Yesterday I finally gave up and went to see my doctor. After dealing with vague physical symptoms for eight days, I decided it wasn't a figment of my imagination, nor was I going to get over it on my own. As luck would have it, the two times a year when we have beautiful weather in southeast Texas, is also the time when I suffer from allergies. The end result is generally a sinus infection. I'm a little early for my fall bout with this pesky condition, but nonetheless, the usual symptoms began.
I do what I always do, I wait a week to be sure I am not over reacting then I go see my doctor. In my twenties, thirties, and forties, a doctor was someone I went to once a year - if that - and with whom I had no true personal relationship. Not having born children I did not go through that bonding experience with an obstetrician or pediatrician the way many women do. It was not until I found this doctor that I stayed with one person for more than a year.
When we first met, Dr. D. was relatively fresh out of medical school and still wet behind the ears (me being the savvy nurse immediately recognized the signs); she struck a cord with me and I have never left. Now, after a decade of practicing medicine, bearing three children, and maturing as a physician, I have that doctor patient relationship I always saw from the other side of the stethoscope.
I find I actually look forward to going to see her. I like her as a person, but also, for a brief few minutes everything really is all about me. No where else in my life is anything all about me. I don't even mind simple medical procedures (X-Rays and other non painful stuff) because during that interaction with the practitioner, I am the center of attention. I can almost see how people get into the habit of visiting their doctor for every little ache and pain. I totally get it now. It's not that I want fame, fortune or the accompanying narcissism; but as a woman torn in many directions it is nice, for a few short minutes, to be the one on the receiving end instead of the giving one.
We stood at the payment desk as she wrote my prescriptions; I remembered two other things I wanted to tell her. As I began one story I forgot the other. I stared blankly at her and sadly asked, "Am I just getting old?" Her reply was kind and comforting without being patronizing, "No, I just think you have too much on your plate." I felt like Charlie Brown in "A Charlie Brown Christmas" when Lucy explains pantophobia and he yells, "That's it!" I wanted to jump up and down and shout, "Yes, I have too much on my plate and there is more coming. Can someone please help me dig out of this pile of chaos?" However, I maintained my composure long enough to remember the other thing I wanted to tell her.
All of this tells me two things. First, I am not old nor crazy I am a woman who is balancing a marriage, a business, a design career, and now will be a full time grandmother. I make things complicated for myself as I try to do too many things - ultimately not doing any of them to my best ability. And finally, I am way too young to enter the phase of life where illnesses, pills, and doctor visits are my main source of conversation material.
So what's a girl to do? I must find another solution that is less expensive and equally satisfying.
Pedicure anyone?
No comments:
Post a Comment