctor (90% of being a patient is waiting. And more waiting), when I looked up and I saw what I thought was a sickening apparition: was that the Bucky, the "doctor" who throws temper tantrums, who has severe emotional problems, bullies and threatens his patients, probably beats his children, abuses his wife, kicks the dog? Was that the incompetent pile of crap I saw at the reception desk? Before I could throw up, he had turned and gone. I decided that it couldn't possibly be the case, because what hospital other than the Royal London would want him?

Ah, good grief. On Thursday I went for my infusions, and I just had this feeling of unease. Actually, I had this feeling of severe nausea. So I asked the nurse if there were any new consultants. And she said-yes, there is one who works at Great Ormond Street (children's hospital-just the perfect place for someone who abuses his patients and can't control his temper, who is petulant and threatening to anyone who stands up to him. A children's hospital!).

Oh, really. She said his name is Matt. I just looked at her and said: Matt Buckland! She said that's right. And I groaned and said "Oh, CRAP!!!". Oh, you know him? Oh, yes, sadly I do. And then she left the room (I know I2m not using quotation marks. I'm a lazy typist).

My consultant came in to say hello and check up on me, talk about all the upcoming appointments, and then casually asked if anyone had told me that Bucky was working at the Royal Free. I just said "OH CRAP" again-not as loud this time. Apparently Bucky has left the Royal London (oh, I do hope that he was terribly embarrassed by this blog-which he tried to block last year, but without success) and is working for two days harming children at the Great Ormond Street Hospital-and abusing patients at the Royal Free for the other three days. I asked my doc how I'm supposed to deal with this; she said just say hello if I see him in the corridor.

Hello? I'd much rather smack him with my elbow crutch, knock him down, kick him in the shins (really, I'd rather kick him someplace higher-but who knows if he has any or not?), punch him in the face and ask him if he's still killing and crippling patients. But-that is just a fantasy. I must admit that kicking him in the nuts would make my day.

I got home and thought about the fact that this nutter is now at my hospital-but it occurred to me that if he hadn't gotten even for the things I wrote I would have procrastinated leaving the Royal London for another few months. I wanted to go, but I was going to wait until after surgery. Bucky really did me a favor-two favors, actually. He forced my hand, sent me to a better hospital and a much, much better consultant (and team), and I have been healthier at the Royal Free than I ever was at the London. Add to that the fact that my immunology consultant was so thorough that she sent me to several other consultants, all of whom ordered the London tests redone, and all of whom told me that the results of the London tests (and consultants) were wrong. So I'm now at a place where I'm no longer lied to-and I'm far healthier than I was told previously.

Of course, that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to spit in Bucky's face and kick him in the nuts (if he has any, and if my foot could locate them).

So, no assault from me-and, really, I don't have to ever talk to him or even acknowledge him. I wrote so much (all true) when I was away from Bucky and the Cripplers (good name for a rock band, don't you think?), and so many people read the blog after I moved hospitals-so everyone at the London knows what he is (and what they are), that I think I'm over it all.

The fact that I thought I had metastasis of cancer in my lower back (and I won't know for absolute certain until I get the PET scan results in another two weeks) made me think very hard about holding grudges. I think I was frightened into sitting down and deciding to let go of all the injustices. The people who caused it all couldn't give a rat's patootie. I'm the one who has suffered-and now I need to move forward-preferably without falling over.

Time for Starbucks.