Paging Dr. House


First, let me say that I’m fine. Perhaps a bit melodramatic and unnecessarily cryptic in the midst of my disappointment, but physically, I’m ok.

Now mentally and emotionally…

[This is actually my 3rd post in an (unintentional) series about my health. The first is “Mystery Diagnosis” from November 2011 and the second is the January 2013 post “Hypochondriac is the New Normal”.]

In January, I asked my general practitioner for a referral to the Cleveland Clinic. The last thing I really wanted was to see yet another doctor (the two specialists he had already referred me to were condescending pricks), but it seemed like the responsible thing to do.

It took more than 5 months and repeated phone calls to get my doc to make the referral. It wasn’t a knock on him. He had no idea where else to look or what else to test. But once he did, and promised to send ahead of me the 2+ years of records, I was hopeful again.

Let me be clear about what I mean by hopeful. Not hopeful for a diagnosis. I’ve learned my lesson on that front. I was hopeful that the doc would be a nice guy, that he would listen, and that he might have some insight or new ideas. Hopeful about fresh ears for my litany of symptoms and fresh eyes for my records.

Yesterday, my hope was shattered.

Don’t get me wrong. The doc was one of the nicest I’ve ever met. He listened. He shared things that I’ve never heard from another doc. He had great theories and an awesome Greek accent.

But theories were all he could give me. He laid not a single eye on my records because my records never made it to him. I didn’t bring any with me, trusting that my doc had done as promised. So there I was, left to guess and stumble through 2+ years of blood and imaging tests at what ultimately be a pointless appointment.

So. F*cking. Frustrated.


As much as I want to sit here and wallow in my anger (wallowing feels so gooood sometimes), I won’t. Not because I’m above wallowing or because I’m existentially superior. It’s just a waste of time when you get down to it. And like liquor, time is something I won’t waste.

On the diagnosis front, I’ve called my doc and calmly and politely expressed my frustration to one of the nurses. I’m going to get my records into the nice Greek doc’s hands, even if it means delivering them myself. I’m going to keep riding that thin line between hopefulness and hopelessness until I am satisfied with what I’m being told and how I’m feeling.

On the living my life front, I’m going to do some research into fibromyalgia, a diagnosis that one doc has ruled out and another thinks is a possibility. I’m gonna get into an exercise routine as nice Greek doc recommended (water aerobics and tai chi anyone?). I’m gonna keep the stress low (read: NO LAW) and the positivity high and remain thankful for each and every day that I’m given.

And if anyone happens to run into Dr. House, let him know he’s got a patient waiting.


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