| Aug 21 2011 |
08/21/11
My dear, dear friends, this Diary entry ( as I hope all of them are ), required so much forethought, and inner verbalization to enable it to be put to paper. I am still having great difficulty in wording it, although to many, it may be a subject considered most commonplace, and common, as maybe to have many say, "So what"?.
For, tomorrow, I have an appointment to see my PM; and it is a thing I dread, even though I know I must go, forsaking all other occupations, to take to him recent lab results, and MRI findings that he demanded I have done, as he as 'tired' of just "...continuing to throw medications at a thing", without some demonsterable proof to justify putting in my trembling hand, those two, little, grey pieces of flyaway paper ( prescriptions of opiate medication), so that I can be sent home, again, scarcely the wiser, though--it is to be hoped--that with these results, that somehow, my multiple diagnoses, and nearly unending pain will be at last validated; so that, yet again, he can "throw medication at it."
In many ways--although he is reputed to be a very good PM--I dislike his perfunctory, and dissmisive attiude. And, while I am disinclined to lie to him ( as, doubtless, he would see through it, having heard so many lies ), and in some weird self-approbating way, I believe that my many compaints should be taken at face value, and that what I complain to him about should, at some level, be sufficient for treatment. And in this, I am naive.
For I know that he has dealt with all the combined deceit, lying, game-playing, substance abuse, addiction, those who would seek medications ofr their 'fun' value, I am--nevertheless often shocked by his utterly ruthless candor, and in his usual offers that, should I not be compliant with ANY of his wishes, I am most welcome to go elsewhere. And while there are many other 'self-described PM's out there, flitting from doctor to doctor is not viewed lightly, nor does it improve my predicament.
I KNOW I must go, tomorrow, but I am afraid to go, to get out of bed, even, and to get out of the house. Perhaps it is the Agoraphobia that renders me so, and perhaps that is true, as if I did I not NEED the proferred meds, I would cancel out, and stay home. Apparently, the mere sight of me lumbering into the office, unsteady even with my cane, with feet too incontestable edematous ( 3+, and pitting ), so that I cannot wear or tolerate shoes, and must--perforce--stumble in in socks and sandals which are already too tight; or of my portable oxygen and cannula to help me breathe, or of the attending pain which zig-zags all over my body, is just not quite enough for him. And...Heaven help me should I forget my debit card to pay my co-pay: that--alone--would get me shown to the door, as it has already done so once before.
I guess--in my need--I keep forgetting that, after all, this is a business, not a charity, and that the front door to the office is NOT the entrance to Llourdes. And that, I am not greeted my welcoming angels, as--frankly--the reception staff are to a person, healthy, and look upon us, the patients, as whiny, drug-seeking , or, ( Disability seeking ) sub-human, free-loading idlers). I am not so paranoid, or delusional, that I cannot see it in their manner, or in their eyes, for I have beheld this behavior before.
We are not seen as people, citizens, with our own sagas, and our own histories, but rather, as herdable commodities to be dealt with, dispensed with, and sent home. They, and well as his nurses tend to forget that WE, as patients keep their doors open, and pay their wages. And AS such, it is we who are the employers, they, the hired hands.
And, my dear friends, on other occasions, and at other doctor's offices, I have felt compelled to mention this to them. And while they hate me for it, it is an undeniable fact that they should never forget. Nevermind being treated without kindness, or even reasonableness.
So. I must confess to you, my dear readers that I am already dreading tomorrow's visit, which should be a waste of my time, and thought, for it is like having stage fright five weeks before 'Opening Night".
My day--today--from the start, was quite unremarkable; In pain, I slept but poorly, and taunted by a thousand dreamt horrors, so that I awoke grumpy, sleepy ( please feel free to add any of the other 7-Dwarf's names ! ), needing coffee and ready cigarettes, and morning medications ( which, in truth, I forgot to take until this afternoon ); even though I was in clean walking shorts, and a T-shirt ( which has become my house uniform), I awoke feeling dirty, grimy, longhair dissheveled and oily, with eyes matted shut, and incapable of even trying to view bright light. I had the usual headache which now should have a name, but doesn't. I sat out at the kitchen counter, probably where I had fallen asleep earlier, with both feet aching up past the knees from having been 'dangled' so long. And, head in hands, wishing to sleep or die, and silently opportuning the Deity for some kind of relief.
It was in this semi-stupor, that a dear friend telephoned me, to make sure I'd be up, clean-er, and dressed for my cousin's weekly visit. My cousin, a retired Electrical Engineer from Honeywell, comes out to visit me nearly every Sunday to kibitz, help me with minor house projects, and to prepare for me an exquisite lunch, as he is a much-practiced, self-taught chef.
I always look forward to his visits, for both he and his wife are extraordinarily kind, and decent individuals, and I am both honored, and grateful to call him both cousin, and friend. For, in having a number of health concerns, himself, he KNOWS pain, and knows my pain.
And, so the visit--as always--passed much too fast, and I am always sorry to see him leave. That left the rest of the afternoon. And, to be candid, I was still tired, and should have put myself down for a nap; but, I got 'busy' on the computer, and wanted to thank you, my friends at MDJunction for both reading, and bothering to comment on my Diary entries. and to respond to notes of kindness, and sent 'hugs' that ever remind me that I am NOT alone; and you cannot know or sense the nagnitude of relief, or thanks with which I receive them.
And, besides, it threatened to storm, and the thunder scares my dog so that I must stay up, through the duration of the storm to comfort her. For it is the very least I can do.
Now, as evening passes into night, even though it has been for me a good day, already, I fear tomorrow, and what, if anything it may bring. The appointment is clearly marked on the calendar, and the necessary transportation there has been arranged, now, for the past two weeks. Yet, although I am in the 'Evening Shift' of my pain and depression, I have become truly 'O.C.D'd', laying out my clothes for tomorrow, gotten my portable oxygen ready, have the MRI results in an envelope on the back of the loveseat so that I cannot possibly miss it, and have my little, over-the-shoulder carry all ready with some spare cash, wallet with debit card unside !, my cigarette case filled: it holds exactly ten cigarettes which is more than I need, when--while waiting interminably in the doctor's office for some sign of glacial movement, I do sneak out from time to time to relax on a bench away from his office, disconnect my oxygen, to have the odd cigarette.
My appointment time is at 1:30 PM, and I have to be ready to leave the house by twelve-thirty, as proscribed by the public Medicare transport. I even have asked my dear friend to telephone me then, as a wake-up call should I need it.
Then, as Sherlock Holmes would say, "Watson ! The game is afoot !" Although the actual visit may take only ten minutes, maybe ( remember, friends, that this is a business, that conducts business by volume, volume, volume ), the waiting room isn't called that by mere whim. Slowly, and more slowly do the minutes creep by, that I get tired of looking at my watch, as it accomplishes absolutely nothing. For...what does an hour, or two, or three matter to someone in pain who's also unemployed ? It matters not if the 'cattle' in the waiting room grow restive, stiff, and whose only desire is to be seen, and then 'pay at the window', and be sent home. And if my PM's waiting room is packed, as usually it is, I might not arrive home--again--until five or so, which, for me, effectively shoots the day in the heel.
And, all this time is spent without pain medication, or anything to eat or drink, even though the reception staff parade-about with sandwiches, and have large-size drinks of soda clearly on display at their desk. Though 'hate' is such a strong word, I can with complete assurity say that I dislike them all, in the extreme. But, in all honesty, they are not an isolated case, by any means.
And while, dear friends, it JUST occured to me, maybeI should get one of those kid's lunchboxes with the thermos, and take napkins along, to have my own moveable feast in front of them; however, as the outside sign says, " No eating or drinking allowed ." Pretty neat, huh ? Not only that, but my PM has a sign posted by the front door that states that anyone seen smoking will be sent home; that's why I move way down the sidewalk, to sit in front of some alien doctor's office where there's a bench I can lounge upon, in this terrible, Florida heat, so that I can perspire my way through a quick cigarette, without the risk of being summarily sent home, like some bad child. At 57, this--to me--is demeaning, maddening, and unecessary, but it the price that I, as some, Lupus/Fibro/Panic/Agoraphobe/Chronic Pain, and Chronic Fatigue whore is willing to pay for those little pills. And, friends, THAT, I hate.
But, in all consideration, dear friends, and readers, it is unfair of me to leave you thus unsettled on this Sunday night. For please know, that I am forever grateful for your friendships, and for reading me, and posting comments and criticims to me, as it further evidences to me that you are interested in me, and care about my wellbeing.
Please, then, allow me to leave you with all my fond hopes for 'painless' days, and for peaceful, restorative, and undisturbed nights. And that you wake, tomorrow, not in dread or fear, depression or loneliness, but rather to a new day, a new start, a new direction. Love, 'Zahc'
My dear, dear friends, this Diary entry ( as I hope all of them are ), required so much forethought, and inner verbalization to enable it to be put to paper. I am still having great difficulty in wording it, although to many, it may be a subject considered most commonplace, and common, as maybe to have many say, "So what"?.
For, tomorrow, I have an appointment to see my PM; and it is a thing I dread, even though I know I must go, forsaking all other occupations, to take to him recent lab results, and MRI findings that he demanded I have done, as he as 'tired' of just "...continuing to throw medications at a thing", without some demonsterable proof to justify putting in my trembling hand, those two, little, grey pieces of flyaway paper ( prescriptions of opiate medication), so that I can be sent home, again, scarcely the wiser, though--it is to be hoped--that with these results, that somehow, my multiple diagnoses, and nearly unending pain will be at last validated; so that, yet again, he can "throw medication at it."
In many ways--although he is reputed to be a very good PM--I dislike his perfunctory, and dissmisive attiude. And, while I am disinclined to lie to him ( as, doubtless, he would see through it, having heard so many lies ), and in some weird self-approbating way, I believe that my many compaints should be taken at face value, and that what I complain to him about should, at some level, be sufficient for treatment. And in this, I am naive.
For I know that he has dealt with all the combined deceit, lying, game-playing, substance abuse, addiction, those who would seek medications ofr their 'fun' value, I am--nevertheless often shocked by his utterly ruthless candor, and in his usual offers that, should I not be compliant with ANY of his wishes, I am most welcome to go elsewhere. And while there are many other 'self-described PM's out there, flitting from doctor to doctor is not viewed lightly, nor does it improve my predicament.
I KNOW I must go, tomorrow, but I am afraid to go, to get out of bed, even, and to get out of the house. Perhaps it is the Agoraphobia that renders me so, and perhaps that is true, as if I did I not NEED the proferred meds, I would cancel out, and stay home. Apparently, the mere sight of me lumbering into the office, unsteady even with my cane, with feet too incontestable edematous ( 3+, and pitting ), so that I cannot wear or tolerate shoes, and must--perforce--stumble in in socks and sandals which are already too tight; or of my portable oxygen and cannula to help me breathe, or of the attending pain which zig-zags all over my body, is just not quite enough for him. And...Heaven help me should I forget my debit card to pay my co-pay: that--alone--would get me shown to the door, as it has already done so once before.
I guess--in my need--I keep forgetting that, after all, this is a business, not a charity, and that the front door to the office is NOT the entrance to Llourdes. And that, I am not greeted my welcoming angels, as--frankly--the reception staff are to a person, healthy, and look upon us, the patients, as whiny, drug-seeking , or, ( Disability seeking ) sub-human, free-loading idlers). I am not so paranoid, or delusional, that I cannot see it in their manner, or in their eyes, for I have beheld this behavior before.
We are not seen as people, citizens, with our own sagas, and our own histories, but rather, as herdable commodities to be dealt with, dispensed with, and sent home. They, and well as his nurses tend to forget that WE, as patients keep their doors open, and pay their wages. And AS such, it is we who are the employers, they, the hired hands.
And, my dear friends, on other occasions, and at other doctor's offices, I have felt compelled to mention this to them. And while they hate me for it, it is an undeniable fact that they should never forget. Nevermind being treated without kindness, or even reasonableness.
So. I must confess to you, my dear readers that I am already dreading tomorrow's visit, which should be a waste of my time, and thought, for it is like having stage fright five weeks before 'Opening Night".
My day--today--from the start, was quite unremarkable; In pain, I slept but poorly, and taunted by a thousand dreamt horrors, so that I awoke grumpy, sleepy ( please feel free to add any of the other 7-Dwarf's names ! ), needing coffee and ready cigarettes, and morning medications ( which, in truth, I forgot to take until this afternoon ); even though I was in clean walking shorts, and a T-shirt ( which has become my house uniform), I awoke feeling dirty, grimy, longhair dissheveled and oily, with eyes matted shut, and incapable of even trying to view bright light. I had the usual headache which now should have a name, but doesn't. I sat out at the kitchen counter, probably where I had fallen asleep earlier, with both feet aching up past the knees from having been 'dangled' so long. And, head in hands, wishing to sleep or die, and silently opportuning the Deity for some kind of relief.
It was in this semi-stupor, that a dear friend telephoned me, to make sure I'd be up, clean-er, and dressed for my cousin's weekly visit. My cousin, a retired Electrical Engineer from Honeywell, comes out to visit me nearly every Sunday to kibitz, help me with minor house projects, and to prepare for me an exquisite lunch, as he is a much-practiced, self-taught chef.
I always look forward to his visits, for both he and his wife are extraordinarily kind, and decent individuals, and I am both honored, and grateful to call him both cousin, and friend. For, in having a number of health concerns, himself, he KNOWS pain, and knows my pain.
And, so the visit--as always--passed much too fast, and I am always sorry to see him leave. That left the rest of the afternoon. And, to be candid, I was still tired, and should have put myself down for a nap; but, I got 'busy' on the computer, and wanted to thank you, my friends at MDJunction for both reading, and bothering to comment on my Diary entries. and to respond to notes of kindness, and sent 'hugs' that ever remind me that I am NOT alone; and you cannot know or sense the nagnitude of relief, or thanks with which I receive them.
And, besides, it threatened to storm, and the thunder scares my dog so that I must stay up, through the duration of the storm to comfort her. For it is the very least I can do.
Now, as evening passes into night, even though it has been for me a good day, already, I fear tomorrow, and what, if anything it may bring. The appointment is clearly marked on the calendar, and the necessary transportation there has been arranged, now, for the past two weeks. Yet, although I am in the 'Evening Shift' of my pain and depression, I have become truly 'O.C.D'd', laying out my clothes for tomorrow, gotten my portable oxygen ready, have the MRI results in an envelope on the back of the loveseat so that I cannot possibly miss it, and have my little, over-the-shoulder carry all ready with some spare cash, wallet with debit card unside !, my cigarette case filled: it holds exactly ten cigarettes which is more than I need, when--while waiting interminably in the doctor's office for some sign of glacial movement, I do sneak out from time to time to relax on a bench away from his office, disconnect my oxygen, to have the odd cigarette.
My appointment time is at 1:30 PM, and I have to be ready to leave the house by twelve-thirty, as proscribed by the public Medicare transport. I even have asked my dear friend to telephone me then, as a wake-up call should I need it.
Then, as Sherlock Holmes would say, "Watson ! The game is afoot !" Although the actual visit may take only ten minutes, maybe ( remember, friends, that this is a business, that conducts business by volume, volume, volume ), the waiting room isn't called that by mere whim. Slowly, and more slowly do the minutes creep by, that I get tired of looking at my watch, as it accomplishes absolutely nothing. For...what does an hour, or two, or three matter to someone in pain who's also unemployed ? It matters not if the 'cattle' in the waiting room grow restive, stiff, and whose only desire is to be seen, and then 'pay at the window', and be sent home. And if my PM's waiting room is packed, as usually it is, I might not arrive home--again--until five or so, which, for me, effectively shoots the day in the heel.
And, all this time is spent without pain medication, or anything to eat or drink, even though the reception staff parade-about with sandwiches, and have large-size drinks of soda clearly on display at their desk. Though 'hate' is such a strong word, I can with complete assurity say that I dislike them all, in the extreme. But, in all honesty, they are not an isolated case, by any means.
And while, dear friends, it JUST occured to me, maybeI should get one of those kid's lunchboxes with the thermos, and take napkins along, to have my own moveable feast in front of them; however, as the outside sign says, " No eating or drinking allowed ." Pretty neat, huh ? Not only that, but my PM has a sign posted by the front door that states that anyone seen smoking will be sent home; that's why I move way down the sidewalk, to sit in front of some alien doctor's office where there's a bench I can lounge upon, in this terrible, Florida heat, so that I can perspire my way through a quick cigarette, without the risk of being summarily sent home, like some bad child. At 57, this--to me--is demeaning, maddening, and unecessary, but it the price that I, as some, Lupus/Fibro/Panic/Agoraphobe/Chronic Pain, and Chronic Fatigue whore is willing to pay for those little pills. And, friends, THAT, I hate.
But, in all consideration, dear friends, and readers, it is unfair of me to leave you thus unsettled on this Sunday night. For please know, that I am forever grateful for your friendships, and for reading me, and posting comments and criticims to me, as it further evidences to me that you are interested in me, and care about my wellbeing.
Please, then, allow me to leave you with all my fond hopes for 'painless' days, and for peaceful, restorative, and undisturbed nights. And that you wake, tomorrow, not in dread or fear, depression or loneliness, but rather to a new day, a new start, a new direction. Love, 'Zahc'
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