Doctors and French Fries

I like to think I’m more rational than not.  There are, however, some notable exceptions to that rationality.  Today’s applicable exception has to do with visiting doctors.  I know that there are lots of great doctors out there, and I’m not really afraid of going to the doctor.  Not for normal reasons anyway.

My fear of doctors is actually just a fear that I’m a huge complainer and I don’t know it.  I absolutely do not want to go to the doctor, tell him or her my symptoms, and get back a big fat, “You’re perfectly fine, quit complaining.”  I would almost rather be dying of the Bubonic Plague than hear those words.

If you haven’t guessed yet, I went to the doctor today.  I felt reasonably certain that there was in fact something wrong with me,* so armed with that hunch, I marched myself into a medical center and learned about all things sciency in the waiting room.  My reading options were Diabetes Weekly (something to that effect), something about managing Rheumatoid Arthritis, or Popular Science.  For a librarian, I really didn’t go into this day well-prepared, but I think I made the right choice in a pinch.

Right, so I waited.  Then I talked to the doctor, who declared that my hunch was correct.  There’s a problem with the joint between my skull and my jaw.  It’s the same  old problem I had several years ago.  Five percent moral victory for self-diagnosis and for not hearing the dreaded, “You’re fine.”  Ninety-five percent defeat for what happened next.  The doctor essentially told me that there aren’t any great solutions for that problem and sent me on my merry way.

There was some good news from the appointment though.  My blood pressure is ridiculously low.  Good thing, because I self-medicated with French fries right after the appointment.  It’s amazing what potatoes and salt can do for your outlook on life.

*Insert funny comment here about how you knew something was wrong with me a long time ago.

The End

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