I won't bore you with my medical history. Not enough room in today's blog.  Let's just say my health care providers like me to get annual MRI's to keep watch on this little blob in my head. A pesky little blob of protein and stuff (I don't like the word tumor) that has caused me some pretty big issues in the past.

So... 18 months since my last scan, I get the MRI a few weeks ago and see my neurologist for a follow-up consultation last week. Everything looked great! No new growth on the little blob, blood pressure is down, need to watch my cholesterol, yadda yadda. I'm feeling real good about this appointment and I mention in passing to my Doc that I've been working on cutting back on the beers too. Bad. Move.

He says "how many are you drinking every night?".  I fib, and say something like, "ummm, I guess about a 6 pack of light beer".  Bad answer. He tells me to make it just TWO per night. Quality, not quantity he says.  Fine and dandy, I think to myself. "I'll just cut back a little". No one needs to be the wiser, right? And no one would have been the wiser. Except...

Instead of tossing out his report or filing it somewhere, I leave the print out of my office visit laying on the counter in the bill pile, where my wife finds it a few days later. "ONLY TWO BEERS PER NIGHT" he had written in all caps on the sheet. Crap.  She thinks this is HILARIOUS.  So do the kids. Hahahaa! Poor Michael, two beers per night. Now they're watching me like hawks every time I open the frickin' fridge.

I tried to joke with wifey about patient/doctor privacy, HIPPA, and this being a private matter between me and my doc, and she's like, "I'd better be on your HIPPA release form!!".  Dang. She got me there.

Next time,

Michael