Backtrack 1- the endo visit

It comes to Sunday.  A day where I’m not doing anything except maybe slow down and take stock.

Because this ol’ depressed boy, he ain’t what he used to be.  No complete turnaround, but something interesting going on.  Motivation in a negative space.

So, let me backtrack.

First Endo, good first impression, the a complete fucking moron who couldn’t even follow the treatment plan she left for me, and left me in the lurch when I WAS FUCKING RADIOACTIVE. 

Second Endo, a brick wall of staff I continued to bang against until I said fuck it, even if they finally get my information, and stop doing this “Oh, we don’t’ have it, and we have to get it before we even can recognize that you exist” bullshit, how the hell would I trust anything that had to go through them?

Third Endo, a braggart of a seventy year old man, who had firmly entrenched beliefs, and whose main prognosis was “just wait it out.”  And I did.  And called back.  And didn’t receive an answer.  Or a real prescription, for that matter.

So, the search for Endo #4 went far and wide.  It included my chiropractor(probably one of the most galvanizing forces I have in my life right now), my naturopath, and my continued research into it.  After a long process, my chiropractor found one, that somehow got booked up within a few days.

Of course, I received this news while walking across a bridge, and contemplating what it would be like to jump off.  An intense therapy session had left me pretty damned low, and this news sunk me lower.  And I was only halfway across the bridge.  Then received a call directly afterwards about someone else in the same office.  Grand, great, why the hell not?  Couldn’t be worse than what I have been through, right?

Heh. 

Heh heh

hehheheheheheeheehhehhehehehhhHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAAHHAH!!!!!!

heHAH. 

hehehehehHAHHAHHAHEHhehehehehAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!!

I arrive at OHSU- the first time I’ve been up there, and it is very oddly balanced up on a hill in Portland.  I mean, the roads and paths between buildings rise and stoop at sever angles.  Its like if you lost your footing, you’d just roll and keep on rolling until you fell off a cliff somewhere.

Get to the office, lady at the reception desk seems all sweet and apple pie, until I’m waiting, and I overhear her go on a tirade about how Obama is screwing everything up.  And, hell, whatever, have an opinion.  There’s just a time and a place.

I go back, get weighed- weigh actually lower than I expected, go into the examination room with the nurse… and this is when things start to go awry.

In preparation for this appointment, I have four pages of information:  first two pages are my history with Thryroid cancer, operations, radiation, who I’ve seen, who I’m seeing, and drug and supplement information. 

Exactly what they asked for.

And the nurse is tripping over Every. Damned. Supplement. 

“what’s this?  Well, it’s not in the system, so… wait… what’s the next one?”

So much of a headache that she is still there trying to enter stuff when the doctor arrives.

Let me give you a clear view of the examination room.  There’s the door, which is close to the right wall.  This leads to the doctor’s station, where all the equipment, including the computer, and the oh-so-bewheeled doctors chair is.  The center of the room is empty.  On the right side is an uncomfortable stool set next to the examination table, then a comfortable chair in the corner opposite the door, with a little cubby to put things, like coat, umbrella, and bag in.

I immediately go for this chair when I get in.  I have a thing for being in the corner.  My back is to the wall, and I can scan the whole area.  And this is what I’m doing when the doctor comes in.

The nurse isn’t finished, so the doctor is immediately uncomfortable- his place of power(the doctor’s chair) is usurped by a lower henchwoman, so, he starts quietly berating her until she leaves.

He sits down and faces the computer.  Back to me.  And then states he would rather me sit- gestures over to the stool.  So I move.

First real thing he says to me:

“Does your family have any history of thyroid cancer?”

“Nope.  Just me”

“You’re the lucky one.”

I’m going to stop here for a moment, and start

AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL MEDICAL PERSONNEL.

Be who you are with the patient.  Sure, some people don’t like the cold, clinical, professional demeanor.  Fine.  Not everyone is going to like you.

But take this as a general rule:

IF YOU DON’T HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR, DON’T FUCKING FAKE IT!!!!!!

It came off as mean.  Not even a  trace of dry irony.  Just mean.  “You’re the lucky one.”

Should have just stood up and walked out right there.

Actually, it wouldn’t have mattered as much as I thought, considered even with moving to the uncomfortable stool, he rarely turned toward me and talked. 

The only times he did is when I forced him to listen to me.  Because part of my four pages of preparation included a list of continuing symptoms that seemed to point to Hypothyroidism, despite the huge dose of Synthroid I am currently taking($50.00 for 30 day supply… AFTER INSURANCE).  Then, a list of questions, and a list of possible lab tests suggested as to get a clearer picture of all aspects of the complex impact removing a vital organ like a thyroid can have on my body.

He was after facts.  He was after numbers.  He wasn’t after any sort of real interaction with a human being.  So, my page of questions went unanswered, except for those that I really pushed for.  And any time I asked a question, he directed a rebuttal at me, and not any sort of response.

First real question I got to ask:

“What is your take about including other medications than just the standard dose of T4?”

Answer- a rebuttal about a study on how nine out of ten patients had no significant difference in trying one different medication.  He even wrote down ‘9/10’ on a piece of paper, as if it were meaningful, or if it had some sort of impact other than making me feel like he thought I was stupid and didn’t quite understand a ratio until written down.  I should have asked him “what about the one it did impact?”

Second question, and what I would consider the crisis point of this little drama.  It was me trying not to drown in his seas of numbers, saying:

“Here’s the list of my symptoms.  I have been having these since last April, after my radiation.  From what I have gathered, it isn’t normal for me to have such debilitating problems this far afterwards.”

  This drove it to the climax of “Well, I have to test first to see what is happening.” 

Then he started to rant that I probably had diabetes.  And he wouldn’t let it go.  It was like I had poked a hole in his rational diagnosis, and all he could do to defend himself was lash out.  Which is what he did.

Final question, just to be sure information wasn’t going to be squandered:

“Are you comfortable working with my primary care provider, who is a naturopath?”

Which provided him a rebuttal about how naturopaths must be too stupid to understand differences in thyroid issues.  And believe me, this is quite a tasty dish for Endocrinologists to chew on.

I got to ride the tram, though.  The little hop down the hill into Portland, very similar to the superfluous monorail in Seattle that doesn’t seem to go anywhere, and doesn’t seem to last long enough to enjoy.

Here’s the thing, though.  At every other stage like this with an Endocrinologist, it was pure despondency.  Life sucks.  It isn’t going to get better.  It must be something I’m doing.  Fuck, what is wrong with me?

Nope.  I was pissed.  Fuck, I still am so fucking furious over what that asshole thought he could do. 

And what’s more, later, I got all of the testing back.  And a tiny, tiny letter from him, UPPING THE DOSE OF MY MEDICATION, AND WANTING TO SEE ME AGAIN IN…. EIGHT MONTHS.

Now, my naturopath insists I have an endocrinologist, because… heh, heh… I can’t think of this without laughing… because- if I had an ‘emergency’- then I would have someone who could ‘deal with it’.

Heh, hehhhehehehahahahHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

And there was another person, who, in their defense, was just trying to help, told me I should set up another appointment and fight him.   Fuck that.  I’m not wasting more of my money just to try to get a medical profession to get their head out of their ass long enough to see that they have a patient whose symptoms aren’t following the numbers.

And I realize something. 

I realize, that, in the grand scheme of things,

In my perspective, in my overall physical, mental, emotional, spiritual health…

This is progress.