Six points for Dr. Bruce

The reception area of Dr. Unknown is shabby: carpet worn through, paint chipped and filthy. A sign requests my patience during a time of building-wide renovation.

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM. RAT A TAT A TAT A TAT A TAT. BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM.

Along with my other symptoms, I now have a headache. Wait, didn't I already have a headache? Yes, yes I did.

I've arrived early in anticipation of filling out numerous forms. There is only one, with four lines, plus a privacy disclosure.

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM. RAT A TAT A TAT A TAT A TAT. BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM.

Dr. Unknown's receptionists, an ethnically diverse triad of chattiness, are discussing the romantic misfortunes of one of their group. "What you need to do," one advises, "is get your OWN apartment, your OWN condo, and tell him to..."

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM. RAT A TAT A TAT A TAT A TAT. BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM.

The triad is interrupted not only by the hammering above but by a male voice. They address the speaker as Bruce.

Bruce, I recall, is the first name of Dr. Unknown. Hmm. First-name basis with the desk staff? Chalk up one for him. And for the triad, for that matter.

I wait a while longer. Dr. Bruce personally fetches the patient ahead of me. And then he fetches me. "Ms. Violet?" he inquires and shakes my hand.

Another point for Dr. Bruce.

We go to his office, a crowded but neat room featuring pictures of his family, a teddy bear, various physicians manuals, a Monet print, a book about Tibetan healing, and a volume of Margaret Bourke-White's photographs.

We talk for a long time about why I'm there. He asks questions and takes notes. He doesn't rush me. My history raises no eyebrows: he is familiar with an adult getting type 1 diabetes, he understands my obscure gynecological problems, and he seems to know insulin pumps, too. I grudgingly award him another point.

He suggests that there may be various explanations for my symptoms, not only fibromyalgia, and that we will keep open minds for the time being.

Then there is an exam. Dr. Bruce takes my blood pressure himself. Is his nurse absent? Or is he just incredibly self-sufficient? I've never seen a doctor do the "nurse" stuff. He seems very natural about it. Okay, one more point.

Dr. Bruce: 4. Anti-Dr. Bruce: 0.

After the exam, we return to his office and talk further. He explains that fibromyalgia is not a hasty diagnosis. First we must rule out other possibilities, of which there are many. He will do scads of bloodwork to this end. I shouldn't be frightened, but one of things he'll check for is lupus. He doesn't think I have lupus, but as it's an autoimmune disease that can cause symptoms like mine, he would be remiss in not checking. But he really thinks I have a virus, something that will go away as I heal over the next few weeks. Many viruses, he says, can cause muscle and joint pain and terrible fatigue. One is parvovirus, which usually strikes kids, but in adults can cause symptoms much like mine. The bloodwork might tell us, or might not. Time will also tell us a lot. If I still feel this way in 6 months, he will be more inclined to consider fibromyalgia.

I'm cranky. He's making sense. But I'm supposed to sit around and feel like crap until he decides I've been sick long enough to be diagnosed? I am on the verge of subtracting a point.

"Of course," Dr. Bruce continues, "what you probably want is to feel better right away. We can address that."

Oh.

Dr. Bruce prescribes a muscle relaxant for bedtime, which will help me fall sleep and should assist with the problem of pain awakening me. I will also take an anti-inflammatory twice a day for pain. There's one that's prescribed more often than the one he's giving me, he says, but it can affect blood sugar, so we don't want to use it.

Two more points.

I am to call next week and report on how I feel. He'll tell me about the bloodwork and we'll decide what to do next. Unless something of concern shows up, in which case he will call me first.

I fill my prescriptions, return home, and google parvovirus. Hmm. Could be. Not sure. Meanwhile, the drugs do help. I had less pain last night. It was hard to fall asleep, but once I did I slept almost all the way through the night for the first time in weeks. This morning I'm feeling pretty good, some small pains but not much. A huge improvement.

Woo hoo. Woo hoo hoo!

Stree, or where I've been

1. Really tired. Tireder than tired. Grocery-shopping-leads-to-mandatory-napping tired. Missing-out-on-going-to-bookstore-with-Animegirl-because-too-tired tired.

2. Really sore. Freakishly sore in muscles not being used and some I didn’t know I had. Bizarrely sore in joints that don’t look swollen. Made sore by slicing chicken and by doing nothing at all. Sore enough to lose sleep, worsening #1.

3. Really fuzzy in the head. Unable to concentrate for large chunks of the day. Language-related cognitive errors, e.g., typing the wrong words in memos, such as publishing interesting when my brain was thinking publishing industry. Awkward lapses for an editor, these are.

4. Really anxious about the above, too focused on every bodily sensation. Doing my hypochondriac, excessive researching thing. Full of theories. Current frontrunner is fibromyalgia, which my mom has and which fits my current situation almost exactly in terms of symptoms.

5. Spinning wildly from #4 to an unknown future in which my hopes and plans for work and family are cast into doubt by yet another decline in health.

As all this has been going on for several weeks, I’ve broken down and sought medical intervention at last. Oh good, a new opportunity to be disdained and patronized by health-care professionals! Tuesday I’m seeing a rheumatologist. I can only hope this encounter will lead to numerous suspenseful bloodlettings, diagnostic screenings involving machinery, and multiple follow-up appointments before I’m told nothing is wrong me with

Whoops. I’ll leave that in as a demonstration of #3. Hell, at least I caught it before I hit the “publish” button. I know--everybody does stuff like that all the time. My brain just doesn’t feel like itself. Language is supposed to be my safe area.

Anyhoo…before I’m told nothing is wrong with me that a laboratory can find.

The idea that I may have another chronic medical problem is a little too much for me right now. Maybe it’s all stree. Whoops, I meant stress. Ahem. (What’s stree? Stress induced and/or experienced by a tree?) But I don’t think stress all by itself is supposed to effing hurt this much.

My current goal, energy permitting, is to detail Whatever May Come in the most sardonic possible tone for your amusement and mine. Oh, and to not be ill. That would be cool too.