Today I break up with my neurologist, that lackluster stick-in-the-mud. It has been just over two weeks on the Prednisone and I am cautiously optimistic about a return to ActualLife™. I have secured an appointment at an MS clinic thank you very much and will be taking my uninsured business elsewhere.
Dr. R, it has nothing to do with your strange OCD: touch chair before sitting. Knock thrice, clear throat, enter room as I am laying there freezing, populate whole of the office with signage: No Drinks! No Food! Don’t Put Bags On Chair! Flush Twice! Quiet! Please Replace Magazines! Put shoes here!
It does, however have to do with two things:
- You have no sense of humor
- You snickered at me when I wasn’t being funny – and I know funny.
The first point could be forgiven if you weren’t such a weirdo. A lot of people have broken humor sensors. Not their fault. But it seems to be something you have honed over the years, crafted even. It is strange and frankly, unsettling.
And then there was the couple times you snickered at me for asking questions, repeatedly about side affects of Prednisone, Tysabri treatment and the fact that I couldn’t breathe without straining like a muthafucka.
Note: Those things weren’t funny. Not even close.
And, a special thanks to you Dr. R, for being no help whatsoever in securing past medical records. It would have been awesome if you could have had your assistant call all those doctors and MRI clinics in Chicago and NYU instead of just commenting on how much work I had to do to collect all the information for you. You could have gotten off your dead ass and called in the prescriptions for me instead of making me and Tim go get them.
If I am being completely honest (and frankly, incredibly generous) I may be holding you Dr. R to an impossible standard:
I miss you
Dr. Alan Shepherd. Neurologist, Moon Lander, Diagnosis Crush.
When I was going through my initial diagnosis in 2006, I came to know Dr. Shepherd through Northwestern University Hospital. First off, Northwestern can’t be beat. Secondly, Dr. Sheperd was a lambykins.
He poked my spinal cord and gently drained the diseased fluid with care, he tolerated my swearing, both in the office and over the phone (my CSF fluid white count is what!? Shit!), you returned phone calls promptly. You gave me a yellow Rebif book bag with informational CD (Staring Terri: Our Lady of the Multiple Sclerosi) upon diagnosis. Your chicken scratch? glorious:
(I know at least one other person who visited Dr. Shepherd (Sarah G – you know who you are you vixen) for migraines and felt a similar stirring over Dr. S).
Maybe it was because I was fully insured back in those days that I got such attention from Dr. Shepherd and his staff. Perhaps it was because they could run test after test after test without me ringing it up on my mental calculator (I can have that blood test if I decide to not eat this week).
I don’t think so though. Nope. I like to think that some people – even brain doctors – are kind. That something like a bedside manner exists even in a high rise hospital off Lake Shore Drive, regardless of insured status. That when a person – like me – is going through some of the most confusing shit of their lives, there is a group of people that want to help and do.
our lady of the multiple sclerosi 
This is, by far, my new favorite blog. I’m just sayin’.