"I'm not a post menopausal hypochondriac!" I shrieked, towering over my cringing eye doctor. "I know pain is subjective, but how many times do I have to come here and all you can do is shrug?!"
What I really wanted to do was slap that fucking smirk off his face. His condescending attitude got to me.
Everyone knows the story about the 12 blind men and the elephant. In my world, the 12 blind men are my medical doctors and yes, I'm the elephant.
You'd think that having rare neurological deafness diseases might alert my ophthalmologist that perhaps my chronic complaints and numerous visits about progressive eye pain, blurry vision, vertigo and nausea despite an eye operation might be related to something neurological?
"You'll have bad days and good days," he informed me two weeks ago.
"But, I didn't have this brutal pain prior to the operation," I said to that face which had a veneer of compassion. The pain actually started in February when I complained about waking up in agony, thinking I pressed in my eyeballs during the night. Only around July did he get around to saying 'acute glaucoma'.
I returned today to discuss whether to have the second operation, but got waylaid by the pain discussion.
"I have no idea what it is," he insisted.
"No cancer? No brain tumor?" I asked. "The pain doesn't make sense. I'm in excruciating pain almost every day except the past two days. As a matter of fact, the pain's starting now."
He stared at me. "I don't see a thing. The operation was a success in the right eye. The pressure is down and the left eye hasn't had a change in the past two weeks."
"This pain is abnormal," I pushed. "Going to bed at nine at night is not the solution. Listen, considering I have rare NEUROLOGICAL diseases for my hearing, perhaps this could be as well? Do you know of any diseases that would cause this pain?"
Snottily, he responded, "I know of THOUSANDS of diseases."
Disgusted with his refusal to engage in a conversation, I asked, "What do I do?"
"I don't know."
This is when I lost it. "You're just like the ignorant ENTs here, misdiagnosing me and indifferent to my plight, accusing me of being a middle-aged post-menopausal hypochondriac. I had to find out that I have rare diseases. Something THEY should have told me!" Then, I asked him, "How about this: is there a neurologist for ophthalmology?"
"Which neurologist did you see for your hearing?" he asked, suddenly interested.
I told him and he sat aback. "She's one of the best."
"Yes," I stated, "So, give me a name of someone because you don't know what I have and I can't live like this."
He hemmed and hawed. That was it for me. "You think I'm just a middle-aged complainer! You're just as incompetent as your fellow ENTs here!" That's when it dawned on me that he just didn't give a damn. I was another ka-ching in the scheme of things. Enraged, out of my mind, I wanted to instill fear in his heart. Fear that he may be dealing with someone with power. I may have none, but fear is a great motivator.
That's when I invented the big lie. "Do you know who the fuck I am?"
He laughed. "No, I don't know who the fuck you are!"
"I'm one of the leading satirists of my generation. Google me. Fuck man, I got hundreds of thousands of people who read what I write. I may be poor, but intellect has nothing to do with money. So don't be dismissive. I'm more than my sex, age and pain."
Leaning over him, shouting at him, treating him like a retarded rhesus monkey, he got the message. "Please stop screaming at me," he cried. "I'm not like those other doctors. I really want you to get better. I'll do whatever you want. I'll help you see the neuro-ophthamalogist. Just please stop screaming at me."
The fact that I have to be reduced to this is sickening.
Before I left, he shot out, "Well, you do have cataracts."
That's when I wanted to pummel him into the ground.
Do you think it'll get better under Obamacare?
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