I'm a TV junkie, so September is a very big time for me. My favourite shows return to make sure I have something giving my life meaning, and new shows debut ensuring I experience diversity.
House is a favourite returning show, only now for different reasons. I used to enjoy House because I aspired to one day be so good at my job, I too could get away with actually saying whatever came to mind regardless of how socially unacceptable, much like the title character.
Now I look forward to House because of my own medical mystery to solve, and my desperate wish that there could actually be a doctor out there who can look at me and provide a diagnosis based on my left nostril and the way I carry my purse. If House can do it, why not a doctor on the island?
I'm experiencing what can best be described as Female Troubles, which translates into either symptoms experienced only in my head or a mystery so great it ranks somewhere between the true meaning of Stone Henge and crop circles - at least according to local doctors.
I won't horrify you with the details, but the problem doesn't seem to be life-threatening. Instead, it strives for and achieves disruptive, distracting, depressing and very unpleasant. It's making me very, very bitchy (read: bitchier). Compounding the problem is the nature of...well...the problem.
Having Female Troubles is not like having a sore elbow. You can complain in public about a sore elbow. You can demonstrate a sore elbow. Everybody can relate to a sore elbow. You can point to exactly where your elbow is, without ever having to don a paper dinner napkin optimistically referred to as "a blanket."
You have no idea how badly I wish the problem was with my elbow, because my doctor is baffled. He really doesn't know what is going on, and that terrifies me. When all of this started I fully expected to be told what the problem was within seconds, prescribed something to fix the problem and continue not thinking about the areas embroiled in the problem...ever.
Instead, the problem continues and I'm now worried my doctor thinks I'm crazy. I'm worried he's going to tell me to stop calling him, because there's nothing that can be done because he thinks that there isn't anything wrong. I can't prove there's anything wrong, because all he has to go on is what I'm telling him.
And I'm telling him there's something very wrong.
My last visit he seized on the last option available in modern diagnostic technology -- the urine test. My pee should reveal all. If held in a certain light, it can even reveal the name of the man I'm going to marry although if this continues that prospect is looking ever more bleak.
Testing my pee is a long-shot, and I could tell that by the way my doctor gave an exaggerated shrug while filling out the lab forms. I'm literally praying that one of the tests he ordered comes back positive, which to anybody else would be bad news but at this point I just want to know what's wrong so I can fix it.
I'm also praying something comes back positive, because providing a urine sample when you are as nervous a pee-er as I am is torture. I better not have gone through all of that effort for nothing, and believe me -- it was effort.
I'm the type of pee-er who can not pee when I know somebody is listening. I can't keep peeing through loud noises, or sub-prime conditions such as a broken door lock or time constraints.
My bladder chokes under pressure so completely, it will actually leave a note, pack its clothes, take the children and flee to its mother's house at the first sign of trouble.
Being compelled to pee into a cup is pressure so intense, I lose all feeling in my legs. I simply can not do it. Solid gold doubloons are so much more likely to fall from my body into the plastic cup than one single drop of pee.
I actually had to leave the lab with my plastic cups in a Ziploc baggie and return the samples the next day, so impossible was the task. I drank water all day and waited nine hours (!) before making another attempt in the comfort of my own bathroom. That went much better. It had to, because the only other option left was a catheter.
And now I'm waiting but I think it's useless. I don't have whatever the pee tests are supposed to reveal, and I know this. However, I don't know what IS wrong, and neither does anybody else so I used my last resort -- WebMD. Otherwise known as the place where hypochondriacs go to die...or at least confirm what they think they're dying from.
WebMD was not a good idea, because now I'm more afraid. Listed symptoms are so vague and so all-encompassing that I have officially diagnosed myself with so many rare illnesses the federal government has declared me an endangered species, which is kind of a relief because hunting season has never been good for Bambi.
And neither has visits to the doctor, which is why I need House. Only Hugh Laurie can save me now. Just please don't make me pee again.
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