It was a doctorial extravaganza ‘round these parts today, and I didn’t have to take my pants off ONCE.

I had an appointment with a new foot doctor today. The doctor himself is nice enough, but his office gives me the willies – it’s not the cleanest or most high tech of places, and his two assistants were fighting with each other when I arrived. If there were such a thing, I would think I had fallen in with back alley podiatrists. It was kind of off-putting, to say the least. The doctor seemed pretty cool, and we chatted for a bit. He is puzzled by my self-diagnosis of stress fractures, and I got the feeling he is attributing my constant pain and clicky feelings to the diabetes I don’t have. He’s sent me off to get some x-rays at some hole-in-the-wall x-ray joint, for which I need to make an appointment (which is another negative point – most doctors I’ve seen are in cahoots with the same series of labs, which are drop-in-and-wait setups). I haven’t decided if I’m going to go back to him, or to my other foot doctor who abandoned me to my own devices. He may have been neglectful, but at least his office didn’t look like our storage locker.

Since I wasn’t getting x-rays done then and there (I had planned my morning around the drop in visit), I decided to go to the regular medical clinic to see a random doctor. I was fully planning on announcing my surprise demand for an examination of my lady parts – SURPRISE! Look at my vagina! – but he seemed cranky and less than willing to whip out the speculum there and then. He did, however, provide an excellent out – after only a dozen or so cysts, some of which have burst in a horrible and painful manner reminiscent of the alien birth in Alien, I’ve been referred to a gynecologist. Finally! A vaginal expert! I’ll get a phone call next week to arrange an appointment, and my delicate flower will finally get the service it needs.

Dr. Cranky did refill my prescriptions though, so the anti-baby and anti-crazy trains can leave the station once again. I tried to get a year’s worth of crazy pills out of him, but he crankily said “you shouldn’t be on those for that long”. I didn’t feel any sort of desire to explain to him exactly why I SHOULD be on those for that long and what happens when I’m not, so I just accepted the 3-month refill and went on my way. Eventually I will get a real family doctor, and then I can lay out the truth behind my insanities and how those little beige and orange pills keep most of my demons at bay. Until then – three more months of sanity is nothing to sneeze at.

Also, I bought some carrots.