Prescriptions

I don’t like going to the doctor. It’s a character flaw of mine. One that’s caused a few problems, or rather, I should say, caused exorbitant bills for visits to the after hours clinic when some infection got horrid. I do manage to see a physician at least once a year for my annual pap, but I only started doing that 6 and a half years ago, roundabout the time I started wanting a baby.

I haven’t had a GP since we lived in Ohio, so when I started to feel an uncomfortable level of pressure in my sternum six months ago, I ignored the discomfort. As months went on, my symptoms changed to include pressure and pain below my sternum. I found myself rubbing my chest as I walked Grace to school, applying warm compresses to alleviate the pain, and of course, nothing worked. I’m kind of slow, so it never occurred to me that perhaps I was experiencing heartburn. There was no burn after all, just pressure and some pain. Craig suggested Tums, just in case it was heartburn, and no dice. Next up, I tried Pepcid. Again nada. Finally, I turned to Prevacid, and within 2 days, the pain and pressure were gone. What a miracle. I found I had to stay on top it, and take the medication first thing in the morning. If I forgot and took it late, I was in for a world of pain.

Being a direction-follower, I read the side of the bottle, which instructed that I should take the pills for 14 days, and if no improvement occurred, I should see a doctor. Being me, I stretched that to 28 days. On day 29 I was thrilled: no pain, no pressure. I did it—I had self diagnosed and medicated—there would be no need to see a physician.

By the end of my second week off Prevacid, I knew I needed to see a doctor. The pain was back and even worse than before. Reluctantly I called and made an appointment. I had prepared myself to wait up to a month to get in, so I was surprised to learn I could see a doctor within a week. That week flew by, and suddenly it was today, my appointment day.

Understanding or perhaps just abiding my irrational phobia of doctors, Craig offered to stay with me for the visit. I sent him off. I could calm myself solo. I have a history of alarming medical staff with high blood pressure readings, which are never replicated in my home environment (and believe me, I’ve had to test it to prove to former OB-GYNs that, indeed, I have white coat induced hypertension). You can understand then my thrill at having a totally normal BP. You might as well have christened me the “Princess Formerly Scared of the Doctor”—I felt that happy.

The appointment itself seemed to go well. The physician was so kind that it almost unsettled me. He’s one of those rare intuitive types—the kind that reads everything about a patient. He caught whiff of my phobia and dispelled it. He diagnosed my personality—worrier—and he listened intently to my symptoms. He came up with a treatment plan and then offered me some advice: life advice. I wish I were brave enough to share it here, but I’m still so astounded that a doctor could see me so clearly—not just my current illness, but me.

I found myself tearing up, and I was completely caught off guard by this. When Craig picked me up, I did let some tears fall, and being the thoughtful husband, he tried to quell my doctor fears.

“But that’s not it,” I said.

“Then what is it?” he responded.

“I don’t know. The doctor was just very insightful. Not just about my health, but about me?”

“That’s good, right?”

It is good, but also strange for me. I’m not accustomed to feeling cared for by medical professionals (with the exception the midwife who delivered Julia). This is new territory for me, which, again, is a good thing because I’m going to have to go back a few times to get my current medical issue resolved.

As for the life advice—the stuff that made me cry—I need that more than medication. I hope I’m brave enough to follow it.