To the Medical Establishment:
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m afraid of you. Like most people, I’ve always been a little bit leery of doctors. Recently, it’s started to develop into more of a phobia, and I don’t know why.
I think it has something to do with having surgery earlier this year. I was in the hospital for six days, and over that time, I learned that dignity doesn’t exist there. Having a constant parade of doctors and nurses poking, groping, and monitoring every output 24 hours a day changes your views on privacy and pain. I was perfectly willing to hike my gown up to my boobs for anyone who walked in the door saying the magic word — incision — be it the surgeon, the janitor, or the patient next door. Underwear quickly became an inconvenience, a three-second delay between my ass and the toilet. I had tubes coming out of every orifice, even some new ones they invented especially for me. And you know what? I was OK with that, because I was willing to put up with anything in order to heal and go home. Or maybe it was the morphine. Yeah. Probably the morphine.
In the days since then, I’ve gotten weirder about the doctor. Perhaps it’s backlash. I sit in the waiting room, heart pounding, not even able to focus on the celebrity divorces in People. Needles never used to bother me; now, I get queasy. The last time I had blood taken, I got so lightheaded that I told the nurse I was afraid I would pass out. Afterwards, my legs were shaking as I ran out to the car. (Yes, I drove. Shut up.)
Trips to the dentist have become almost intolerable, even beyond my ridiculous dental issues. I get claustrophobic while he’s working, and have the barely-controllable urge to slap his hands away and run. He’s overly thorough with the novocaine, and takes almost two full minutes to inject it. Last time, as he hit a nerve in my left cheek and pain went zinging through my molars, I wondered how close he was to my spinal column. Honestly, the the last thing I need is a Christopher Reeve moment at the dentist. After he finished with the novocaine, I was supposed to follow the hygienist into another room for an x-ray. I could hardly stand up. I wobbled my way into the next cubicle and collapsed into a chair. After I returned to my room, I had to clasp my hands together to get them to stop shaking. While he was drilling, I was so tense that my muscles ached. It’s gotten to the point where I want to kiss the ground every time I manage to walk out of that place alive.
Basket-case? Yes. Maybe you could prescribe something for that.
Jenni