Doctor, Doctor

I swear, it’s getting to the point where half of the contacts in my iPhone have the initials MD after them.

Now that I’ve been thoroughly violated at the GYN’s office, the next step is a pelvic ultrasound at the hospital. This is a lovely procedure in which I get to lie down with a full bladder and have my insides examined while trying NOT to pee all over the bed. Then I get to go back to the GYN, who’s a pretty nice guy, to find out the results.

For what it’s worth, he doesn’t seem overly concerned with what he saw on the CT scan, which is a big relief right there. I’m sure he’s seen enough ovarian cysts to know what’s dangerous from what’s just extraneous tissue. I may still have to have surgery, and the word ‘cancer’ was mentioned as a possible cause; but common sense tells me that if no other structures are involved and nothing else but the kidney stones were seen on the CT, I should be fine.

In the meantime, I see Dr. Awesomcsauce on Monday. I must have been nuts to agree to a 9 AM session because I really don’t do mornings all that well, but it’ll be interesting to see what kind of juice drink he brings in this time. Once it was kale mixed with mango, pineapple and God-knows-what-else… looked awful, but smelled a whole lot better than it looked. Either that or it’ll be Diet Coke, which tickles me not only because that’s my beverage of choice too, but because it’s funny to see a tall, well-built man chug a 1-liter bottle of diet soda. I’ve made him spew it across the room on a couple of occasions, which is even funnier. (I, on the other hand, only drink water during sessions because Diet Coke makes me burp.)

Then there’s the matter of finding a new internist. After being asked which of the new doctors I wanted to see—an exercise in futility since I know nothing about any of them—I finally had the office manager hook Will and me up with one of the resident physicians, who I won’t even see till January. His name sounds Indian, so I hope we’ll be able to communicate. I also hope he won’t change any of my meds around…..they’re working just fine, thank you. At least the psych stuff will stay with Dr. A, and Will’s cancer treatment will continue under the watchful guidance of his excellent oncologist, Dr. Wonderful.

I’ve almost got to feel sorry for this new doctor who’s taking us on. We’re both complex patients with multiple issues, and as a resident, he’ll need to be up to the challenge. I still hate to face the fact that we have to change doctors after 22 years with the same one…..even though he could be an asshole at times, at least he was OUR asshole, and we knew what to expect. Still, I hope this new one’s not an asshole.

Such is the life of late-middle aged folks with lots of medical problems. I used to be somewhat contemptuous of people who went to doctors all the time; I thought they were hypochondriacs who just needed a swift kick in the posterior. Well, karma is a gold-plated bitch, and now here I am, with three doctors and I’m supposed to be seeing an endocrinologist as well. Good times!




Published by bpnurse

I'm a retired registered nurse and writer who also happens to be street-rat crazy, if the DSM-IV.....oops, 5---is to be believed. I was diagnosed with bipolar I disorder at the age of 55, and am still sorting through the ashes of the flaming garbage pile that my life had become. Here, I'll share the lumps and bumps of a late-life journey toward sanity.... along with some rants, gripes, sour grapes and good old-fashioned whining from time to time. It's not easy being bipolar in a unipolar world; let's figure it out together.

2 thoughts on “Doctor, Doctor

  1. Oh please don’t say late-middle-aged just yet, you’re the same age as I am!!

    Glad you are progressing down the happy road of diagnosticism…

    Liked by 1 person

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