Bad Medicine

I've been to the ER...maybe 9 times in a week or so? Maybe more. I lost track. Really. That's how bad it was. Plus there was The Cursed Clinic of Deepest Hell. And several doc appts.

Many moments of horror, rage, humiliation, helplessness, weirdness. A few sharp images of stunned confusion, after days of indifferent--and even worse, gleeful--torture with 'doctors' or 'nurses', when I bumped into sudden compassion from an actual person, and didn't even know HOW to react. Kindness was like endless pain not existing; it didn't seem real anymore, or even theoretically possible.

I considered, off and on in pain delirium, sharing these moments on the blog. I have shared some of them in rambling fractured emails with A., J., and R. But mostly, judging by those same people, who KNOW me, they're...hard to believe as real. And, of course, grim as fuck.

I eventually, by the great random, got a real doctor who ordered the right tests and got me a diagnosis. It's not a GOOD diagnosis, of course. It's horrible. But a CAT scan is compelling. It's completely impartial, has no reason for an agenda at all actually, and it's got FLIPPIN PICTURES OF YOUR INSIDES.

And yet my regular doctor, who just came back from vacation with timing quite worthy of being spit on, is arguing against it. He can't exactly ignore the enormous obviously Bad Thing in the pictures. It's the size of a fucking tennis ball. What, he was going to argue it was a smudge or something? No. But he decided that couldn't be causing pain. Really. So something ELSE must be broken, and he wants--of course--a hideously painful test to confirm. To start.

Um, you know what, I've got utter agony by itself. Now this. Plus hideously painful tests coming up, other horrors in various probabilities but still sure to surprise, and--of fucking course--possible surgery in the toss for the tennis ball. And I HATE sports. Always have.

And all those would still be listed on the GOOD side of outcomes, FFS...

I think, maybe I'm just crazed with pain here, we'll deal with the sports equipment that doesn't belong. You know, first. Let's concentrate on, say, FACTS. Before you wonder off, blind, into plain Crazytown: when you have a PICTURE of a WRONG THING that might as well have HELP ME in sharpie written on it.

>:|

Meanwhile, my specialist has decided I'm not responding to treatment for THAT disease. But my specialist and my doctor must have history more torrid than soap opera fanfic. They really REALLY hate each other. And they keep clawing at each other through me. Thank guys, I totally need your dumbass drama. Yay you! So my regular doctor is ALSO fighting my specialist on the proposed new treatment. :|

And then there is the Great Unending Allergy Saga. A deeply bitter and epic battle to beyond the rigor of death, just to get a test slightly more accurate than scribbling random circles on an old scantron slip. While blindfolded. Without even having questions.

JESUS.

I know I can't get House, I do, but we need to do this shit more efficiently. Can't we just shove all the doctors into a room and make them fight it out? By ideas I mean. I only want them armed with a whiteboard and sharpies. They can scribble out ALL my diseases and their repressed childhood angst at once, and then _I_ decide who has ideas that are least moronic / most competent / backed up by evidence and actual science / have the lowest quality and quantity of purely sociopathic tendencies / et al.

I'm already DOING this, but it's taking me fucking YEARS. Meanwhile, I'm in agony, and my diseases all have time to grow and play with my innards and, oh yeah, get fucking worse. Yes I'm bitter. I should be. This stupid shit is an embarrassment to the whole purpose of science and medicine.

To make my point, let me sum with this fact: 'doctors' have tried to kill me THREE TIMES in the past two weeks. See, they meticulously and tediously take down your drug allergies, your current conditions, and your current medications every time they see you. BUT THEN THEY UTTERLY IGNORE THAT AND GIVE YOU MEDS THAT ABSOLUTELY WILL KILL YOU.

By reading this, you're guessing they failed. Sort of. Oh, they tried so hard. But my body, broken as it is, is really fucking stubborn on that dying thing, even when I'm begging it to, asking people to please just kill me outright, whatever, because I just can't take any more pain. Problem is, they did damage. Serious damage. They gave me more pain, lots of it, and I lost use of my eyes, among the joy. Yes. I still haven't recovered, and I may never recover. And no one knows if I will, BECAUSE THEY STILL DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THEY DID IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Let alone care.

I'm guessing if I was allowed to, say, just put out their eyes, they might pay a little more attention to silly little details.

What?

It's just a theory.

And a better one than most of theirs...