Some people have luck. Some people have no luck. Some people run out of luck. Some people have shit luck.
I, myself, have fuckaluckadingdong. The kind that people people think you have, cuz you look so on top of things. But you have the polar opposite. The kind of luck that even Oprah herself wouldn’t believe.
I need luck-on-a-rope for Yule.
First, I kick ass at my doctor’s and specialist appointments. I get my shit done. (This does NOT, however…as you will see later…mean it actually they get THEIR shit done)
My USB glucose monitor spews out information about anything you could ever want to know about blood sugar and how it varies from time of day, to before or after meals, to even being able to make a “note” (ie, if I’m sick, longer than normal testing time, etc). It does it’s geeky magic on my computer. This being said, it also means that I can print out said spewages onto paper I then bring with me to my appointments.
My doctor loves me.
If I have learned anything this past year of dealing with doctors and the Rheum of Doom, it’s this:
Doctors/Specialists are individuals trained in the solving of health related problems. They do not give a rat’s ass about your whine-1-1 (I’ve tried that). Truly. So what I’ve learned to do is what most successful patients have discovered…put it in a damn pie chart for the twit/twitlet (I’m an equal opportunity twitter-er. *snort*!!!!)
I print out notes. No, I don’t even bother with my handwritten notes anymore. Why? Well it looks like a whine-1-1. I don’t know why, but I can assuredly tell you with my own physician, this seemed to be the case. I make an Excel spreadsheet and list the what, how long, what makes it better, what makes it worse…and what I’ve done myself to try to manage. Be proactive. Elevates credibility for your interpersonal relationship with your doc. Means you aren’t playing them for 1) pity, 2) pills and 3) emotional validation that’s best left to your therapist.
Moving on. The Rheum of Doom.
“Spondylosis”…a degenerative disc disease…osteoarthritis of my lower spine. But of course it’s not the hip pinch I thought it was…y’know…10 weeks ago. Of course. [enter eyeroll and extreme sarcasm, stage left]
Fuckaluckadingdong….and a tra la la la laaaaaaaaaa…………….SING IT WITH ME!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then the Lyrica discussion. “That lowest dose isn’t going to help you.” I know, dipshittwit…that’s what it says on my handy dandy chart I made just for you cuz you’re freakin’ awesome…(heavy on the drawl of “awesome” there, k?) So, essentially, “I want you <here>. Take your time, then, if you feel you need to take a little longer to get there.”
Dude. You had me try to get there in 30 freakin’ DAYS. Four dosage levels! NOW you tell me to “take my time”!? [enter exasperation, stage right]
“So I’ll, uh, make up a report for your doctor and if she feels you have any other issues, you can come back and see me.”
Because degenerative disc disease, aka osteoarthritis, aka areyoufreakingkiddingme, doesn’t register to you to HELP ME!? SERIOUSLY??!!??
[enter *headdesk*, front and center freakin’ stage]
So, in the meantime, I feel lost. I feel maddened. I feel like why do I even bother?
And then this….. http://www.longship.ca/lwswlwl/?p=67#comments
Click on it. It’s a post from my caregiver…my husband. The man who keeps at me to rest, to take my meds, to sit down…to believe in myself…The man who could just as easily “up and outta here”…but doesn’t…because he knows life isn’t all full of purple painted ponies pooping butterflies.
That, my friends, is pretty damned badass. 😮