Monday, March 6, 2017

Soft Tissue Infections and Idiot Doctors

Soft Tissue Infections and Idiot Doctors

I don’t really know what day it is, honestly, I never do anymore.  The day’s just kind of mesh together like the city nights of my early 20s.  It started one day about two months ago, I couldn’t  see straight, and my heart was racing so fast that I couldn’t breathe; seems like that day was yesterday, and not two entire months ago.

The idiot doctor, the first one:

It’s true; I picked him because he was sharp looking.  I seem to trust people who are good-looking, and charming; maybe because when they lie the package is always prettier; ergo, easier to take the devastation of deception, or even the candor of a misdiagnoses.  You look fine… he would say, your heart is abnormal, do this this and this.  He hears blah blah blah when I talk, and I hear I’m not listening to a damn word you say when he talks.

The heart ticks and it tocks, and it wants what it wants.  It dreams of fields, and sunshine.  It dreams of a world outside of the confines of my house; a prisoner to nausea, dizziness, weakness, pressure in my face, fevers, racing heart, and a swarm of random sores that riddle my once flawless skin.

Why is it, when you tell a doctor you feel weak, he will say explain.  You tell a friend, and they will say, I understand, I feel you, or that is the worst feeling ever. A doctor will make you feel that you need his friend, the psychiatrist, or specialist number 1,2, and 3.  Of course you are hopeless; they throw a pill at you, with no formal diagnosis, spin the wheel, and hope it lands on your number.  It usually doesn’t. 

The idiot doctor, the second one:

It’s sinusitis, that’s why your nose is the size of a baseball.  It’s normal that we wouldn’t catch it.  I explain that the room is spinning, I can’t see, I go limp, and must lie down.  Do they think I enjoy the lush décor of their emergency room; more expensive than a museum, and less informative than a tour guide? Take this, again another pill, again another fail.

Meanwhile, I continue to be trapped in my routine of misery, I beg them with tears to help me.  They don’t.

The idiot doctor, the third one:

It’s a soft tissue infection, probably MRSA.  Long story short, it’s not.

I will argue that doctors are human, but at this point I find them to be relatively soulless beings, a subspecies of human. 

I am now taking multiple natural homeopathies, and supplements.  I switched to organic foods, lotions, face wash, soaps, and deodorant.  I know my body better than a doctor who barely gives me 15 minutes of his day. 

My face has changed; this infection is fighting to live.  I will do everything in my power to see it die. 

To the doctors, I am just another number, and paycheck.  I am the only one who wants to see me survive in that office.  Honestly, I look at them the same way they look at me.  Idiot doctors 1, 2, and 3.  A number not a face, but at least they get paid to be a number.  I pay with my health, my time, and my sanity.

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