Has Anyone Ever Told You?

I took the first available appointment for the rheumatologist. The back specialist was booked out for months. Months. I believed that I only needed one appointment and it wasn't with a rheumatologist. 

Still, I made the appointment. I kept the appointment.

It was a rainy Friday afternoon. The office was running behind, but I checked in and waited. Several patients came and went as I waited, busily completing the patient profile sheet, the pain inventory form, the insurance details, and so many more. 

As I filled out what felt like reams of redundant paperwork, I developed a bit of a chip on my shoulder. Those other patients don't look like me.  They have difficulty moving. They have canes, walkers, wheelchairs and many required assistance from someone else. I don't belong here, right? Like, this is a colossal waste of time. I should leave. I should just wait for the back specialist. 

Before seeing the doctor, technicians took several X-rays my hands and feet. I accumulated reasons to be irritated. How much money had I just spent on 16 worthless and unnecessary X-rays?  I. AM. A. BACK. PATIENT.

I waited again in the tiny white room. The walls were not adorned with paintings of fields or flowers, but rather X-rays of misshapen hands, casualties of inflammatory conditions. A fancy iPad on a moveable stand invited patients awaiting the doctor to TOUCH & LEARN. I touched, scrolled, read, compared, and I learned. I read 100% of the content in my long waiting period. Scanning the room for more reading material, I realized that my X-rays were visible on the computer. A quick comparison of my hands to the misshapen hands on the wall posters/office decorations added weight to the chip on my shoulder. My hands don't look like that. 

See? I don't belong here.

The rheumatologist walked in, harried and busy at the end of the day and the week. "Hi," he said. "Sorry to keep you waiting. You are a new patient?" He asked, turning a sentence into a question with simple upspeak.

"Well, kind of, I guess, but I don't really belong here," I said. "I'm a back patient."

Physician (sarcastically): "Oh? Are you a doctor?"

Me (equally irritated): "Well, no, but I have eyes. I can see that my hands on the screen (pointing to the computer) don't look like those (pointing to the wall posters)."

Doctor (Still sarcastic): "Are you a radiologist now?"

Me (irritated): "No but I can see."

Doctor: "Has anyone ever told you that you have rheumatoid arthritis?"

Me: (still irritated) "No."

Doctor: "Well, that's what you are going to hear today. You have rheumatoid arthritis. It's not a close call. You already have damage to your joints. You have already delayed treatment. If you want help, I can help you and you can begin this weekend, and if you don't that's fine too."

He sounded as if someone should have stopped me on the streets of New York City or Chicago to deliver the news that I had rheumatoid arthritis and because they had not delivered that tidbit, he was left to the task.

Of course I knew what he meant. Had any physician told me that I had this serious illness. 

In retrospect, I should have said sarcastically, "OH yes! I forgot! Of course I have had this diagnosis for a while and kept it a secret as I have remained in constant pain choosing to surprise you at the end of the work day and the work week inconveniencing you terribly."

Later we formed a nice working relationship, but in that moment, I could have pinched him with the goal of leaving a mark.

I felt as if someone should have warned me. There should have been foreshadowing of some kind during the day.

Creepy music should have played to tell me how to feel.

It was one of those defining moments that should have had music accompanying it to soften the blow.

Instead it the only sound effect was the steady rainfall in Friday rush hour traffic that accompanied the drive home.