The older one gets, more is learned about the monumental scientific research triumphs that have occurred in beating back medical unpleasantnesses that strike the unfortunate.
Shortly, in a moment of candor, I’ll get to my most recent diagnosis — a startling and unrealistic revelation to my family and friends and anyone else who’s ever been within the sound of my voice. It is not inexplicable, however. The doctor who made the diagnosis fully understands it.
First, let me state the value of living in an American small town that rests a short distance from a larger town with every type of medical specialty available — a veritable treasure of life itself.
Take the good fortune of the people of the Southwest Georgia town of Blakely, for example. Blakely has its own community hospital for which we are grateful, complete with an emergency room and a stand-alone clinic where citizens can obtain quality care.
If something of a more sophisticated or sinister nature is diagnosed (like my flabbergasting and befuddling problem mentioned below), most of us matriculate to Dothan, Ala., where two outstanding acute-care hospitals exist.
Some others go to Albany, Ga., 50 miles east, for specialized care at that city’s only major hospital, a massive facility where I once toiled in public relations (another little-known tale I might someday divulge more about). But Dothan is the usual destination for advanced healthcare from Early County, Georgia.
It has been predicted by myriad watchdog groups that if something doesn’t change in the “One Big Beautiful Bill” that was signed into law by President Trump, the condition of healthcare in Rural America — where you and I live — is going to worsen exponentially in a few years.
Numerous small hospitals will close, which means emergency care will be near extinction. Many were built under the prodigious Hill-Burton Act of the late 1940s as the federal government moved more into the healthcare theater (as opposed to the harebrained backward step of today). The H-B legislation provided mostly rural communities with about 7,000 healthcare facilities. We’re grateful.
As for my ailment, for two decades I’ve been awakened several times nightly because “something” has gathered in my throat, forcing me to arise and dispose (I’m trying to speak gingerly here).
I’ve told at least 20 physicians my story. Some have almost laughed me out of their offices, claiming, “Oh, everyone has that problem.” I’ve never heard of another sufferer of this malady. Not one.
A few listened intently but could offer no help. Then I was sent to another doctor and this lady is working tirelessly to track down the problem, even ordering a CAT scan.
Before prescribing the scan, she ran a device into my nose that resembles one of those wire brushes used to clean hair from a sink. A light anaesthetic was provided for the discomfort. Don’t try it at home.
We’ll soon learn whether a diagnosis of “dysfunctional vocal cord” is what has caused my persistent problem. Modern medicine will tell me.
