I went to see Dr. Jennings today.
"So you're having pain - like after you eat greasy or fatty foods?" he asked - his blue eyes opening wide.
"No - like when I move suddenly or, um, if I reach for something or lay on that side - it hurts. OH - and when I sneeze - well that hurts really badly." I hate describing my symptoms. I feel like I'm complaining, wasting his time, he could be curing cancer - or cutting it out of someone but instead he's perched upon a stool squinting at a chubby girl who's listing off strange ailments.
"You have pain with movement?" he asks and scribbled furiously.
"Yes. For three months now."
"Oh. Well. " And then he starts explaining. I do my best to not swoon or pass out when he gets detailed about the inner-workings of my digestive track. I do not like innard details anymore than I like detailed innards.
He's worried that the gallbladder removal would not take away the pain. "I can remove it," he says, adjusting his glasses and looking at me in the eye, "but there's a chance that you'll still have that pain. And I really don't want to do anything unnecessary."
"I'm a surgi-phobe," I tell him. He nods. He's patronizing me. Don't care. He doesn't want to slice-n-dice me - I'm happy. For now.
He starts listing off the things he thinks it may be: ulcer, hernia, tumor.. etc.. etc.. ugh...
"Do you feel nervous a lot?" he asks, pen poised over pad.
"I was born that way," was my response.
"Okay, but what about stress? Are you stressed?"
"I was born that way." He smiles and then I see him flip through my chart, looking for my meds listing. I can see him look at the list, check for pschizoid drugs and, dissappointed, looks back at me.
His RX: For three weeks I have to stop taking my aspirin - avoid Ibuprof and lay off all foods that are spicy, greasy, fatty, leafy, harsh or flavorful. Tonight's dinner: bread and water with a side of noodles. Tomorrow I may get brave and have a sweet potato. Whoo-frickin'-hoo.
Finally - he says he's not sure what's wrong with me.
I'm a medical anomalie.