Doctor recommendations

[LilSooner]

I refuse to ever go back to Norman Regional again. I have been admitted three times over the last 5 years with severe abdominal pains and no one can figure out what is going on. My primary doc diagnosed me with ulcers gave me the medicine and I haven't stopped puking since.

All of my hospitals are out in the middle of nowhere and I need a new doctor. Preferably one affiliated with Baptist or OU.

Anyone have a good stomach doc?

[frankensooner]

There is this guy named Tanner over in the MWC, other than that, I am no help.

[OUDoc]

Dr. Robert Rankin at Baptist is an excellent gastroenterologist.

That Tanner guy is pretty incredible, but he's not a stomach doctor. :)

[r5TPsooner]

Dr. Robert Rankin at Baptist is an excellent gastroenterologist.

That Tanner guy is pretty incredible, but he's not a stomach doctor. :)

That Tanner guy stole a pot from me last nite and it wasn't a plant.;)

[frankensooner]

but he is a bitchin' pcp from what I hear, large hands and all.

[LilSooner]

thanks!

[yermom]

That Tanner guy is pretty incredible, but he's not a stomach doctor. :)

i heard he posts on the innerwebs all day while you sit in the waiting room :mad:

;)

[soonersis]

My whole family goes to Don Murray, MD over at Digestive Diseases at Baptist. I personally think he's got a great bed-side manner and has been great help for myself and my family.

[OUDoc]

i heard he posts on the innerwebs all day while you sit in the waiting room :mad:

;)

It makes me look busier and in-demand.

[yermom]

:D

[colleyvillesooner]

Maybe you just need to go to the bathroom...

[Flagstaffsooner]

If you'd quit eating at Ryans Steakhouse....

[Turd_Ferguson]

If you'd quit eating at Ryans Steakhouse....Mmmmm.....beef and macaroni.

[yermom]

Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.

A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good ****, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than Rhino telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a ****. I went to the normal stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my *** was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."

For those men who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Women know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move women make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones *** toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of **** at the exact same second that ones *** is properly placed on the toilet seat. It is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little beyonces attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.

In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over **** no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ***. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since ****ting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.

At that very split second, my *** exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of **** the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ***. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The **** wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.

Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the **** wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, like what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of **** remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the ****ting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.

In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in **** that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid ****. All while thick **** was spread all over my *** in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no ****ing toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the chick who then wandered into the bathroom. She actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask her if she would get the manager. And told her to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, she brought the toilet paper with her, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told her that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask Rhino to come help me. I told her where we were sitting and she left. At that point, I think she was probably assuming that I had peed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, Rhino came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in his voice. I explained to him (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed his help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, he probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked him, I'm sure he had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And he then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. He began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. He left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked her to also bring a mop and bucket upon which she assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving her specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on her exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for her actions. She hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. She hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, Rhino got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to Rhino. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little beyonce walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank her for all she had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where Rhino was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

:eek:

[OUDoc]

My whole family goes to Don Murray, MD over at Digestive Diseases at Baptist. I personally think he's got a great bed-side manner and has been great help for myself and my family.

Dr. Murray's one of Dr. Rankin's partners. He's a nice guy, too.

[Jerk]

Man, after getting hooked on Dr. House, I wish I was a doctor.

I should have studied when I was in school, damnit.

I could walk around with my cane all day, popping oxycodone pills, making smart-*** remarks to people.

[OUDoc]

Man, after getting hooked on Dr. House, I wish I was a doctor.

I should have studied when I was in school, damnit.

I could walk around with my cane all day, popping oxycodone pills, making smart-*** remarks to people.

You can do that anyway. :)

[Turd_Ferguson]

Dr. Rife is at Mercy. He took my Gawl Dang Bladder out. He said it was "sick". He also said after he took it out, I'd have heartburn and poop a lot. He was right about that too.

[Jerk]

You can do that anyway. :)

Yeah, but I couldn't make a living doing it. :(

I get drug tested...often.