Everybody Lies (?)

I’ve got a doctor’s appointment looming. And believe me, there is no other, better, word for it than “looming” because I hate going to the doctor.

This woman was recommended to me by Terry Heaton, which makes her the first GP in Nashville I’ve seen that’s actually recommended by something other than my finger eenie-meenieing names out of my “Preferred Provider” directory. Frankly, choosing doctors that way is fine if you are 22 and suffer from the occasional sore throat. But if you’re 37 and in need of a bit more monitoring, it’s time to step up your game.

My last doctor was a nice, small-statured man with fine hair that curled on top of his head the way you often see in little toddler boys. He was an avid cyclist. I really think I can handle only one avid cyclist in my more intimate circles, frankly. Especially since Last Doctor’s way of treating me was taken straight out of the end of Queen’s most-excellent Fat Bottomed Girls–”Get On Your Bikes And Ride!” Sinusitis? Obviously caused by diabetes–since you’re so fat. Sore throat? Well, you’re fat enough to have sleep apnea, so your throat probably hurts from your fat ass. Or something like that. Well, I don’t have diabetes, and I don’t have sleep apnea. But I do have an abiding dislike of visiting doctors. Which is why I am staying here at the keyboard inside my little safety zone for as long as I can–and realising how pathetic I sound. Would I sound even more pathetic if I said “My Kingdom for a Text-Based Adventure Game!”? Yes, probably.

Anyway, I’ve spent the last three weeks passing kidney stones of various shapes and sizes–aided by pills of various shapes and sizes. And there’s the problem. Because whenever you see doctors for chronic pain, the odds of the various doctors thinking you’re making it all up for the drugs is about 80-20. I saw one doctor on Saturday pre-ER who walked in the room and looked at me as though I were Robert Carlyle in Trainspotting. He didn’t even tell me his name. He did say “What do you expect ME to do about it? I can’t help you with your pain.” The irony was that all I wanted was a CT scan to monitor the stones. I can deal with them on my own if they aren’t stuck.

Oh, sorry. I’m off track here. This is supposed to be about the doctor I’m going TO instead of the doctor I recently escaped (only mildly scathed) from. I think it’s funny that to her I’m just some name under “2:00″ in the appointment book, while in my mind I’ve built this up into some sort of scaling of a giant wall. Which reminds me of Buster scaling the wall with GOB on the other side, ready to punch him in the gut when he comes over. “See, when you do this without getting punched it’ll feel so much better!” I really hope I can do this without getting punched.