I have a high tolerance for pain. I see you rolling your eyes. I would do the same, I’m sure. It’s a common declaration, after all. Except, I can prove it! Can we talk about childbirth? Again, with the eye rolls! I know. AARP is on me like white on rice, yet I want to tell my birth story. As the millennials would say, “That’s so cringe.” In the court of public opinion, however, I need these details to make my case. I had an unmedicated birth at home, a couple of them, actually. In one of those situations, the result was a baby that weighed well over ten pounds! See! I told you. I have a high tolerance for pain. Since I am clearly setting the stage for a tale of woe concerning a today pain, you needed to know this. It’s called an inciting incident. It’s a writer thing. Wink. Stop rolling your eyes.
One day in August, someone asked me what was wrong. I responded that nothing was amiss. Internally, I thought that was an odd question. Days later, and many more “what’s wrongs” dodged like rubber bullets, I had to admit something to myself. It hurt. I also had to admit that, while my mind loves refusing to admit that things are wonky, my face does not get that memo. Indeed, I had a perpetual grimace and a tender, bruise-like pain just under my ribcage, very near my sternum. Who doesn’t love a good mystery?
In the recesses of my mind, a memory floated to the surface. Over two years ago, I was reclined on a table in a room where they do what they don’t confess, aka colonoscopies. In my case, it had been a two-step move of colonoscopy and endoscopy, because I’m just so fun. The machines were beeping. The nurses were chattering. I was waking up. My doctor leaned over me, informed me that nothing was terribly wrong with me, other than a pesky case of diverticulitis. “Oh, by the way,” she ended the conversation, “Has anyone ever told you that you have a hernia?” I said no. She said good. That would be where the story ends were it not for the grimace of August. This is where the story intensifies. It is called the finding a new doctor saga.
Dr. Google told me that the only way to remedy hernia pain was to excise the hernia demon via surgery. So, I called a general surgeon and made an appointment that was subsequently cancelled by said surgeon’s office because you can’t just call people and tell them you have a hernia. They need proof. So, I called the hernia discovery doc’s office and asked them to forward my records to the surgeon. Three months later, the surgeon says they still haven’t received anything that proves there is a hernia. I ask, “Did you get the selfie I took with the camera they made me swallow?” I was informed that epigastric selfies
are not sufficient proof, and that I was not to darken their phone lines again. Back to irregular quadrilateral one, cause this is a very uneven square.
I call the hernia discovery doc back for the eleventy hundredth time. “I don’t know what to do,” I lamented. “Can I just come back in to see you guys again?” This is when they opted to tell me my doctor had retired two years ago. Egad. Did all my oscopies send her into a downward spiral? The voice on the other end asked if I wanted her advice. I assured her that was the sole reason for all my calls. “You said your primary care doctor turned into a concierge doctor that you decided not to follow. You need a new primary care doctor yesterday.” Stunned, was I. It has taken me three months to get this answer.
Yesterday, I saw my new primary care guru. For once, my white coat syndrome played nice, allowing me to give them the gift of a near perfect blood pressure reading. She asked me to detail all my health concerns and proclaimed me generally very healthy. I left with a referral to a new and improved GI doc who can see me, hopefully, before next winter. My new job is getting the retired doctor’s office to forward medical records to the new guy. So far, I’ve left a derriere load of voice messages and, per the looping voice of the welcome message, used the new texting feature. Such is the journey of someone with a decent tolerance for pain who has a face that involuntarily grimaces. And we wonder why no one likes the healthcare system. I have named my supposed hernia Wilma. She’s well-mannered but a little spunky when she must be. Wilma and I have decided to stay the course together, in sickness and in health, till a surgeon do us part.
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