Paging Dr. Feelgood. . .

This blog is a high dive for me and I’m not much of a swimmer.  I’m so self-conscious about letting people see anything I write,  I even abbreviate my grocery lists.  Besides,  I love my family. . .   there is nothing I need to get off my chest…I have no pent-up hostility.  Okay, that last statement may be a stretch, depending on my estrogen level and right now, I don’t need a dipstick to tell me it’s nil, thanks to the new doctor who thinks I don’t need it.   Estrogen, I mean.

Speaking of said new doctor,  I ‘m not sure she’s a keeper. I’ve run through so many of them I’m afraid I’m about to be blackballed by the AMA.   My efforts to find a doctor nearby that I bond with  have so far been a process of elimination.  I don’t know who to see, but my list of who NOT to see is growing.  Because my all-time favorite doctor, alas–four hours away–is a beautiful, brilliant physician of Indian heritage, when someone told me about this very smart physician nearby, also Indian,  I confess I engaged in racial profiling and made an immediate appointment.   Give me some credit here though–she was recommended by a retired doctor’s daughter.  I mean, how much more cred can one have? 

I’ve already given up on finding a gynecologist.   I’ve seen two who told me they’d treat me like they would their own mother.  Perhaps it’s just a hangup, but I’ve never wanted to put my feet in a stirrup or discuss vaginal dryness  with my kids’ friends.   I did not find being treated motherly a comforting thought.    Really, Junior?  Look me in the eye and tell me .. . does your mother have sex?   It just wouldn’t work. 

Another gynecologist looked so young I’m not sure her medical license didn’t come from Fisher-Price.   She wore socks–not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I’m betting she practices on Barbies in her bottom drawer.  Was that a Hello Kitty sticker on her stethoscope?  No doubt she’d treat me very . . . grandmotherly.  Huh uh.  I moved on.

Next  was a nice enough doc who seemed promising until he told me he doesn’t like to prescribe medicine if  he doesn’t have to.  Are you kidding me?  If there is a pill for whatever ails, I want it!  And make sure it has several refills.   He was old enough not to think of me in motherly terms, but  I just didn’t feel the love.  

That brings me to my decision to forget about a gynecologist and go for an all-in-one doctor.  Internal medicine, thank you, not geriatric specialist.   My latest examination (as in I was checking HER out even as she was examining me)  was with  the aforementioned internal medicine physician   You still take estrogen?  she asked, in a disbelieving voice.   We must stop that,  she continued in her precise, lyrical accent.  We will go cold turkey.  

Cold turkey, it is.  When the doc won’t write the prescription, “we” don’t have any choice.  “An oncologist/gynecologist  put me on them after my hysterectomy, ”  I whined, but New Doctor seemed unimpressed.  I don’t know how she’s doing on this cold turkey crap we’re on,  but I’m thinking  these hot flashes I’m enduring are having a detrimental effect on global warming.   Maybe I can get Al Gore to write a note on my behalf.   I’m walking around the house sans underwear in a sleeveless shift and hubby is in a sweatshirt and corduroys.  Step away from that thermostat,  I hiss if he even walks down the hall.

I still have hope.   My hair stylist, who admits to hypochondria, has an impressive list of names.  Holistic medicine?  Chinese medicine?  Chiropractor?  Accupuncturist?   Internal medicine?   His little black book covers everything  but a gynecologist and I’m certain that  his refrigerator-sized medicine cabinet is stocked.  Right now, though, there’s nothing wrong with me, so I have no excuse for checking any of them out. 

Here’s the thing. . .  Several doctors have been recommended to me by dependable sources– like my back doctor and my drug-rep neighbor (yes, I consider her a dependable source!)  BUT not a single one on their recommended lists is taking new patients.  And Lord help me if I don’t find a live one before I hit 65 because it’s for sure none of them will consent to seeing me then:  Sorry, Granny, we’re not taking any new Medicare patients.   

Oh yeah?  Well tell me this, Honey. . . Is that how you’d treat your momma?


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