Yesterday I got a voicemail from my doctor’s office. They wanted to know if I could come in an hour before today’s appointment to get some x-rays done on my back. If my voicemail were a person standing in front of me, it would have been subjected to the longest, heaviest sigh accompanied by the deepest eye roll I could possibly conjure.
It’s well established that I have a herniated disc. An x-ray will show nothing. But sure, let’s waste my time and take another one. (Also, thanks for the heads up. A full day’s notice sure is helpful.)
I arrive in the doctor’s office after the x-rays and fill out a bajillion forms that were likely designed for an elementary school life science program. First, I had to draw on a human body to show where my pain was. For funsies, I also added a mustache and a 70s bush. Then I had to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10…what it is now, what it is at its worst, what it is at its best, and what it’s been, on average, over the last two weeks. This goes on for five more pages where I’m sure I’ve contradicted myself at least three times.
Toward the end of the questionnaire, they add this sneaky little set of questions: How often do you drink? How many drinks per week? When was your last drink? Have you ever used alcohol to treat your pain?
Notice the euphemism of “treat.” They are trying to make it sound like they are totally cool with you drinking your back pain away. Oh yeah, who doesn’t do that, right? I mean, go ahead! Pour yourself a glass, take the edge off! Except if you do check “yes,” they crack down on you like an overzealous 90s straight-edge punk and sign you up to see a counselor to deal with your “drinking problem.” Despite this being a boldfaced lie, I check “NO.”
This is the third time I’ve filled out this questionnaire, despite being a patient of my doctor for more than four years. I don’t think he’s looked at it once.
Finally, after 20 minutes of surveying, I’m escorted into one of the patient rooms. My doctor enters and comments on the fact that it’s been a while since he last saw me.
I’m thinking: Yup. Because you’re a shitty, shitty doctor. But I smile and suppress my cynicism so I can try and get through the visit without punching him in the dick.
I tell him that the reason I’m back is because I’ve been taking pain medication for a while and I can tell that the effects of the pills are starting to wane. I worry that I will have to start taking more for them to be effective, and I don’t want to become addicted. I also worry about the long-term effects of taking these kinds of drugs. What happens in 10 years? In 20 years? I want alternative methods to manage the pain, so I’m looking to do the epidural steroid injection again.
Doctor asks a couple questions, looks at my MRI taken three years ago (which clearly shows the herniated disc), and makes this genius comment: Oh, so it looks like this has progressed into a chronic pain situation.
I cannot contain the sarcasm. It spills out of me like ketchup escaping a Heintz bottle after you slap the 57 a few times.
Me: Well, yeah, doctor. It’s been a chronic pain situation for the past nine years.
Me, in my head: Just look at my blessed chart. Look at it. (All you can do is just look at it.) It’s right there in the flipping chart.
I mention that over the last couple of weeks I’ve been experiencing additional pain in my upper back. I’m pretty sure it’s just a muscle strain brought on by stress, but it’s a stubborn muscle strain and I want to rule out that it isn’t being caused by anything else. Thankfully, he orders another MRI for my upper back. So at least there’s that. But then this happens:
Doctor: Well, I can prescribe you some medication that can help with the tension in your upper back. It’s an anti-anxiety medication, but it can be used to relax muscles.
I’m thinking maybe some kind of muscle relaxant, whatever. Sounds good, sign me up.
Nope. It’s benzos. Benzos, which are basically tranquilizers.
So after my spiel about not wanting to be addicted to my pain meds, he prescribes me another highly addictive drug. As he’s adding it to my chart, he gets some warning message about it being bad for lactating mothers. Newsflash, HMO: my child is 3.5 years old, and I miscarried those two other babies you assumed I’d be breastfeeding by now. May want to update your records on that.
Moving on, I ask the doctor about something that was in the questionnaire. A few times, the survey asked if I had experienced any problems with my bladder or bowel movements over the last year. I bring up a random bladder issue I had last November just to be sure it’s not tied to the back. I did not think this would be the focus of our meeting. This became the focus of our meeting.
We talked for a long time about what types of back pain/injuries lead to bladder and bowel issues. (Mine isn’t the type, so this is where the conversation should have ended. It didn’t.) Next I get a lesson on how the bladder works, why diet doesn’t impact it, and how it’s nearly impossible to do diet-related research. Somehow, this further spins out into a question of why people get more colds when it’s cold out—is it because of the cold itself, or is it because viruses and bacteria can spread better in the dry air? I…I don’t have that answer doctor.
And then we talk about Eskimos.
Part of it is my fault. I allow myself to become bamboozled by the anecdotal, casual conversation, and before I have a chance to pepper my doctor with the important questions I had prepared ahead of time, the appointment is over. The entire time, I haven’t once gotten up off the table, and the doctor hasn’t asked me to move or bend or to feel my spine or the muscles in my back at all. He looks at my old MRI, says we should order another MRI (no shit), and I’ll have to make the one-hour drive up to the offices on another day to do that. Cool. No problem. This pointless doctor’s visit didn’t inconvenience me at all. Why not go through it again?
He never once looks at the x-rays that I came in an hour early to take.
The Olive Gal
green of skin, black of heart
