My what is elevated?

So a couple of months ago I went to see a doctor, an engagement which included a blood-letting. The nurse used a needle, not a leach, and afterward I didn't really feel any relief from having the bad blood extracted. In fact, when the initial test results came back, they showed I have too much bilirubin in my blood. I am given to understand that bilirubin is formed when red blood cells decompose, and the liver is supposed to clean the bilirubin out. Mine, however, does not. After a second test a couple of weeks ago, the doctor determined that I am afflicted with a condition called Gilbert's Syndrome. It's named after a French guy, evidently, as it is pronounced "zhil-bear." It makes me feel very sophisticated to have such an elegant sounding disease.

So how long do I have, doc? Give it to me straight...don't sugar coat it. If I don't eat a pound of bacon for breakfast every morning, continue to not smoke, don't step in front of any moving cars, or go hunting with the vice president, the best I can hope for is another fifty-five years (sixty, tops). Gilbert's Sydrome is a completely benign, asymptomatic condition that hardly warrants status as a syndrome. Typical of the French, really. Even their diseases run away screaming like a girl, and let cholesterol (the bad kind), RJ Reynolds, traffic accidents, and shotgun-toting politicians do their dirty work.

Now that I have a real disease, my first order of business is to get myself a special license plate so I can park in handicap spaces. Whenever I go to work, or the library, or the grocery store, I see parking lots that have about two dozen handicap spaces, and there are never more than a couple of actually disabled people in whatever place you're going to. Even at a crowded mall, you never see more than maybe four wheelchairs or people on crutches. It used to really bother me that all those special spaces went unused, or else were occupied by what I thought were perfectly healthy reletives of disabled people just taking advantage of the hadicapped license plate. Maybe they too were suffering from Gilbert's Syndrome, or some other similarly impotent French disease. Anyway, now that I am disabled, I will appreciate not having to trundle myself, bilirubin-laden blood and all, that extra thirty feet from the parking lot into the Piggly Wiggly. I am also thinking of forcing my landlord, through the court system if necessary, to build a wheelchair ramp up to my front door, even though I do not require a wheel chair, and am moving out in a couple of weeks anyway. The point is, I feel that I have been discriminated against long enough. I will no longer tolerate such blatant anti-gilbertism (or is it gilbertphobia?).

I may form some kind of foundation as well. We'll have special walks to raise money for Gilbert's Syndrome research. We'll sell yellow rubber bracelets embossed with the phrase "Say No to Bilirubin." Some of the proceeds from the bracelet sales will go to pay for my two recent blood tests. The rest will go towards a copy of the new Eric Clapton CD. Unless the Make-A-Wish foundation gets it for me. Then the bracelet money will help me purchase a bottle of bourbon, you know, as payback for the whole missing enzyme gambit. Take that, stupid liver.