I went to the doctor.
All I will say is that they were absolutely no help at all, none whatsoever, and managed to reduce me completely to tears. I will deal with them later. Mostly, right now, I hate the medical clinic in this town. I hate it, I hate the doctors, and I hate most of all that they are my insurance’s only preferred provider.
So I’m going to dope myself up a little more, and then I’m going to go get Anna and have a lovely Christmas.
Okay, actually, there will be a short, controlled rant.
I’m very angry. I want to drive over to that clinic and gather the staff in the office and yell at them. At some point I will call them and be pointed, but I’m really, really irritated that I have something wrong and was made to feel as if I were a bother, as if I were an idiot, and that after being treated with irritation and impatience after fifteen minutes was given a diagnosis of "probably fibromyalgia." No explanation of what that was, or what I should do, outside of keep taking ibuprofen, and maybe this other drug. That’s it.
You know what? It isn’t normal for my arms to fall asleep at night, for my ass to feel so cold I can barely tell it is there, for me to have pain in this muscle that I don’t know its name. It isn’t right that I have to wander aimlessly through energy therapists and massage therapists and acupuncturists because THEY’RE THE ONLY ONES WHO EVEN TRY TO HELP ME. I shouldn’t have my feet and toes falling asleep. I should be able to feel all my fingers. I don’t give a damn that it doesn’t happen every day or in some regular pattern. It’s your job, fuckwad, to figure that out. You should order a goddamn test, more than some lab for arthritis, before you give me some disease with no real cure, and if you give the damn disease YOU SHOULD TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IT IS.
I hate that doctor. I hate that clinic. I am furious that I have to go back there or pay through the nose for out of network coverage. I’m furious that I have to do my own research, that I have to steel myself just to go in for a simple appointment and EVEN THEN they make me cry.
You know what, clinic I can’t name so I don’t get my husband in trouble? FUCK. YOU. Fuck you and your goddamn shitty medicine. Fuck you for being so cold and unhelpful. Fuck you for making me sob through Christmas Eve to the point that I couldn’t even go get the lab drawn because I was crying so hard. Just fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
If I could just ignore this, I would. If I didn’t hurt so much, or if I could continue to limp by on alternate therapy, I would. But I need a diagnosis. I need a doctor to see me. I need tests. I need competence. I will give you fuckers one more goddamn chance because I don’t want to spend too much money, but I’m already consigning myself to not being able to take Anna to the ocean because I have to pay for out of network medicine.
What I hate more than anything is being so powerless, of being in the position to let anyone make me feel this lousy. I hate you for that more than for not treating me.
I also hate that I am so emotional that I either have to punch somebody out or sob, and I always chose the sobbing. I know it’s the right one, but I hate that it makes me look so weak. Goddamn it, you asshat, I’m only crying because it costs too much to go over there and strangle you.
In the meantime, I will get to spend Christmas not just in pain, but without a real plan of how to manage it. Thanks, assholes. Thanks a lot.
Merry fucking Christmas to you, too.