It all started a couple weeks ago when I developed a headache that wouldn't go away. I felt awful for like five days, and laid in bed for a whole weekend with a cold washcloth on my face. Miserable.
I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, so I was pretty sure it was an aneurism or a brain tumor. I had all but updated my will. Finally, I decided it might be time to consult an actual doctor rather than self-diagnosing a terminal illness... again.
When the doctor came in, I shared with him my prognosis, and told him that I had already signed my living will and arranged for hospice care. But I wanted his opinion too. Just for confirmation. He checked my blood pressure - which was normal. High blood pressure is not usually associated with tumors and aneurisms. Oddly, he ran no further tests.
"Just a headache," he declared, nonchalantly.
"Just a headache? How could you even know that? Don't you need to do an MRI? Inject dye into my veins? Shave half my head awkwardly and do exploratory surgery? I could be dead in a week and you're all, shrug, 'prolly just a headache'? What kind of a doctor are you anyway?"
Then he starts asking me personal questions like "what do you do for a living" and "are you in a relationship" and "do you work out" and "what's your family like".
"Look doc, I'm not here to speed date you okay? I came in here with a brain tumor and I just want to get this badlarry knocked out and either die or get on with my life. Besides, never mind that its inappropriate for you to be asking me out right now, 60 year old men with slightly out of control eyebrows aren't my type anyway, not that you're not a perfectly nice man. I'm sure you will make someone a very lovely mate okay, but let's get back to the subject at hand."
So then - here's where it gets good - so then he grabs his prescription pad and he goes, "Okay, here's something to help with the headache itself. You know... ahem... until we can get that tUUUUmor out of there. And I'm going to write you another one for anxiety. It's called Cymbalta."
"OOOOHHHHH HEEEEEEEELLLL NO! I have seen the commercials on tv for Cymbalta. I know what that's for. I'm NOT depressed. I'm no burnout. I have a good job and great friends and a new house and I get along great with my family and I go to church and everything. I don't need any anxiety medicine. And also, who ARE you anyways that you can spend five minutes with me and you don't run one single test and now you're trying to tell me I'm stressed out like you even KNOW me. Besides all that, do you THINK for one minute that I am going to just stroll into my friendly neighborhood CVS Pharmacy and be like 'here's my prescription for burnout medicine because IIIIII'M crazy. Is there a generic for this? Is it on the list of prescriptions that I can get with my ten dollar co-pay?'"
And I'm pretty sure I threw some air quotes in there at some point - probably for the word co-pay which needs no airquote. "
[Big inhale] "...and you know they are going to be talking about me behind the counter. I'm going to go pick out hair gel or something while they fill the prescription and they're going to be all 'Lookit. Its a prescription for Cymbalta. He's totally nuts. Look at him over there picking out hair gel as if he ever leaves the house. Look look. I got five bucks that says he hoards too.' Where did you get your EM DEE anyway? I come in here with a serious neurological condition and you hand me a prescription for anxiety medication. Who does that? Does Cymbalta thin your blood? Did you consider that these anxiety meds could actually worsen my condition? Did you think of that EMMM DEEEE? Fine. Just fine. Gah. Okay here. Just give it to me so I can go."
So he looks at me for a minute and he goes, "That. That right there is what this will help with."
I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, so I was pretty sure it was an aneurism or a brain tumor. I had all but updated my will. Finally, I decided it might be time to consult an actual doctor rather than self-diagnosing a terminal illness... again.
When the doctor came in, I shared with him my prognosis, and told him that I had already signed my living will and arranged for hospice care. But I wanted his opinion too. Just for confirmation. He checked my blood pressure - which was normal. High blood pressure is not usually associated with tumors and aneurisms. Oddly, he ran no further tests.
"Just a headache," he declared, nonchalantly.
"Just a headache? How could you even know that? Don't you need to do an MRI? Inject dye into my veins? Shave half my head awkwardly and do exploratory surgery? I could be dead in a week and you're all, shrug, 'prolly just a headache'? What kind of a doctor are you anyway?"
Then he starts asking me personal questions like "what do you do for a living" and "are you in a relationship" and "do you work out" and "what's your family like".
"Look doc, I'm not here to speed date you okay? I came in here with a brain tumor and I just want to get this badlarry knocked out and either die or get on with my life. Besides, never mind that its inappropriate for you to be asking me out right now, 60 year old men with slightly out of control eyebrows aren't my type anyway, not that you're not a perfectly nice man. I'm sure you will make someone a very lovely mate okay, but let's get back to the subject at hand."
So then - here's where it gets good - so then he grabs his prescription pad and he goes, "Okay, here's something to help with the headache itself. You know... ahem... until we can get that tUUUUmor out of there. And I'm going to write you another one for anxiety. It's called Cymbalta."
"OOOOHHHHH HEEEEEEEELLLL NO! I have seen the commercials on tv for Cymbalta. I know what that's for. I'm NOT depressed. I'm no burnout. I have a good job and great friends and a new house and I get along great with my family and I go to church and everything. I don't need any anxiety medicine. And also, who ARE you anyways that you can spend five minutes with me and you don't run one single test and now you're trying to tell me I'm stressed out like you even KNOW me. Besides all that, do you THINK for one minute that I am going to just stroll into my friendly neighborhood CVS Pharmacy and be like 'here's my prescription for burnout medicine because IIIIII'M crazy. Is there a generic for this? Is it on the list of prescriptions that I can get with my ten dollar co-pay?'"
And I'm pretty sure I threw some air quotes in there at some point - probably for the word co-pay which needs no airquote. "
[Big inhale] "...and you know they are going to be talking about me behind the counter. I'm going to go pick out hair gel or something while they fill the prescription and they're going to be all 'Lookit. Its a prescription for Cymbalta. He's totally nuts. Look at him over there picking out hair gel as if he ever leaves the house. Look look. I got five bucks that says he hoards too.' Where did you get your EM DEE anyway? I come in here with a serious neurological condition and you hand me a prescription for anxiety medication. Who does that? Does Cymbalta thin your blood? Did you consider that these anxiety meds could actually worsen my condition? Did you think of that EMMM DEEEE? Fine. Just fine. Gah. Okay here. Just give it to me so I can go."
So he looks at me for a minute and he goes, "That. That right there is what this will help with."
We've all been there....you just happen to live there.
I hope you get better
Posted by: Tim | January 30, 2010 at 10:50 AM
oh emm double you
Posted by: Mkate | January 30, 2010 at 07:46 PM
You have just caused me to laugh and snort outloud, in Tito's office, right between services, with Tim looking on and watching my face as I read. Whew, it's so warm in here.
Posted by: Betty | January 31, 2010 at 09:08 AM
Oh, and dude, don't you know that Cymbalta is what they give women for Fibromyalgia? Have you checked THAT out?
Posted by: Betty | January 31, 2010 at 09:15 AM