What's Up Doc?

Here's how going to the doctor works in my family: there were (and are) people who go to the doctor at the slightest instance of slightly unwell.  My grandmother was the definition of hypochondriac. To say this was stressful would be a gross (literally) understatement, as every interaction with my nana was highlighted by her newest list of complaints, medical wackiness, and roster of visits with doctors. In hindsight, I understand that living that way must have been sad and exhausting for her, but it didn't make it any easier to listen to her go on and on about thinking that she needed surgery because her left eye was a little squinky for about 90 seconds last Tuesday.

So, yeah. The family members either go to the doctor for every last thing, or we NEVER go.

I think we've established which camp I belong in.

To be fair to me, my history of "Yeah, I think I'm good, despite the fact that I seem to have lost a limb and might be a little bleed-y" behaviour ALSO stems from the fact that when I was about 12, I walked into the pediatrician's office with my mom for an appointment, only to have the receiptionist ask "And has Danielle been here before?"

My mother and I were both flummoxed. Had I been there before? I'd been going there since I was BORN. Also, I had recently been through an entire series of allergy tests that involved poking holes in my skin and putting drops of different and potentially toxic substances on the holes to see if I got puffy and itchy* -- these tests took hours and were done over a period of a couple of weeks.  Had they seen me before? I had JUST been there.

"Yes," my mother said slowly.

"Oooooh," the receiptionist said. "Hang on." She went towards the back of the office, which was dumb because we could still see her, and began having a heated conversation with the office manager. They both kept looking at us. I was 12, but I knew something was afoot.

Here's what was afoot: They had lost my records. LOST THEM. Allergy tests? Gone. Procedures? Gone. Asthma treatments? Gone. In a pre-computer age, I might add. So when I say they were gone? They were GONE. Never to be recovered.

My medical history starts at the age of 12.

That is not awesome.

The other thing that makes me, er, mistrustful is this: when I was in high school, I injured my shoulder. I told my doctor is was injured. He told me to chill. From the age of 15 until I was in my twenties, whenever I had a physical, I would tell my doctor that my shoulder was a problem. Finally, when I was 27, he ordered an MRI to shut me up.

Here's what the MRI showed: BIG holes. None of the cartilege was where it was supposed to be and hadn't been for, oh let's see -- TWELVE YEARS. Within weeks, I had surgery to screw everything back together.

Doctors. They bum me out. So I don't like to go. Plus, it's inconvenient and icky and doctor's offices are germy and have I mentioned? OCD.

I'm mentioning this because a) I have a doctor's appointment scheduled for January, so every time I start to feel ... yucky ... I think "Whatever, I'm going to the doctor in January. If it's still a problem in January, I'll talk to the doctor about it" and then continue on my merry way; and b) because I'm a little bit under the weather with an issue that I don't think should wait until January. Except that I think it's stress related, and so going to the doctor won't help because going to the doctor will stress me out more and that's not going to make me feel BETTER.

So basically, I'm sick-ish and it's pissing me off... and the more pissed I get, the more sick I feel.

Sick, and frustrated.

*which made getting tattoos later in life a cakewalk, by the way