Rage against the Doctor machine

Since having Joshua, I pretty much have a hate-hate relationship with doctors. I’ve yet to meet one who doesn’t think he’s of superior intellect and ideas. Or God. Or at the very least A god. And I’m a mere mortal not fit to have control of fire.

I? I’m pretty intelligent. And capable of wielding the fire-power without burning my face off. Or my house down.

You know how I railed against the lovely Lady Times that visit me all too frequently? Well, I had a doctor’s appointment today. With a doctor who joined this practice after I’d had Joshua.

This doctor comes strolling in with his high cheekbones (Skeletor-like in proportion), tan, slicked back hair, AND GOLD CHAIN NECKLACE and I immediately didn’t like him.

I knew from the minute he opened his mouth I wasn’t going to like him. Knew it.

And I don’t.

I thought about waiting until June to call and make an appointment, and then I decided to go ahead and schedule a consultation because I KNOW the PCOS is back.

For one, my cycle length is crazy.

Two, I’m pretty sure I haven’t ovulated since I stopped the pill the first week of March.

Third, my leg and armpit hair are growing like I’m some kind of wildebeest. (Are those even real things?)

Fourth, SHINY FACE OH MY GOD.

Fifth? Zits. Like a 14 year old boy.

Sixth. No weight loss even when paying careful attention to my food intake and regularly exercising.

Seventh. When I’m emotional, I feel it in my ovaries. I’m serious. It sounds ridiculous. I know. I KNOW. But I’m telling you, I feel it in my ovaries. I feel like there are tears somewhere in there and I feel like they are coming from my ovaries.

Eighth…do I really need to go on or can I stop there? Do you get the idea that I’m in tune enough with myself to know that something isn’t normal with me?

Good. Because something isn’t normal with me.

I thought, at the very least, he’d want to know what’s been going on with me. When I picked up my phone to look at my charts to tell him the start and end days of the three cycles I’ve had, I could hear him rolling his eyes at the fact that there was a chart-er in his exam room. His disdain for a more natural approach to this was palpable.

He said “You don’t need to do this. This is a waste of your time. I have ways of knowing if you’re ovulating that are better. I did my fellowship with the NIH.”

I’m not kidding. He said that. And he threw in that bit about the NIH twice. Like that makes me feel any more comfortable with a doctor about his ability to know ME when this is the very first time he’s met me.

He says “Just use OPKs. And then come in on day 21 and we’ll do a blood draw. And if your progesterone level is higher than 3 micrograms per somethingorother we’ll know you ovulated.”

Um. Okay. Cool. But at this point, I AM NOT MAKING IT TO 21 DAY CYCLES YOU NEWB WITH THE NIH FELLOWSHIP.

I fumbled a couple more times with the phone to find the information he was asking for and he said “No RE I know has used charts in 15 years.”

I hope he could sense that I was seething. I’m positive I was radiating “WTF” from my pores.

So, I’m going to keep charting and pee on his precious and “99% accurate” OPKs (pee sticks he suggests I pee on at 2:00 in the afternoon, mind you, when I’m, oh, I dunno, DOING MY JOB) and I’m going to go in for that blood draw next Thursday, as much for my own curiosity as for his.

And then I’ll go back for the follow-up in two weeks to get those results. And if he pulls this “I am awesome with my slick hair and fellowship with the NIH” bullshish again?

I’m out.