I hate the bus. I hate my job. I hate the world. I hate the alarm clock. I am due for some PMS. I got up this morning, got dressed and was like "nope. No Monday for me this week."
That said. I called in to work today. What? I hate my job. And my ear hurts. I seriously have got to see a doctor about this ear thing. Because it's just like the last time, but add in "for a long, long time" and "I swear my sinuses were bad, but now they're all dry and this noise is still here" and "It fucking hurts". I've never had an earache before and I hate it. I mean, I always thought I would hate an earache, but I didn't know it would be enough to send me to the doctor.
The thing is, I like doctors. I mean, I loved my doctors as a child. The eye doctor, the bone doctor, the foot doctor, the dentist, the primary care physician. I genuinely liked all those people. They were nice. They didn't hurt me or traumatize me. They were always really understanding. More so than my mother. I think that was the key. My mother never hesitated to point out how stupid whatever I was doing when I broke my tooth, glasses, arm, foot, whatever really was. The doctors just patched me up and sent me off. Mom would ask about limiting my activity and they would say "She knows what she can do. She's broken enough bones, she'll stop herself."
My orthepedic doctor... was the nicest man. I think he's still alive, but he's no longer practicing. He's ruined me for all future broken bones. Because he was really very humane about the whole thing. He wouldn't put a cast on me unless it was absolutely neccessary. When I was going into second grade, I broke my ankle. He prescribed lots of swimming. No cast. Walk if you can. Swim a lot. Exercise builds bone density. I made him a thank-you card. We found it in my chart several years later. When I had to have a cast, he'd let me have a gortex one. You can get those wet.
When I was in sixth grade, I broke my hand the night before I was scheduled to get a clean bill of health on my last broken foot. I was petting my dog. Maybe it was fifth grade. Anyway, I was petting my dog and she rolled over and her leg hit my hand and it broke. I was in heavy denial. I was not going to be broken AGAIN so soon. We went the next day to my scheduled appointment. I didn't want to tell him. Mom of course stepped up and said "Look at her hand. She says it's not broken, but look at it." and I insisted that it was fine and even moved all my fingers to demonstrate this. (I knew it was broken. I just really really didn't want it to be.). He took some x-rays. Of course it was broken. I cried. I didn't want to. But I couldn't take it. And Dr Runge let me wait a couple days before coming back to get a cast. And he cleared me for all activity in spite of the cast.
My dentist would come in early and fix my teeth before school so I wouldn't have to miss or go to school with a broken tooth. When I was five, I knocked out my front teeth in a diving board accident. He was at the country club at the time. He made a housecall that night, looked me over and suggested to my mother that what I was going to need was "Unlimited popscicles for two days." My eye doctor had the patience of a saint. My podiatrist made me custom inserts for my shoes when one leg got to being longer than the other (as opposed to an obvious lift on my shoe). My regular doctor never gave me antibiotics and also stopped by the house all four times I had the chicken pox.
Now, I am far away from all those people. Some of them don't practice anymore. And I've seen other doctors. And I don't like them. They aren't as nice. Granted, I'm not their friend's kid or neice or grandchild or whatever all those doctors knew my whole family. And I'm not a child anymore. Plus I don't have a car. That doesn't help. Getting to the doctor is a chore. I don't want to go. But I think that my ear is going to force me.