Thanks to my parents everlasting legacy, my genetic soup is kinda twisted. Not in the sort of way (thank God) that makes me REALLY sick, but in the sort of way that makes my morning pill ritual look like that of someone double my age. Almost all of my various maladies are handled by specialists, because my GP is overwhelmingly useless or doesn’t have the time to carefully watch my blood TSH levels go up and down like a yo-yo.
They’re not SERIOUS issues that I’m going to die from any time soon, just the sort that requires that I see a fucking ton of -ologists. I’m half-way afraid that the Munchausen* Police are going to burst down my door one day and be all, “Miss, you need to come with us. Bring your pills and your lab work.”
Earlier this year, I started getting My Grains, and when I did, initially I powered through them because I was all “totes stress-related.” Turns out, not so much. I blogged about it a little bit, but usually I leave my headaches out of it because talking about headaches is about as thrilling as talking about beige paint.
With the help of my GP, I went on Topamax, which is a daily maintenance medication for them with Vicodin for any break-through headaches.
All was happy in My Grain Land until my GP went on vacation and left Evil Bitch, RN in charge (under the supervision of another doctor). This happened to coincide with me a) getting a nasty My Grain and b) running out of Vicodin.
I went 35 rounds with the pharmacy and doctor’s office (unaware he was out of the office) until I had this conversation:
Evil Bitch, RN: “I cannot prescribe your Vicodin.”
Aunt Becky: “My GP (your boss) is fine with it. He knows I take it for my My Grains and that I am not an addict. Look at my chart and my medical history and you will see that I have asked him to write a note to authorize Vicodin refills if I need it.”
Evil Bitch, RN: “You are on too many medications.”
Aunt Becky: “Excuse me?”
Evil Bitch, RN: “If you have a headache, you can take Tylenol.”
Aunt Becky: “EXCUSE ME?”
Evil Bitch, RN (happily): “Yes, I am denying your Vicodin.”
Aunt Becky: “What??”
Evil Bitch, RN (obviously enjoying herself): “You don’t need it.”
Now, before any of you bother telling me that Vicodin is a narcotic and that she was well within her right to treat me that way, I’m aware of it’s addictive nature.
I’m also aware that I am not an addict and that I do not need to be treated like a felon when I am looking for something that I need to function. I wasn’t trying to get wasted, I was trying not to be in pain. I’m sure had I pressed the issue, I could have “gone to the ER.” She was being a condescending asshole to me because she could.
So I did what any self-respecting patient would do. I reported her ass to her boss and then I got myself a new doctor (a neurologist!!) with an office staff that’s used to dealing with patients who are in pain. Even if it means going to another specialist. Which, trust me, is something that’s about as appealing to me as pouring lime jello into my ear canal.
Maybe when I go to my appointment on Wednesday, I can get my specialist punch card punched and get some sort of prize at the gift shop.
And at the very least, this appointment doesn’t require that I carry my poo around in a bucket.
*Munchausen’s disease, I must clarify, is not Munchausen’s BY PROXY which is what those fucking awful parents do to their children. Munchausen’s disease is where people make themselves ill to illicit sympathy from others. And no, I do not have Munchausen’s. If I did, you’re hear about my -ologist’s a hell of a lot more.
Over at Skirt! I’ve put up a slightly-less-than-humorous essay about internet communities and cruelty and trolls.