I Wish I Could Cry
I want good things to stay. Why does that feel like it’s too much to ask?
I got a letter in the mail saying that my primary doctor is leaving and they’ve assigned me a new doctor a couple of towns over.
I’m not just sad. I’m heartbroken. Again. I want to sob into a package of Oreos. This is not helping my abandonment issues or anxiety at all. Why can’t I have a doctor who helps me?
Why?
Dr. J has done so much for me, including switching me to Lexapro, hearing me loud and clear when I said no mammograms, encouraging me to try PT, scraping me up off the parking lot, and telling me at every visit to do something fun every day.
As opposed to the absolute cunt before her that berated me in writing for not making appointments and getting the labs she wanted.
My oncologist is fine. A good doctor and a stable fixture, but it’s complicated because his existence reminds me I have cancer. He can’t make the brain tumor go away. He probably looks at me and sees a time bomb.
Even though I don’t see that in the mirror, lots of people reflect that pain onto me. It’s excruciating.
There’s an episode of Glee I carry around in my head where Jane Lynch’s character, Sue Sylvester, is confronted about treating a cheerleader with Down’s Syndrome cruelly.
She replies by saying she has a sister (I think) with Down’s and all she wants is for people to treat her like they treat everyone else. Bottom line: Lynch is as an asshole to everyone.
Can’t argue with that logic.
I want to be treated like everyone else too. Healthy people could all die at any moment too. Stop pretending they’re different than me. I can still have a heart attack or get hit by a bus. Treat me like that.
Treat me with care, not caution.
So I must start from scratch with a new patient appointment. And my medical history is complicated. And the brain fog. And the anxiety. My last “get to know you” appointment was two hours long.