Michelle and I were discussing the feasibility of her going to see her physician after hurting her back. I gave her my limited criteria for going to the doctor: 1) spurting blood from someplace that shouldn't be, 2) unable to move a major limb 3) having ALL of the warning signs of a heart attack, or 4) out of a major prescription.
I know my doctor is a skilled professional but he is also mean and petty. The only thing worse than having the pharmacy tell you the doctor won't approve your refill until you come in and "visit" with him, is making the required phone call. YIKES! Then I bargain with and grovel for the nurse to no avail because I just have to make an appointment anyway.
I now have stickynotephobia because I imagine my medical file with all manner of messages and reminders lightly adhered to the surface and casually littering the various pages of diagnosis all of which say, basically, "old and fat" or "don't give her any good drugs".
So I'll straighten my hair, put on something other than overalls (or PJs), climb three flights of stairs and sit politely in the waiting room waiting for the gas to start pouring out of the air vents. Then I will take off my 20 pound shoes and stand on the torture device and ignore the roar of laughter from the staff. I'll let the doctor tell me about "as we age ..." and hopefully, walk out with a new prescription.
