madermouse's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- June 28th, 2001 A tisket a tasket I have in my basket: a dog turd, wrapped in ribbons and bows, sprayed with perfume oil, and set on a bed of rose petals. This lovely and thoughtful gift was given to me by my doctor, the saint. A diagnosis about my hair loss has finally been reached...female pattern baldness. The same diagnosis that the creepy Dr. Parker gave me in his brief 3 minute mini-office visit a few weeks ago. I guess its not �justifiable� to send me to an endocrinologist, or to investigate further into my complicated, yet completely normal case. Nevermind the fact that I must take hormones to keep from bleeding to death every month...yet no doctor has ever tried to find out WHY. I guess its just not important enough to take the time and actually research all of my physical ailments and figure out how they link together, and find a cure. Have I ever mentioned where I work? I work at a University research hospital. My job is to talk to doctors all day long. I am part of a specialist team that �handles� doctors specifically. After I handle them, and connect them together, part of my job is listening to their conversation and documenting them. To make a long story short, I listen to doctors talk to each other all day long. Do you know what I hear? I hear them talk about numbers. They sound like mathematicians. They ask each other about numbers and test results and occasionally symptoms. Do you know what I SELDOM hear? I seldom hear them talking about the patient�s circumstances, feelings, or concerns. And when they do mention it, they make sure to point out how the patient is �overreacting� or how there is �no evidence to support that� feeling. My job is a very privileged one. It requires skill, but it�s in a totally stress-free environment. Through this job I have learned that most doctors do care about their patients. But they are honestly just too busy to perform the tasks put before them. Many of them are on-call, expected to take consults from outside providers, supposed to be available by phone for emergencies, and still see patients in the clinic - all at the same time. I breathe a heavy sigh, knowing that this is what my own doc is going through. Yet how can I just sit back and accept this diagnosis, when I feel in my heart other options need to be explored? The worst part is, I�m not a doctor. So I can end up sounding like a complete and total fool when I try to explain something I read about. Or in this case, when I just �know� there are other reasons for my symptoms, but I can�t scientifically explain why. Try telling a doctor that you just have a �hunch� about something and then look at their expression. A picture is worth a thousand words. On the diet front, this has been a strange week. I�ve eaten - a lot. I�ve been over my calories 2/3 days, and today�s isn�t looking good. Pot lucks at my office do not help either! On the exercise front I worked my butt off today - 40 min of aerobics (Kathy Smith�s Fat Burning workout) and 1 � miles of brisk walking, and yesterday put in about 4 miles. Who knows what Monday will bring? Perhaps the weight-loss fairy will waive her magic wand and I�ll lose a pound or two. Or perhaps the exercise will offset the food and I�ll just stay the same. At this point, I�ll take either one. I�m having difficulty dealing with the stress of fighting with my doctor. The secretaries absolutely cringe there when I call. The nurses all have a name for me, I just know it. And I�m sure my doctor wishes I would just drop off the face of the planet. Although I steered clear of Taco Bell last weekend, I still have my moments of �I just don�t care�. This was the general feeling yesterday & today. Although I have �I don�t care days�, I really have changed. At a potluck in my past, I would break into the food at 10am, long before lunchtime. Sometimes I�d get the dirty, surprised looks of co-workers wondering why I�m eating their lunch at 10am? Or the thought, �typical fat person acting like a pig� would cross their minds... But I�d eat and eat and eat anyway. When my real lunch would come I�d make another big plate declaring to the office I was actually going to have �my lunch� now and then I�d eat some more. Mid-afternoon I�d offer to clean up and finish off the last sliver of pie, the last spoonful of potato salad, a handful of chips & dip, the last chicken thigh. I�d stash an extra serving of cheese & crackers in the fridge, to snack on the next day. I�d roll home that night, nearly sick, and make dinner. After all, I wouldn�t want my husband to know I�d eaten so much at the potluck that I was actually sick. So, I�d eat dinner too -because then I�d look more normal. Then I�d feel more normal. I try to keep these things in mind when I go 200-300 calories over my limit. I do the best I can, and I have changed, but I�m not perfect. I�m still going to have good and bad days & beating myself up or feeling guilty isn�t going to change anything. 12:26 p.m. - June 28th, 2001 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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