Why I Hate My Consultant. Part One

Today I had to fill out a form. At the part where it asked for my medical history, I wrote the following:

Osteoarthritis

Fibromyalgia

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

Myofascial Pain Syndrome

Lupus

Degenerative Disc Disease

ME (I refuse to combine CFS with ME)

Hypothyroidism

Allergic Rhinitis

I didn’t even bother writing down the illnesses within those illnesses, which would have equalled The Britannica Encyclopedia in size, just  handed the completed form back to the receptionist who read it and then gave me a look.
I had seen that look a thousand times over the course of each diagnosis. It was a look that said, “you’re kidding me right? There’s no way you have all of these.” In other words, she was calling me out to be either a liar, or  at very the least, a hypochondriac. I glared back at her and watched as she perused the list once more. That’s when her resting bitch-face, which had been firmly at repose, suddenly became animated and arranged itself into a full on venomous she-devil face as she tartly asked, “Isn’t chronic fatigue and ME the same thing?” Obviously as well as working the desk, she also had a certification as a medical practitioner.

“No”, I replied, although it took every ounce of my being not to tagged “bitch” at the end of that one simple word. Then I continued, “there are very acute differences in both conditions. It’s only those who don’t do their research who lump them together because of their similarities. It’s a lazy diagnosis, but you can place them together if it makes your job easier.” And then the bitch “Hmph” me! She actually closed her mouth in order to produce a sound that denoted a “fuck you!” I almost told her that if she didn’t like her job, then she should go back to her original occupation as a woman of the night, but instead settle with a remark that she needed to go back to training in order to learn how to deal with patients in a polite manner. This time she remained quiet and I went and took a seat awaiting my appointment.

Fast forward and my name is finally called. On entering the room, I try very hard to stifle my disappointed groan, because this particular consultant and I have had words on more than a few occasions. He’s the type that thinks because he has risen through the ranks to become a specialist, he now holds superiority over all human life. I note the equal look of disappointment on his face as he realises who his first patient is, and match my genuine smile at that, to his own wolf-like grimace.

As we both make idle conversion, neither one of us caring about the other’s answers, I take a chair and wait patiently for the battle to begin. It doesn’t take long.