dr. e and his magical prescription pad

What the shit is it with old male doctors and not listening to a word that comes out of my mouth?


Could it BE that they legitimately cannot hear me? Perhaps I'm speaking in tongues or something? All I know is that it's becoming increasingly obvious that we're not equipped to communicate with one another effectively.


My allergy specialist is a great doctor, really- As well as a cheerful old man who reminds me of a shorter-bearded Albus Dumbledore... and instead of a wand to magic my ailments away, he has a prescription pad that he uses to give me written legal permission to try all kinds of allergy and asthma medicines and potions. Not as cool as a wand, but I'm hoping it'll miraculously cure me much the same way. Truth be told, I was genuinely looking forward to my appointment, and not just because I needed like 234873874 new prescriptions.


Yesterday though, we just did not click. I don't know what it was. Maybe I was the last appointment of the day, maybe Dr. E really is finally going senile. Whatever it was, I don't like it. I like to trust that health care professionals are actually intelligent and engaged in making me and those I care about feel better. And anyone who is sick, really. I don't like to have to interrupt to get my point across or pull out the "Now you listen to me!" finger, because I find it disrespectful and I'm not trying to piss off someone who potentially holds my health and happiness destiny in their old, gnarled hands.


In fact, I've only really gotten mouthy with A SINGLE nurse in my lifetime. I was in college and not even the patient. Anyway, that hospital blew... coughghettocoughcough.  They admitted my best friend for an appendectomy and it turned out that she had cancerous cervical cysts.


Um, made a major mistake lately? Guessing it's NOT as big as that one was.


Good times.


Back to yesterday.


I get in there and get my shot and wait my turn and sit in the waiting room and then good old Dr. E saunters in and.... I get the distinct impression that this old coot is trying to usher me out the door as quickly as he possibly can.  As in, not asking me the general questions I've grown accustomed to in yearly check-ups, and I happen to have negative answers already prepared. I was going to brace him for the news that I'm living with a Mastiff with a semi-apologetic joke.  I HAVE STUFF TO SAY. I LIVE WITH A GIANT DOG IN A DEATH TRAP AND I LOVE TO GARDEN. THIS ISN'T WORKING. I NEED MORE DRUGS.


So, um, NO, dude we're not rushing this along. We're on my time. You wanted to check-up. Check. Me. Up.


Because you know what? This isn't a exactly a breeze for me, either. I had to endure asking my boss to leave work early (cringe),  drive my hot-box of a car AWAY from air conditioned home to your office, I paid a $250 deductible that I've been dodging since January, I burn a lunch hour every week driving up to your office to get a healthy dose of my own worst allergens shoved into my veins at the cost of $22 a pop, and I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE FOR SHIT.


NO dude, you're going to FIX THIS.


WITH COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF DRUGS.



So, I quickly but firmly showed good old Dr. E the writing on the wall. You know, my hobbies, my symptoms, my living situations, the way the air is killing me slowly, etc.

And you know what he said:

"Oh dear, you're just a disaster. Dear, dear, dear, you're an allergist's nightmare. I need to go make a copy of this form because it's not going to hold all the perscriptions I need to write you. I think it's time to pull out the big guns."

To which I smiled sweetly and nodded.

Fucking right.

Here hoping I'll be feeling much better. Very soon.

Xo Sara