I went to another doctor today. This is the seventh out of seven different doctors I have seen in the last 18 months for the same condition. Since August 2002, I've been repeatedly accused of "making a big deal out of nothing" and of everything "just being in my head." I can't tell you how much I've wavered between wanting to throw furniture and wanting to crumple into the corner and cry about it.
The Boy's been super great, though. That's helped. He does what all women want in the end - he just sits and strokes my hair and tells me that we'll get through it. I know we will, but God it helps to hear it. The other escape is that I just can't believe that I'm going to be stuck like this: doggy paddling in a pond so dirty I don't dare touch my feet to the floor. You never know what kind of critters are lurking in that mud. I believe there's going to be an answer one of these days, that I won't always be treading water anxiously. And after that day, there might even be a cure.
Words can't describe how much I hate the French doctors Ive seen. They sweep you into their offices - twenty or thirty minutes after your appointment time - give you ten or fifteen minutes and rush you off with a prescription. I'm convinced that nine times out of ten, it hasn't been the right one. I've lost hundreds of euros, as only 70% is reimbursed by the national health care.
If I could sue, I would.
But today was a good day. I went to an office where I sat down, read two pages of my book, and was then invited into the doctor's office. I explained the situation, was investigated, and was spoken to properly. I was told it's nothing serious, that she's seen serious things and that I'm definetly in the safe zone. That she needs to see me when I have symptoms. That if she can't solve it, she'll take me to the internationally renowned dermatologist who specializes in these kinds of problems.
She gave me her direct line and told me to call as soon as I have any symptoms, and that she'll fit me in - no matter what the day or time. Then she realized that if she wants to take me to see the Very Important Doctor Man, that I would have to call her on her cell, as she's not in the office on Tuesdays because she spends it with him. So she gave me her cell number and said, "Just don't call me on Sunday," in the jokingly authoritative way dentists tell you to stop drinking Coke.
The main thing was that I sensed she respected me. I also think she caught on that I'm not a wacko, that I do have a problem, and that I've been trying to take care of it all this time in vain. She immediately dismissed all six doctors' ahead of her's diagnoses. "Nope," she said, "It's your skin, not your system. But I'll have to see it to be sure. The main thing is: don't worry. I can tell you with 100% certainty that it's nothing serious."
I just can't tell you how much I wanted to hug her. She gave me her CELL number, for Christ's sake. Just in case. I felt like I was in the US.
The whole thing put me in such a great mood for the rest of the day. I met up with the New Yorker, then got some shots, then met up with The Philosopher, then went to class, then met up with Kathypath. I did the even-odd thing; one good, one bad. I'm happy to know the people I know. I'm happy the sun was shining. I'm happy my doctor actually listened to what the hell I was trying to say. I literally have tears in my eyes as I write this, it means that much to me.
Can u mail me the dermatologist adress ? :)
Thanks !