I’ll admit it to the blogging universe, but never to my husband’s face, that when I ask for an honest opinion, I generally want the person I’m asking to lie.
I once asked a psychiatrist if I was crazy. His reply was that mentally ill folk don’t think their behavior or thoughts are abnormal so it wouldn’t occur to them to ask about the appropriateness of their actions, therefore, I didn’t qualify for ‘crazy’. I say there’s always an exception and that psychiatrists are a lot like politicians…never a straight answer.
I asked Himself, once upon a time, what was the big deal (no pun intended) about Kim Kardashian’s badonkadonk and why everyone just swooned over it. The man chose to make hand gestures to describe the difference between hers and mine. He did not choose wisely, grasshopper, and spent a very lonely week if you get my meaning. On the other hand, I’ve asked if something made me look jaundiced, fat, old, dead (pick your descriptive) and he’s lied like a champ. Ah, well, one ill-chosen response should not make him a doghouse occupant for life. Perhaps he thought I genuinely wanted an honest answer. Silly man.
If you keep up with my blogging ramblings, you know I was told in a half-assed, kinda-sorta manner back in July that I might possibly, probably, take-my-best-educated-guess have fibromyalgia. It wasn’t one of those moments that instilled a lot of confidence in the medical community, especially when it was suggested I get a sleep study first. WTH?! ‘Go to a specialist’, my mother intoned. I had the doctor set me up an appointment and then I promptly fired her. I’m sorry, but when I want answers, I want answers not some dilly-dallying, waffling crap. I can get better info from Wikipedia.
So, Thursday I got my definitive answer. I’d already been warned by an acquaintance to expect to basically be told what I was going to do and when with regard to treatment. Haha! I don’t take those meds anymore, so we’d just see how accommodating I’d be.
I’m not a huge fan of doctors. If I’m there, sitting in my skivvies and covered only by a paper ‘gown’, it’s fairly obvious a good time is not about to be had by all.
Imagine my surprise when I was sitting in my skivvies, haute couture paper gown in place AT MY APPOINTMENT TIME! Grab the smelling salts, y’all! Yes, on time, I tell you…with the doctor already in the room. As I rambled on about why I was there, Dr. F perused the paltry lab notes sent over from Dr. You’ve Been Fired. Then I got put through the ringer. Tender points I didn’t know existed on my body were poked and prodded and every extremity and joint I owned was put through more contortions than a cheap hooker. We discussed the weather, the economy, immigration and politics. He asked if I ran my household the way the President is running the country…no lie. All while I’m sitting there half-naked and freezing. Charming.
‘Let’s be honest here, doc. All I want is a yes or a no. I know there aren’t lab tests to diagnose this. I don’t want medicine of any kind with all the lovely side effects. Just give me a yes or a no and if it’s no, what are you going to do then and I’ll be satisfied.’ He blinked at me like an owl. Crickets chirped. Apparently, according to Dr. F, my attitude is my best offense against fibro. Who knew being an obstinate, sarcastic, pain in the ass could be an asset? Well, me, but no one else seems to appreciate the finer points of my personality.
In the end, the answer was the same: yes, to the fibromyalgia. Was I disappointed that was the only thing wrong with me…was his question to me. No, I’m good that that’s all it is. Isn’t that enough? It sucks monkey nuts that there’s nothing the medical community can do to make it better sans side effects but them’s the breaks, right? I’m satisfied and life can now go on, not that it wasn’t already marching forth whether I was ready or not. I mentioned the acupuncture and Chinese herbs and was impressed he didn’t roll his eyes and could actually read the herbs, written in Chinese no less, on the label. He seemed a bit shocked that I didn’t want painkillers or sleeping pills, but let’s be honest, they’re not going to do any good. This is life and life goes on. It’s not like I don’t put on my big girl panties everyday anyway.