A pulmonologist, a hematologist and an infectious disease specialist walk into a bar.
I don't know why I find that set-up funny. I guess it's because I get a kick out of the title "infectious disease specialist," which sounds like something from a Michael Crichton novel. Very ominous.
Or maybe my funny bone is tickled at the thought of seeing my docs out of context. I'm picturing myself sipping a Manhattan at Smitty's. Suddenly, Dr. Horak (pulmonologist in scrubs and Crocs), Dr. Forman (hematologist in chinos and button-downs) and Dr. Dadwal (infectious disease specialist in pristine white lab coat) belly up to the bar together.
(I've never seen one of my doctors in a bar, but I did once run into my gynecologist at Burger Continental, a Middle Eastern restaurant in Pasadena. It was very awkward for both of us because we were embarrassed to be discovered eating in such a mediocre establishment.)
The problem is that I don't have a punch line. And the doctors, three of the best in their fields, still don't have an explanation. They have a lot of "suspicions," but nothing is conclusive.
Sometimes I think I just need to push myself a little harder. At other times, I think I'm trying too hard. But it doesn't seem to matter how much sleep or rest I get; I feel an overwhelming, crippling exhaustion.
And there's nothing funny about that.
(If you have a punch line, I'd love to hear it.)
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