I am continuing to deal with this foot thing. It is getting a little better, no thanks to the Podiatrist I've been seeing.
What a douche bag.
I had my fourth appointment with him. I have been in a lot of pain, like can't go to sleep, wakes me up, clench my eyes kind of pain, and we still don't have a specific diagnosis. His prescription is to wear my storm trooper boot, and rest. Wait-and-see doesn't work with me particularly well, so I made some calls and got an appointment with a neurologist and did a little internet research on nerve pain and stress fractures.
Well. I made the mistake of mentioning that I had done some of my own research, and the man lost his mind. He was rude, he was combative, and that fucker actually made me cry. Its pretty hard to make me cry, unless you're a really heartfelt TV commercial or a particular James Taylor song, but he did it. It was a perfect storm: Take a woman who is hormonal, and in severe pain, put her way up in the air on a foot-examining lift so she can't get down and leave the room, and then berate her until she cries. Easy. Since I was way up in the air, I had to stretch my arm way down and over to the Kleenex and I couldn't reach it; Dr. Douche Bag just stood there, continuing to argue with me.
Then he says we could do an MRI, but that would cost $750, and seeing a neurologist would cost $1500, and I'm thinking, do I look like a bag lady? So I say, "My husband works for the government; I have excellent insurance." So he gets these things rolling, even though I already had made an appointment with a neurologist on my own, and at the end of this nightmare appointment, I ask, "Is there anything else I should know, or anything else I should be doing?" and I'm thinking of hot compresses, or epsom salts or incantations, and do you know what this douche bag says? "Do you think there's something I'm keeping from you? Do you think I'm whispering with nurse 'Lets not tell her to do this or that'?" What an asshole.
Of course, at that time, I was too upset to be angry. That's the part about crying that I hate the most. It ruins my ability to stand up for myself and call a douche bag a douche bag in that moment. Instead I just whimper and then limp to my car in my big boot and call my husband and cry some more, and then I let it ruin my day and my night, and only after about 24 hours do I realize that he is the douche bag, not me, and that his behavior probably has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with his impotence, or hair loss, or the affair he's having. He never would have spoken to a man the way he spoke to me, I'm sure of it.
By the time I got home, there was a message from his office. For a moment, I thought it was an apology for being a douche bag, but it was just his office saying I needed to make a follow up appointment for the next week. Yeah, I don't think so. You're fired, Dr. Douche Bag.
The end of the story is, I was able to get in with the neurologist the following afternoon and now I have a diagnosis, a prognosis (3 - 6 months recovery time) and some specific nerve pain drugs, and a treatment plan. I've had an MRI, nothing is broken, and I can stop wearing that boot which I discovered, after a weekend of not wearing it, was making things more painful instead of less.
So, Dr. Davis, if you ever read this, here's what I have to say to you: You can choose to be nice. You can choose your words and your tone. You don't have to choose to be a douche bag.