(Warning: this is a medical/quasi-surgery blog. It's also a major whine. If either turns you off, you've been warned.)

Why I Don't Like My Doctor Right Now

I had a brief doctor's appointment today. I knew it would be brief: a short wait outside, a blood pressure check, an order form for blood testing, and a $60 check at the end. No, I don't receive the $60 check, I have to give over.

However, there were things that went on during this appointment that just burned me up. And I'm still sitting here fuming, even a good 12 hours after the fact. Because I'm growing more and more convinced that my doctor is a quack.

He's done things in the past that have pissed me off. Not remembering things, like what medicine I'm taking. Things I've told him. His willingness to have me on drugs with an unwillingness help me afford them. (Smokin' Dr J seems to be of the impression that because my parents have a surplus of money, that I do too. I don't.)

After we'd discovered months ago that a weight loss of about 60 pounds didn't lower my cholesterol a damn bit, and in fact raised it, Dr J saw fit to put me back on cholesterol-lowering meds. I was also still at that point taking Liquid Zantac at $150 a bottle (I was on my sixth bottle). I simply flat-ass couldn't afford to do both. So I told him I'd go back on the drugs if he could get me some samples. Pravachol is what I took. It's what he prescribes, so I know he has samples companies have given him. He told me he'd see what he could do.

About a week later he gave some samples to my mother to give to me. It was Crestor. He told her to tell me it was the same thing as Pravachol. Crestor is one of these new "super duper cholesterol-lowering pills for people who are about to explode." I also knew that it hadn't been proven totally safe, and there was no way I was going to take it. And so I didn't. I started taking Lipitor, a cousin of Pravachol, instead, obtained under what may possibly be not the most legal of circumstances. I won't go into the details, but I backslid my way into some. You do what you have to do in this life, I guess.

(And when the Vioxx scandal hit last month or so and they came out with the list of drugs taken by regular Americans that could be killing them, well, what do think was on that list? Crestor. See, I'm dumb, and yet, I'm not so dumb.)

So, anyway, that puts me where I am today.

I went into the office, again, the not-as-nice one, with the painting of John Cusack, US Grant, and Drew Barrymore in it, and my old buddy Lisa took my blood pressure. It was 90 over 70. That's pretty low for me, but my bp's been pretty low lately anyway, so I was actually quite pleased. Then I waited for Dr J's arrival.

In he came, and of course, asked the question he always asks me. "What are you doing?" It's never "How are you doing," it's always "What are you doing." So I usually just answer, "Oh, nothing much."

He looked at my chart and noticed my blood pressure. "90 over 70? We'd better stop the Monopril." (Monopril is a blood pressure drug.) "Dr, I haven't taken Monopril since my surgery in April." "Oh."

Then I showed him the Crestor I was returning to him, unused. Oddly enough, he didn't want to argue about that one, which was odd, considering the whopper of an argument we'd had over the resuming of the cholesterol drugs in the first place. I told him what I was taking, how it was obtained, and why, and he gave me The Fisheye. The I Know Your Parents And They Have A Big House And Therefore You Should Have Money To Spare Too, By Osmossis, I Guess Fisheye. I really hate that particular fisheye.

He looked at my weight. Now, I know I want a lot out of this life, a lot I generally don't get, but I was kind of expecting a "Well done," or at least the nod of a head. Instead he said, "How tall are you?" "How tall am I really or how tall do I tell people I am?" This time I got the Listen, I'm Busy And In A Bad Mood And Am In No Humor To Deal With You Today Fisheye. "How tall are you?" I told him. He wrote it down. Which is good, I guess, since he keeps having trouble remembering things I tell him.

Geez. I mean, as of last night I've lost a total of 98 friggin' pounds. And he can't summon up a "Good job?"

And so I was still smarting a little bit from that when he stood up to listen to my heart. As he got up, he asked again, "What are you doing?" I wanted to say, "Oh, just sitting here on my ass waiting on you," but I took a wild guess and figured he meant exercise-wise, so I told him how I was working out. And that must have been wanted to hear, because he didn't pursue it further. He stood, all five feet of him (wonder how tall he tells people he is?) and looked down upon the top of my precious head. "Has your hair always been this thin?" he asked.

I explained to him that, no, it hasn't, and that yes, I've been losing my hair. Only slowly now, the worst of that is over, I'm just slow growing in new "replacement hair." But I told him that's a by-product of the surgery. He said I might have thyroid problems. Again I explained about the surgery and its hot #1 side effect, the one everybody has, the hair loss. "When you see your surgeon, have them test you for thyroid problems."

HELLO?!

So. Dr J pulled out his bloodwork order and checked he wants my cholesterol and liver functions tested. And I'm OK with that. When I got back out to my car and looked at the sheet, written in the corner in his tiny scrawl it says, "Hypo(or Hyper,I can't read it)thoroidism - Hair Loss." Now I'm telling you right here, as God is my witness, if I go to the hospital tomorrow for the bloodletting and they say a thyroid test is on the menu, I'm coming back home. I don't know if it's paying for something I know I don't need, or if it's just because I've become a fucking mean person and I can't let go of this battle of wills I seem to have found myself in.

The thing is, I'm just bummed. I've always felt like Dr J cares about me. He's sat and held my hand when I was crying. He calmed me down when he had to remove a mole from my face surgically and I was scared. Hell, he's had his hands in my insides, removing my gallbladder. And I still feels like he cares about me. He just won't fucking listen to me! No matter what I want to say to him, he doesn't listen.

I used to be satisfied knowing I had a doctor who thought he was God - I figured, hey, that means he'll make sure he never loses a patient, right? Maybe my problem today is the God I like is the Kind God. Not the Listen, I'm Busy And In A Bad Mood And Am In No Humor To Deal With You Today God.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* George Clooney is laid up with a ruptured disk. Oh, nurse Lily, where are you??
* Day 3 of "Andrei Rublev." Still not to the second reel. Thinking of giving up.