Doctor, Doctor

(Warning: The following entry is about various experiences in doctors' offices. It contains references to bodily fluids and icky girl stuff. If that kind of thing bothers you, don't read it. Go support me or Rosencrantz or Tyim in our NaNoWriMo insanity and read our novels or something.)

I hate going to the doctor. This has nothing to do with any weird phobias about needles or hospitals or anything. I used to give blood at Hoxworth on a regular basis. Heck, at one point I considered becoming a nurse, and undertook a year of classes at one of the local hopsital based schools. For the most part, most of my past visits to any doctor have been positive ones.

The main exception was Dr. Sourball, whom I visited for the first and last time a few years ago when I had a double whammy of sinusitis and bronchitis. I had suffered through about of week of sniffling and wheezing, hoping that my symptoms would clear up, and called for an appointment when it became clear that I wasn't going to be able to wait out this bout. On the afternoon of my appointment, I got stuck in construction traffic and was late. Upon checking in with the receptionist, she reminded me of this in the tone of a condescending second grade teacher. Fifteen minutes later I was called into exam room, where I waited to see Dr. Sourball for another five minutes.

Finally, he came in and greeted me by lecturing me on being late for my appointment. Dude! If I could have magically avoided the gridlock on I-71, I would have done so. I didn't enjoy sitting at a standstill in front of a Speed Limit 65 sign for ten minutes, so lay off.

So after he grumbled at me, he finally asked, "And what brings you in here today?"

"I have sinusitis and bronchitis. I thought I could tough it out, but it seems my body had other ideas."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you know you have sinusitis and brochitis. And how do you know that?"

I'm sure doctors have to deal with patients who self-diagnose all the time. I'm sure it can get annoying. But it wasn't like I walked in and told him I had a brain tumor or bubonic plague. I had two rather common ailments, and I have a tendency to over-research things before I seek professional help. "Well, I've had sinusitis and bronchitis before, and I know what the symptoms are. I just took a layman's guess." In other words, Dr. Second-Guess-Your-Patient, my snot is green and I feel like I'm breathing through a sponge. You do the math.

He scoffed at my respose. "Well, we'll just see about that," and ran the necessary exam procedures and tests. A few minutes later, he returned with the results. He didn't look too happy.

"Well, it looks like you have sinusitis and bronchitis." Um, duh. He begrudgingly gave me prescriptions for decongestants and antibiotics, and told me that smoking was bad for me. Again, duh. While I don't claim to be the brightest bulb on the strand, I'm not a complete moron. It's not like I thought smoking was a good way for me to supplement my vitamin intake.

Since that day, the only doctor I've visited on a regular basis is my gynecologist. For the past few years, I had been fortunate enough to have the option of visiting my local Planned Parenthood under the coverage of my insurance. All of the employees there were friendly and top notch, and I didn't mind having to go in every three months to get my shot in the butt. (TMI alert: I switched to Depo Provera because the Pill made me crazy. It's made me gain a little bit of weight, but I haven't had to shop for "feminine products" for over two years. In my book, it's one of the greatest medical discoveries of the last fifty years.)

My insurance at the Zoo didn't cover visits to Planned Parenthood, so I found myself having to switch doctors for my annual visit. I called scheduling to make an appointment. No, I didn't care who they assigned me to, as long as they would be covered by my insurance and could see me on November 4th, when my next Depo injection was due.

On the day of my appointment, I awoke to find that my car had been broken into, and my stereo had been stolen. Oh well, I would have to make the necessary calls later that morning from work. I drove up the street to the doctor's office, realizing as I drove that I had forgotten the copies of my records from Planned Parenthood. No big deal, right? I could just drop them off on my way home from the Zoo.

Well, apparently it was a problem, and they couldn't give me my Depo until they saw my records. After offers to fax them from my office or call Planned Parenthood to obtain another copy, I was told that I would just have to reschedule. I was assured this would not mess up my injection schedule, took the next available appointment, and drove on to work.

Flash forward to my appointment yesterday. I'm back at the medical center, sitting in the exam room in a gown that doesn't fasten up the back, a big white sheet draped over my legs. I've been informed that I will not be receiving my Depo today after all, since they waited too long and have to run a blood test to see if I'm pregnant. (I could guarantee that the answer was a resounding No, but they still had to run the test. Arrrrrgggghhh.) My nurse practitioner, Not-Dr. Ruth greeted me as she came in and started the exam. She started off by palpating my thyroid gland.

"Huh."

When someone in the medical profession makes a remark like "Huh," it usually isn't a good thing. "What is it?" I asked.

"How long has one side of your thyroid been bigger than the other?"

Um. Since no one has ever mentioned it previously, I had no idea. She remarked that it probably wasn't a big concern, but just to be on the safe side she would order an extra blood test and an ultrasound. No big deal. Better safe than sorry.

Of course, the girl who was assisting Not-Dr. Ruth had a little problem with the blood draw. Apparently I inherited my mother's tiny tiny veins, and after fifteen minutes and one false stick which resulted in nothing but a big hole in my arm, she sent me down to the phlebotomy lab. Again, no big deal. The phlebotomist drew two vials of blood and sent me up to Radiation to make my ultrasound appointment.

I went home and did a little research on enlarged thyroids and what it could possibly mean. An hour later, I had learned the basics of hyperthyroidism and nodules, and had decided that "goiter" was the ugliest word in the English language. (Not to mention the fact that when I think of goiters, I think of a picture of an extreme case that I saw once as a child, where the man's neck bulged out uncomfortably. Ew. It's tube neck. It's the damned plague from The Stand.)

So here I am, sitting at work with a little more than two hours to go until my exam. I've never had an ultrasound, and I know it's nothing to worry about. But sometimes my mind, when given time to wander, has a tendency to jump to worst case scenarios. As certain as I am that the test will show nothing major, just some small anomaly that can be corrected easily with medication, there's a tiny voice in the back of my head chanting things like Grave's Disease and endoscopic subtotal thyroidectomy and radioactive isotopes and fine needle aspiration. Last night it was throwing in surgery and cancer for good measure.

I know that I probably have nothing to worry about. I know that thyroid cancer is rare, and that women have as high as a one in five chance of developing thyroid problems. But I also know that practically everything about my lifestyle can cause thyroid problems: caffeine, smoking, ephedra, hair color. And after speaking to my mother on the phone a few minutes ago, I have just discovered that my grandfather had thyroid cancer, and had to have his removed.

OK. Now I'm worried. The little voice in the back of my head is laughing at me, taunting me and shaking its finger in my face, and telling me I've brought all this upon myself. And if it's this loud at this point, before I've even gone for my exam, I'm terrified of what it's going to sound like later on tonight.

At least it's made me forget about having to get my Depo shot. I guess that's one good thing.