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H's cardiologist was recommended to us by a friend who has a whole lot of food allergies and immune system problems from environmental stressors. Dr. T is a strong believer in alternative and body-mind-spirit treatments, so we asked if he could recommend a GP with similar sensibilites, since he didn't want to take me on as a GP patient. He recommended Dr. A, a So. African of Greek descent. Tuesday was my first appointment. It was a little hairy, since Monday morning I came down with galloping diarrhea and crippling cramps. It was a shoot-me-now scenario, and I thought at first it was food poisoning, it was that sudden of onset and that severe. Dr. A has a cancel 24 hours ahead of your appointment or pay $50 policy, and this was a first appointment, so since it was already past 24 hours between my illness and my appt. time, I decided to wait and see if I felt better enough by then to keep it. The good news is, by midnight I was better enough to risk a single slice of dry toast and a small helping of applesauce. I woke up feeling better still, though still unable to face coffee. So I showered and dressed and went off to meet my new doctor. It's been years since I've seen anybody other than the gyno, or the Immediate Care Clinic's rotating staff when I've gotten ill enough to need treatment. I was pleased, on the whole, with the experience. The practice was located in a clean and neat, but older and less "upscale" medical area. The waiting room was large, airy, clean, well-lighted with lamps rather than fluorescents, full of (cheap but new, bright and clean) wicker furniture, there was a fountain burbling away, and the feng shui was good, it put one at ease immediately. The office staff was pleasant and willing to engage, rather than having the usual polite teflon exterior. They all introduced themselves to me by their first names, and I had no problem reciprocating with my first name. I abhor being called by my first name by someone I've never met because they're too lazy to attempt my last name. It's demeaning, and it happens all too often. I was taken back into a treatment room almost immediately, and the nurse-nutritionist-dietician person came in to fill out a form for me, take my bp. She left saying the dr. would be in soon, and he was, in fewer than five minutes. I was fully dressed, and he was in shirtsleeves, with no white coat. We talked while he made notes and consulted the forms they'd mailed me to fill out and bring regarding my history.
He agreed that part of my problem is environmental stressors, part is metabolic, and we laid out a plan that seems reasonable, and achievable. It won't be pleasant, or indulgent, but he has every expectation that I'll succeed, which makes consoling myself with foods I love, even though I know they're damaging, easier to give up. He's set very realistic goals, and I'm almost positive I can exceed them, not just meet them. But he admonished me not to lose 20 pounds in a month, because it's too easy to gain back. The goal weight he set is still ludicrously high, but he wants to try and make metabolic and other systemic changes as I lose, and slower is better, as I can make permanent changes for the better.
He gave me a whole list of supplements to shop for, and an organic substitute sweetener that isn't aspartame or splenda. We're already doing a lot of the things he recommended: less beef, more poultry and "small fish," with salmon as the cutoff. Why small? Mercury content. Only organic milk and eggs, no tuna, no cold cuts, butter and olive oil rather than hydrogenated fats, whole-grain complex carbs, etc. They set up a meeting for me with the dietician-nutritionist next Thursday, so until then, I'm having potatoes and rice and ice cream, and we're going to Nawab, so I can have potatoes and peas and naan, and beef and chicken over saffron rice before I start on the No White Food diet. I do hope that in the future, when I've gotten my body back under control, I can have the occasional ice cream cone, or homemade sorbet, or, you know, naan.
They also set up a mammogram for yesterday, with an imaging facility I'd never been to. The main mammo place is referred by all the gynos in town, I think, and they do nothing but mammo. The office staff are tightassed, snotty cows, although I've found the techs to be warm and caring. They are either middle aged and botoxed to the hilt and nailed to their desk or counter position, or apparent teenagers wearing all their worldly goods in gold upon their persons, who screech your name along with a dozen others like some sort of surreal cattle call, after you've paid upfront, in full, and have waited for a minimum of forty minutes. They then lead your little parade of apprehensive women down the corridor, calling off first names and pointing at doors to cubicles and instructing in bored voices, "Take off your clothes and jewelry from the waist up. Put on the blue cape. Someone will come and get you for the procedure." They also cost twice the price of the imaging place. The public hospital, the huge university teaching hospital, and the private hospital are all owned by the same HMO that owns almost every medical practice, specialist practice, therapy, treatment and imaging center in town. The office staff in all those places are mercenary hotshots, who apparently never deal with anybody who isn't a deadbeat, and who are either so entitled that they don't have to fake concern for anyone coming for treatment, or so scoured by bad experience with their clientele that they can't summon a shred of empathy. If you offer an insurance card, preferrably for the megalopolis-HMO, you get a perfunctory smile and a cursory speech by rote. If you don't have insurance, you will cough up your firstborn and two pints of blood on the spot, or you can just turn around and walk out. The truly unfortunate thing is that in this town, there are very few practices that haven't sold out to them. Dr. A and the imaging place are two of the holdouts. Thank the stars.
The women at the check-in counter were mature, engaging, and responsive. The assistant who took me back to the separate, smaller mammo waiting room was also. And the tech was, too. She obviously had the ovaries to have been take-no-prisoners with a snotty client, but she laughed at my break-the-tension small talk, and she took some time to learn to pronounce my name. And we joked about the nature of the procedure, and it was fine. Even with the discomfort, I'd be willing to go back quarterly, simply due to the quality of treatment and the atmosphere. And did I mention, half the price, and since I'm self-pay, installments?
So, on the whole, I'm feeling much more positive about medical stuff. And about stuff in general. We'll see how it goes.
He agreed that part of my problem is environmental stressors, part is metabolic, and we laid out a plan that seems reasonable, and achievable. It won't be pleasant, or indulgent, but he has every expectation that I'll succeed, which makes consoling myself with foods I love, even though I know they're damaging, easier to give up. He's set very realistic goals, and I'm almost positive I can exceed them, not just meet them. But he admonished me not to lose 20 pounds in a month, because it's too easy to gain back. The goal weight he set is still ludicrously high, but he wants to try and make metabolic and other systemic changes as I lose, and slower is better, as I can make permanent changes for the better.
He gave me a whole list of supplements to shop for, and an organic substitute sweetener that isn't aspartame or splenda. We're already doing a lot of the things he recommended: less beef, more poultry and "small fish," with salmon as the cutoff. Why small? Mercury content. Only organic milk and eggs, no tuna, no cold cuts, butter and olive oil rather than hydrogenated fats, whole-grain complex carbs, etc. They set up a meeting for me with the dietician-nutritionist next Thursday, so until then, I'm having potatoes and rice and ice cream, and we're going to Nawab, so I can have potatoes and peas and naan, and beef and chicken over saffron rice before I start on the No White Food diet. I do hope that in the future, when I've gotten my body back under control, I can have the occasional ice cream cone, or homemade sorbet, or, you know, naan.
They also set up a mammogram for yesterday, with an imaging facility I'd never been to. The main mammo place is referred by all the gynos in town, I think, and they do nothing but mammo. The office staff are tightassed, snotty cows, although I've found the techs to be warm and caring. They are either middle aged and botoxed to the hilt and nailed to their desk or counter position, or apparent teenagers wearing all their worldly goods in gold upon their persons, who screech your name along with a dozen others like some sort of surreal cattle call, after you've paid upfront, in full, and have waited for a minimum of forty minutes. They then lead your little parade of apprehensive women down the corridor, calling off first names and pointing at doors to cubicles and instructing in bored voices, "Take off your clothes and jewelry from the waist up. Put on the blue cape. Someone will come and get you for the procedure." They also cost twice the price of the imaging place. The public hospital, the huge university teaching hospital, and the private hospital are all owned by the same HMO that owns almost every medical practice, specialist practice, therapy, treatment and imaging center in town. The office staff in all those places are mercenary hotshots, who apparently never deal with anybody who isn't a deadbeat, and who are either so entitled that they don't have to fake concern for anyone coming for treatment, or so scoured by bad experience with their clientele that they can't summon a shred of empathy. If you offer an insurance card, preferrably for the megalopolis-HMO, you get a perfunctory smile and a cursory speech by rote. If you don't have insurance, you will cough up your firstborn and two pints of blood on the spot, or you can just turn around and walk out. The truly unfortunate thing is that in this town, there are very few practices that haven't sold out to them. Dr. A and the imaging place are two of the holdouts. Thank the stars.
The women at the check-in counter were mature, engaging, and responsive. The assistant who took me back to the separate, smaller mammo waiting room was also. And the tech was, too. She obviously had the ovaries to have been take-no-prisoners with a snotty client, but she laughed at my break-the-tension small talk, and she took some time to learn to pronounce my name. And we joked about the nature of the procedure, and it was fine. Even with the discomfort, I'd be willing to go back quarterly, simply due to the quality of treatment and the atmosphere. And did I mention, half the price, and since I'm self-pay, installments?
So, on the whole, I'm feeling much more positive about medical stuff. And about stuff in general. We'll see how it goes.