When last we left off I was in the examination room of the pain doctor I was about to meet for the first time, frantically trying to come up with answers to whatever questions he could possibly ask, trying to anticipate everything he might say, trying to mentally strategize every potential situation, so that there would be no possible way for him to deny me my pain medication.
Being locked into such a mentally constricted and obsessive place is awful in and of itself, but it was magnified by the fact that the doctor was two hours late for my appointment. So between my anxiety over what was (or what wasn’t) going to happen, and my guilt at keeping my husband away from a work situation that needed his attention, not to mention spending two hours in a cramped, windowless room, I was about to lose my mind by the time the doctor got there.
And then…it was totally anticlimactic.
I met the doctor, he asked me some questions, glanced at my file, gave me a 2-second physical examination, said, “I don’t have any problem writing this prescription for you. But I can’t give it to you for fibromyalgia because it’s not indicated for that. So I’m sending you to get an MRI of your spine, because by this age (Important Side Note: Thanks so much. Like this illness doesn’t already make me feel like I’m 150 years old) there’s usually some degeneration,” set a follow-up appointment, and then went on to the next patient.
He left me in a very unsettled place. On the one hand, it sounded like I was going to be able to get the meds I needed. But on the other hand, I interpreted what he’d said as, “You have to go through this completely unnecessary medical procedure before I will give them to you.”
So I scheduled the MRI, because, what else could I do? He had the meds. I needed the meds. So I had to do whatever he said.
(To be continued)