I am a person, with feelings, memories, thoughts, opinions, experiences, and a personality. I can’t be described in 140 characters, you can’t get to know me in an hour, and you won’t ever be able to know what I’m thinking.
I had a not so fun experience yesterday. It involved a man, who calls himself a homeopath, who kind of pissed me off. Sorry for the language. I have this little thing, which is that I hate doctors. I’m sure I’m not alone in that. When I was younger, I quite liked them. I would have a sore throat, show up, they would give us a slip of paper, that got us some meds, and my throat would get better. Magic.
But now, the same process occurs, every single time, no matter which doctor it is. I come in, already upset (because I hate doctors), and my mom and I sit down on their uncomfortable chairs. My mom pulls out my humongous medical binder, and hands them a bunch of papers. They take their time, reading it out loud, because of course, I don’t already know what they say. They look up and make disbelieving eye contact when they read about the Fibromyalgia, the cancer, the narrow angles. What is there not to believe?
Then they give me this smile, and say something along the lines of “your life sucks”. But in a condescending way, which is very simply rude. Then they make me repeat everything they just read, and whenever I mention a pain, they ask me what relieves it. I tell them nothing. They repeat me. You know what, I’ll just write this out, it’ll be easier.
Me: My head aches are probably what bother me the most.
Dr: The head aches?
Dr: So what helps those?
Dr: You haven’t found anything that helps?
Me: That’s what I’m telling you.
Dr: *disbelieving eye contact, insert variation of “your life sucks”*
Dr: So what else hurts?
And the whole process repeats itself, over and over again. Then they ask me to step up onto the bed, and they poke me. Literally. Then they ask me if that hurt. I say yes. For instance, the “homeopath” yesterday decided to tap my face (where there are a billion Fibro trigger points). It went like this:
Dr: It hurts when I tap your face?
Dr: How about now?
Me: You’re still tapping my face, and it still hurts.
Dr: How about if I tap lightly?
Me: Seriously, anytime you tap my face, it’s going to hurt.
Dr: *mumbling* wow, your pain threshold is very low.
Me: No shit, Sherlock. That’s why I’m here.
Although that last line is only said in my head, because I don’t like swearing. Swearing is reserved for doctors.
Anyway, all of that happens every time I go to the doctor, and I put up with it every time. What really pissed me off yesterday was that the “homeopath” told me he wanted to get to know me, know what kind of person I am, because that affects what might help me. So he asked me to describe myself, using a few words. Insert the first paragraph here. So my mom took over, and I just let her talk to him. Then, he was trying to find out if something specific happened that triggered my fibromyalgia. I told him there was nothing, that it just started slowly coming on.
Then my mom said something along the lines of “there’s stress in life, because it’s life. A lot of stuff has been going on for us, if that’s what you’re asking”. Then he asked her what she meant, and she said, “for instance, my mother passed away a couple of years ago”. At which point I started crying, because… because.
So this stupid “homeopath” started trying to connect my Fibromyalgia, with force, to my grandmother dying. He only stopped when I gave him a look and said “I don’t understand why we need to be talking about this”. I’m pretty sure he was scared of me, because he seemed to shrink and changed the subject. Guess what he changed it to? “Do you get angry?”
My god, of course I get angry! For instance, I’m angry at you right now! That’s what I wanted to shout at him. But I didn’t.
Me: I’m human, I get angry sometimes.
Dr: Like when?
Me: When it’s right.
Dr: Do you get angry easily?
Me: I have a lot of patience, if that’s what you’re asking.
Dr: *Insert disbelieving look here.*
Wait, I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet! “Mom, does Ella like being hugged?” I’m not kidding right now. He asked that. So my mom, bless her, said “Of course she does! Gently, of course, so it doesn’t hurt, but she’s a very loving person”. So he turns to me and he says “So who do you give this love to, Ella?” People, you should have seen the look I gave him. As my dad says, if looks could kill…. I crossed my legs and said “The people who deserve it”.
Insert disbelieving look here. Sensing a theme?
I could just go on and on, with all of the horrible things this guy said over an hour. But I won’t, because it’s probably not very interesting or fun to read.
My point is, this “homeopath” decided he had to get to know me, and that he could simply do so. Yeah, right. Jerk.
He ended the meeting with “So Ella, you’re a warm, creative, responsible person. Therefore, I’m going to give you these pills, because with the kind of person you are, that’s what could help”. He set them on the desk in front of me.
Me: What do they do?
Dr: They help even out your body, so it can cope with what its going through.
Me: How do they do that?
Dr: What do you mean?
Me: I mean, there’s a substance in those pills that’s supposed to even me out. How does it do that? What’s the substance?
Dr: That would be a very long discussion.
Dr: These will help, that’s what is important.
Which made me feel like he’s a drug dealer, or that I’m being checked into a psych hospital. What’s for sure, he was totally scared of me at this point.
Me: What does my personality have to do with the pills?
Dr: Sometimes an illness comes to a person, and sometimes the opposite.
Dr: If a person falls, it breaks a bone. The doctors fix the bone, but then, the recovery depends on the person.
Me: Unless the doctors suck and mess something up. But recovery depends on the person’s character, his situation, his support system. Not the pills he’s taking.
I don’t even remember how he answered that one.
I was very happy to leave that office. Except I have to go back in a few weeks. Oh well. I’ll come up with some witty retorts for next time.
You, lovely readers, don’t assume you know me after an hour. That’s why you rock.
Don’t wanna sound ridiculous, but I think you know I’m sick of this. -My Oldest Friend, Andrew Belle