The Answer to the Dots: Derm Weighs In!

I took my crazy Rachel body to the dermatologist’s this morning, in order to ascertain what the fudgie-the-whale is going on with my weird leg spots. Thankfully, my husband was able to take yet another morning off, despite it being another week of his new faculty orientation. A side note about that whole thing is how silly the military is about some things: why is he having to spend weeks orienteering himself to a campus at which he just spent his last full year? I’m pretty sure he knows where all the bathrooms are, and how to find the library?

I know I’ve mentioned the leg torture machine, here and there. This is the CPM machine, with my leg bending at 70-degrees. I have to use it 6-hours a day. I put my leg in, and it bends my leg to a prescribed degree, then bends it back to neutral, over and over again, until the end of time. It’s truly the best time ever.

I know I’ve mentioned the leg torture machine, here and there. This is the CPM machine, with my leg bending at 70-degrees. I have to use it 6-hours a day. I put my leg in, and it bends my leg to a prescribed degree, then bends it back to neutral, over and over again, until the end of time. It’s truly the best time ever.

 

I’ve been out of the “working” world for so long, that I get ambitious for a 9 am appointment, thinking that I can shower and get my makeup on, you know, look human, beforehand. I get the idea that if I get up at 7-7:30, I can accomplish the goal of leaving by 8:30, and be on time. Like always though, I left in sweatpants and a t-shirt, with my teeth brushed, and nothing more.

 

Honestly, if I had to get a real job again, I think it would be tragic for everyone. The poor peoples of the public sphere would be forced to see me straggly-haired and hideous, because I simply cannot stop snooze-buttoning, and/or I would drive my family crazy with flurrying around the house to get public-ready.

 

One of my favorite pictures of Mew from this week. He is a super anti-social cat, but he adores me, and his evening snuggles against my chest. This is his jealous face when I dared to give Bear a little scratch during Mew’s time. I thought it was adorable. My favorite part of this photo was that when I showed it to Bryon, he totally didn’t get it. He was like, “What? it’s the cats??” Non-cat people don’t get their little personalities. I think I might be crazy, and recognizing it is the first sign. I don’t want to do anything about it, but I do recognize it.

One of my favorite pictures of Mew from this week. He is a super anti-social cat, but he adores me, and his evening snuggles against my chest. This is his jealous face when I dared to give Bear a little scratch during Mew’s time. I thought it was adorable. My favorite part of this photo was that when I showed it to Bryon, he totally didn’t get it. He was like, “What? it’s the cats??” Non-cat people don’t get their little personalities. I think I might be crazy, and recognizing it is the first sign. I don’t want to do anything about it, but I do recognize it.

Anyway, back to the dermatologist! I couldn’t believe how busy this place was for a 9 am appointment! She’d already seen and cleared patients before we’d gotten there. I’m impressed with someone who is up and working before 9 am, on a Monday morning (back to my previous morning laziness). One thing chronic illness will get you, if you can afford it, (thank goodness for that!) is the ability to sleep in, on a Monday morning, without judgement.

 

The best part of this appointment was that it was totally unnecessary. But, of course I couldn’t cancel it because of the whole, “we’ll charge you $50 if you don’t cancel it by 5 pm the day before,” which was Friday. This is what my leg looked like this morning when we went in, despite the hideousness that it was last week:

Two things come to mind when i see this: first, i’m almost healed from the plague I had last week: and second, I used to have wicked calf muscles. Damn, it’s going to take a lot of work to get back to normal. Don’t surgeons know that I’m over 40. It takes 10x the amount of work to gain muscle and tone we lose when we lose it! Gaaaah! Not looking forward to this

Two things come to mind when i see this: first, i’m almost healed from the plague I had last week: and second, I used to have wicked calf muscles. Damn, it’s going to take a lot of work to get back to normal. Don’t surgeons know that I’m over 40. It takes 10x the amount of work to gain muscle and tone we lose when we lose it! Gaaaah! Not looking forward to this


I was pretty sure that this was going to be a waste of time, or that worse, she was going to be willing to take a biopsy, “just in case.” No one wants their skin sliced and diced just for the hell of it. Instead, she was the common-sense fairy, sent to deliver the most ridiculous diagnosis I’ve ever heard, and to both put all my fears to rest, and to make me feel like I’m, indeed, the most broken body in the universe.

All prepped for slicing and dicing me, if the need arose. Phew. It did not.

All prepped for slicing and dicing me, if the need arose. Phew. It did not.

 

I had an allergic reaction to, wait for it…Cold.

 

I did not have frost-bite. Apparently, that presents differently, so let’s be exceptionally clear. I had an allergic reaction to cold. She had a complicated name to what the rash is called, with the suffix “dermis” in there somewhere. I tried to file it away for this very purpose, so I could sound smart and official; however, I forgot it before I even left the exam room.

 

Me: What did she call it, exactly?

Bryon: I don’t know? Something medical.

Me: You are not helpful.

Bryon: Never said I was.

 

Anyway, all the other potential diagnoses were complete garbage. Shingles doesn’t go away that quickly. Vasculitis doesn’t start with a bug-bite presentation the way this did. Frostbite, right out. This was an allergic reaction, and it was specifically obvious to cold being present on my skin 24/7. Apparently, the histamines just build up, and build up, and then say, “nope, had enough.”

 

Oddly enough, I was pretty sure it wasn’t frostbite to begin with, as I’ve had frostbite on my face before, from headaches and ice packs on my face, forehead and jaws. When headaches go on for days, sometimes the ice sits there for hours upon hours and I get patches of frostbite. It’s normally just red and patchy. It never looks like what happened on my leg. I was willing to believe the marks on my leg showed up in the “shape” of the ice placed on the area, but it still seemed a little far-fetched. So, I’m glad I have an easier to believe diagnosis; even if it is a silly one.

 

Oh, and apparently, it’s quite unusual. Yep, of course it is. When she said that, I was like, duh!

 

So, moving forward I have to remember that I am technically “allergic” to the cold, and I should be careful of over-exposure. I plan to use this to my advantage, pushing my “allergy” as a reason to avoid cold weather activities which I already loathe. There shall be no snow shoveling (as if Bryon would let me), no sledding, no snow….fill in the blank, of any kind. There shall be no winter’ing. In other words, I shall forever forth experience winter indoors, from the warmth of the fireplace, waiting to greet my boy with hot chocolate, as he comes in, pink-cheeked and wet with the moisture of hell-season.

 

Allergies. The perfect excuse to avoid something we hate anyway. Can I be allergic to uncomfortable conversations, social situations, and meeting new people?

 

In totally unrelated news, when we arrived home from our excursion to the dermatologist, I discovered that the cats had some sort of extreme play session that landed this toy, which came from downstairs, into the toilet, upstairs. I’m not sure if this means they really had a raucous good time; or, if they are telling me that they hate this toy so much that they had to deeply coordinate this maneuver to throw it out. Either way, it’s now in the trash. Crazy cats. With their crazy cat lady mama.

For some reason, two of my three cats are obsessed with this toilet. No matter how much fresh water they have, they drink out of it. When they aren’t drinking out of it, they are examining it. When I’m on it, they are watching. When I’m not, they are wondering when I’ll be on it next. Cats are weird.

For some reason, two of my three cats are obsessed with this toilet. No matter how much fresh water they have, they drink out of it. When they aren’t drinking out of it, they are examining it. When I’m on it, they are watching. When I’m not, they are wondering when I’ll be on it next. Cats are weird.

 

Oh…and at least this time, for a weird dermatology thing, we didn’t get caught, “humping,” as my son says, like at the lip biopsy appointment a few months back. Nope. On our best behavior.

 

I’m having a hard time transitioning my writing from M.A./Ph.D writing to undergrad. So my paper topic is way too big and too in-depth for a 15-page paper. I have an outline/plan for what could amount for a dissertation or a book. My professor keeps telling me so, and to narrow. I know I need to! But, this weekend, working on the big picture took me two solid days. This was the result: judgemental kitties who didn’t get enough attention while i worked away at my lap desk. Sorry Homer and Bear. Lots of treats coming your way.

I’m having a hard time transitioning my writing from M.A./Ph.D writing to undergrad. So my paper topic is way too big and too in-depth for a 15-page paper. I have an outline/plan for what could amount for a dissertation or a book. My professor keeps telling me so, and to narrow. I know I need to! But, this weekend, working on the big picture took me two solid days. This was the result: judgemental kitties who didn’t get enough attention while i worked away at my lap desk. Sorry Homer and Bear. Lots of treats coming your way.

 

Of Course

I wouldn’t be me, if I didn’t have some weird confounding, extra medical anomaly, connected to my injury, surgery, or recovery. The funny thing is that I don’t actively wait for it, or expect it. I go through life, expecting normal recovery, and then, “Bam,” something weird happens, and I remember, “You can’t have nice things. You live in a body made of defective spare parts someone found in a bin marked ‘don’t use.’”

Finally, a selfie with Bear! It took a lot of work to get this shot! And it’s terrible.

Finally, a selfie with Bear! It took a lot of work to get this shot! And it’s terrible.

 

With this surgery, this awful, painful, dreadful, and torturous surgery, recovery has been slow, but steady. I’ve begun being able to bear weight on my surgical leg. I’ve begun being able to bend it to almost the expected angle, thanks to the most painful physical therapy session that’s ever been conducted, anywhere, ever, to anyone. Just ask. Or, count the tissues that I cried into, during the actual session. Nothing says grown up strong-woman, like crying in public, while a physical therapist manipulates her knee into what seems like normal positions.

 

But, in the last several days, my knee has suddenly looked like this:

Sure….looks like a bunch of bug bits punctuated by smushy leg brace marks. No big deal? Maybe a spider or something was smashed in there overnight and got a feast?

Sure….looks like a bunch of bug bits punctuated by smushy leg brace marks. No big deal? Maybe a spider or something was smashed in there overnight and got a feast?


But, shortly after, they look like this, and stayed that way, which is concerning:

Ummmmmm. WTF?

Ummmmmm. WTF?

At first, they were raised, and very, very, very itchy, like bug bites. We thought, at first, it was dreaded bed bugs. Correction, I thought it was bed bugs. Bryon wants credit for the singular time he was right, as he was certain we did not have bed bugs. I thought it was a reasonable assessment, as I was waking up with new lesions every morning, they were clustered together in groupings, and they itched. However, I was the only one getting bitten, and they were only biting my surgical leg, which was weird. I tried to justify this by saying that my operative leg must’ve smelled juicier and bloodier with all the swelling at the surface. Ew. Finally, there was absolutely NO evidence of bed bugs, despite tearing the bed apart, and examining every square inch. Even the Orkin man that we called confirmed that we were completely clear. Okay, Bryon was right. Mark it down.

 

It was also a good bet that they weren’t bed bug bites because about 24-36 hours after they itched, they flattened out into these weird flat legions that looked super…well, like I should see a doctor. So, I did. I called my primary care physician, who had no clue what it was. His first thought was a super scary word: vasculitis. I didn’t know what that meant, but he seemed awfully concerned about it, especially for a doctor dealing with me at roughly quitting time.

 

He spent about an hour on the phone, texting pictures and calling back and forth between infectious disease (oh my god!!) and my surgeon, arranging for me to be seen immediately the next day, and brainstorming about what was wrong. The working theory for the night was vasculitis.

 

The next day, my first appointment was with the surgeon. His assessment went something like this:

 

Vasculitis? No! It took me a while to remember where I’ve seen this before, but I think it’s frostbite burns from your ice machine pad….(examines the area for a bit) wait, no…it looks like shingles! It’s traveling along the blah-blah nerve. Yeah, I think it’s shingles…yep, the more I look at it, I’d say my best guess is shingles.

The ten minutes we were there, he became more and more convinced it was shingles, the point that all other diagnostic ideas seemed preposterous to him, or at the very least, far secondary options.

 

Call my primary care doctor back to find out what time, and where to go for infectious disease, and the phone call goes like this:

 

Shingles? No way. Probably vasculitis…Or, some kind of infection….not shingles…nope…no how…anyway…this is where you go.

By the way, she wanted me to just “storm the door,” to infectious disease. In other words, her initial plan was for me to just show up, say that I was sent there, and to just camp in the waiting room until someone saw me, because they all know one another, and if I made a stinker of myself, they’d see me sooner. I was NOT about to do that!

 

Get to infectious disease, and this is how that visit goes:

 

Nope, not shingles. And, it’s definitely not vasculitis. That’s for sure. Probably not an infection…spots are too different. Gosh, I have no idea, but it sure isn’t right. You need a biopsy on those spots. Need a dermatologist, or at worst case scenario, a plastic surgeon. But, it’s 3 pm, on a Friday. He calls my primary care doctor, and my surgeon to talk over what they think it could be, again. He wonders if it is an allergy to my own cartilage, or the graft, or maybe the bolts. It’s not.

 

Phone call to Primary Care, after I leave infectious disease, to figure out dermatology:

 

Sorry, called five dermatologists. No one can see you today. They’ve all left because it’s Friday. Expected. Got an appointment for first thing Monday morning.

Hilariously, they ask that if I need to cancel it, I do so before 5 pm, otherwise they will charge me $50. How, I ask you, as they have nothing but my name? However, I will not be cancelling, as I’m thrilled to death to have someone cut a chunk out of my leg. It sounds like fantastic fun.

 

Note from all doctors: if I start to run a fever or start sweating at night, or the spots change in any way, I’m to call any one of them immediately, and/or head to the hospital. I’m not sure which one wants the phone call. I’m sure all three of them would call the other two, since they are all fascinated with the mystery spots now. Since I have kind of a cool doctor that takes care of all my doctor referring, finding and records transferring, they are all on the ball with my bloodwork and the whole case, so they are totally invested. Plus, it’s weird, and their most fascinating case of the week…at least. That’s Rachel: Weird Medical Science.

 

So, that’s been my last two days. It was fun to miss a few hours of class on Tuesday because my doctor was playing phone pissing contest about which diagnosis seemed the most appropriate, who should see me first, in what order, and whose schedule was more booked. My surgeon was great though; all he said was, “send her in, whatever,” which was comforting, because he made me feel like maybe it wasn’t a big deal, and he made me feel like he’d see me no matter what, if something went wrong.

Medical Diagnosis: The Odyssey

My body is weird. I don’t say that in a “I hate my body” kind of way. Don’t get me wrong, I hate my body in all kinds of womanly ways. I hate when I get constipated and my stretchy baby bucket allows my woman pooch to fill up and look like I have a poop baby, gestating to about six months, instead of just a little bloat. I hate that I my boobs are too small, and I hate that I still get acne breakouts. I hate that I have enough cellulite, that a few months ago, Collin, who still follows me to the bathroom asked me, “Mommy, why is your butt skin bumpy and mine isn’t.”

 

But, that isn’t what I mean. I mean that my body behaves weirdly, which makes medical diagnoses difficult, time consuming, and frustrating. There’s a theory, in the medical community, that when you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras. For me, it’s always the zebra, or maybe an emu, or even an ostrich who identifies as a horse, wearing horseshoes.

I don’t have any pictures of horses, ostriches or zebras, but we call Loki, Bear. So, here’s a picture of a Bear.

I don’t have any pictures of horses, ostriches or zebras, but we call Loki, Bear. So, here’s a picture of a Bear.

 

On television, we see doctors like Dr. House, who get a mysterious patient, hone in, and refuse to let go, until they reach a solution. In reality, someone like me, who presents with a wild array of insane symptoms, even one with an already bizarre diagnosis, which may complement the bizarre array of symptoms, and even be a part of the list itself, is shuffled around to an ever-growing list of specialists to find not one diagnosis to tie them together, but a laundry list of them.

 

It’s a game of hand-off, pass the patient. It makes the patient (me) start to wonder if they are crazy. Am I sick? Is there actually anything wrong with me? Maybe this is all in my head? If Doctor A couldn’t figure it out, maybe it’s because there’s nothing there, and I’m actually fine. Am I just a hypochondriac?

 

Then, I remember that Doctor A did find something. He found lots of things; he just isn’t the right doctor to deal with the stuff he found. Medicine, these days, is so compartmentalized and specialized. It’s out of his area of expertise, and the stuff he found was scary. It was so scary, he was worried and insisted I see Doctor B. But, the tests Doctor B ran, ones he was sure would present a positive diagnosis, didn’t; but, they turned up something out of his area of expertise, and now I have to go to Doctor C. And on and on it goes. Now, I am all the way to Doctor Q, and I am tired.

 

Side Note: is Doctor Q a cool villain name, or what?

 

Eventually, I question if I am a not only a hypochondriac, but if I am such a hypochondriac, that I am being a hypochondriac about being a hypochondriac. How meta is that? I am constantly asking doctors if all this is necessary. I am constantly pressing them whether this is crazy; couldn’t I just be fine?

 

Can you imagine being my therapist? She’s paid well.

 

In the past eighteen months, here’s just a sampling my saga:

 

Cardiology

I pass out sometimes, for no reason. I just, poof, go down. Imagine lying on the couch with your head hanging over the side, then quickly standing. For me, just sitting normally gives me that feeling when I stand. I also pass out if I’ve had a bad headache. I’ve never worried about it. I always wake up, right?

 

My primary care physician felt otherwise, at my annual physical, when she took my blood pressure, and it presented as approximately low enough to be dead. Meh, it’s always low. I wasn’t concerned. So, I mentioned the “spells.” She made me do the sitting, standing, lying down blood pressure tests, and they changed dramatically, so she shuffled me off to cardiology for several other tests.

 

All signs pointed to a POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia) diagnosis, not uncommonly comorbid with Chiari.

 

Then, I had a tilt table test, which is the gold standard for diagnosing POTS. They strap you to a mechanized table, that tilts up and down, to see how long it takes to make you pass out. Only medical test I know of that’s basically an amusement park ride. Because they used this table so rarely, at the hospital I went to, the table barely worked; so, I passed (not out) with flying colors. Instead of it “tilting,” to any degree of speed, it moved at the rate of a 103-year-old woman standing up and down.

 

This left the cardiologist scratching her head, and she basically said, “whelp, for all intents and purposes, I’d have diagnosed you with POTS except for the tilt table test.” In other words: Dunno? Looks like a duck, quacks like a duck; but seems like it might be a whale? So, POTS-ish?

 

Hepatology

Did you know that a hepatologist is a liver, gall bladder and pancreas doctor? I do. I know this because I have a hepatologist. I also know my liver’s soft/hard value, because it’s been tested. This is bizarre and seems like something that a chronic drinker should know. I’ve had approximately three glasses of champagne in my entire life.

 

For as long as I can remember, doctors and nurses have said, in passing, after blood draws, “oh, your liver number is elevated,” or, “hmmm, everything looks great, but your alk phos (as if I know what that is) is a little off, probably nothing.” Again, my primary care physician, being ever diligent, noticed a pattern in those pesky numbers. Turns out they are always off. Turns out my liver is a weird-o. Turns out whatever day the random doctor noticed the numbers wasn’t a fluke; it’s consistent.

 

What no one knows is why it’s off, or what to do about it. Liver issues are noted with alcohol, or with obesity. They aren’t noted in thin, vegans who don’t drink. There are a few autoimmune diseases that cause liver disease; I tested negative for all of them. So, I have idiopathic fatty liver; but he isn’t sure I even have fatty liver. At this point, he is just guessing.

 

But, the values of my labs are so off, I have to continuously provide blood to monitor them. The good thing is it’s being watched. The bad thing is that I feel like a time bomb, waiting for my liver to randomly need a replacement. I know it doesn’t really work that way, but it feels that way. Mostly, I think it feels that way because my doctor is in the Georgetown Liver Transplant Center, and his waiting room plays, on a loop, a video about liver transplants. It’s unnerving.

 

Thanks, vital organ, for being weird and janky.

Doctors, doctors, doctors! I think this must’ve been my orthopedist’s office that I felt the need to photograph and save for posterity. Flattering, no? Nothing says sexy like paper shorts and crew socks. They really shorten the leg and make you look like a troll. On a positive note, I’ve not shaved my legs in over a year! Look at that!! You can’t even tell. I have been blessed in very small ways.

Doctors, doctors, doctors! I think this must’ve been my orthopedist’s office that I felt the need to photograph and save for posterity. Flattering, no? Nothing says sexy like paper shorts and crew socks. They really shorten the leg and make you look like a troll. On a positive note, I’ve not shaved my legs in over a year! Look at that!! You can’t even tell. I have been blessed in very small ways.

 

Rheumatology

I did NOT want to go to rheumatology. I felt like it would be a rabbit hole. My pain doctor in California begged me to go for the three years, insisting that my joint deterioration, swelling, and even some of my other body symptoms were all connected. He was sure I was suffering from an autoimmune disease, and that I could be so easily helped, if only I could get a diagnosis that would tie everything together. After a particularly rough week of exhaustion so bad that I could barely move, I thought that surely no normal person is ever this tired, I finally made an appointment.

 

I have been tested for everything under the sun; but, my doctor was almost positive that I have Sjogren’s. It fit with all my symptoms. I am practically the poster child for it. For once, at my next dentist appointment, I’d have no shame about the inevitable new cavities. I would be able tell him that I have Sjogren’s and no matter how much I brush, floss and rinse, it’s almost impossible to battle the crippling dry mouth. I have virtually no saliva, cavities are going to grow. Not that Sjogren’s is just about dry mouth, but since it’s one of the things that’s most annoying, it came to mind.

 

I did find a solution that I particularly like for dry mouth though. If anyone out there has dry mouth from Sjogren’s, or from any meds that you are on, try these! I can’t find them in a store anywhere, you have to order them directly from the company’s web site. My dentist recommended them; they are amazing. It’s not too much to say that they have, literally, changed my life. Better than any rinse, strip, toothpaste, or anything out there. Best thing I’ve ever tried for dry mouth!

 

Alas, Sjogren’s doesn’t have a single test. It’s a diagnosis based on patient history and a few other tests that “help” make a diagnosis. I was negative for the ones that “help.” The test they consider the “gold standard,” is a lip biopsy. We all know how fun that was, based on my last post. I forgot to mention that I was so nervous to get the damn thing done that Bryon came with me, and was leaning over the chair hugging me when the doctor came in to start. The hug looked so awkward based on the chair’s position, that it looked like we were in a rather “delicate” position. The doctor and nurse, literally excused themselves as if we should have our privacy! So embarrassing! When we told Collin the story, he said,

 

“The doctor thought you were humping!”

 

My son, ladies and gentlemen.

 

He’s cute though, right? No, this wasn’t taken at Christmastime. He just wears his holiday pajamas all the time. Who wouldn’t? They are awesome!

He’s cute though, right? No, this wasn’t taken at Christmastime. He just wears his holiday pajamas all the time. Who wouldn’t? They are awesome!

My appointment to go over this negative result is in a few weeks; but, I expect the same type of conversation that we’ve already been having, an echo chamber of what I hear from my other doctors, really: there’s a ton of stuff we are finding in your imaging, tests, and in your blood, but it’s not matching with the predictions we’re making….you have something, I just don’t know what.

 

It’s so unhelpful and makes me so confused and frustrated. It’s always the same story: I have all the symptoms, I have almost all the positive test results, and then poof, I’m negative for something, and it’s very confusing to everyone. But then, alas, I’m positive for something else.

 

Today, I am declaring myself my own disease. I have Rachel. Since Rachel is incurable, there’s no point looking for that. Not to fear, it’s not lethal. However, symptoms are alleviated by her wonderful family (duh), presents purchased from Anthropolgie, Jonny Was, Frye, and especially from Tiffany’s. Symptoms are also reduced by spending time in California with loved ones, and by jolly kittens. They have to be jolly, otherwise the whole thing’s off. Other salves are relaxation with good books, painting, and creativity. Exacerbation of symptoms can be caused by traffic, people who don’t turn their phone volume down in waiting rooms, and anyone who won’t shut up about Game of Thrones.

 

I know that Homer doesn’t look “jolly” here, but he was sound asleep, so he let me tuck a little blanket around him; and he looked so darn precious! I’ve said before that I embrace my crazy cat lady. I feel no shame.

I know that Homer doesn’t look “jolly” here, but he was sound asleep, so he let me tuck a little blanket around him; and he looked so darn precious! I’ve said before that I embrace my crazy cat lady. I feel no shame.

Why Big Pharma Doesn't Care About You

There are lots of things you can think of, in passing, or even for a sixty-minute Nightline episode, form a brief opinion on, and then forget about, when you have the luxury of being relatively healthy. But, those things take a central role in your life when your life is dominated by doctor’s appointments, prescription management, and referrals. Life looks different. So,let’s have a heart-to-heart about “big pharma,” for a minute. I’ve mentioned it before; but, let’s delve into a kinda boring topic.

This is me....here I go....Gosh, I'm cute.

This is me....here I go....Gosh, I'm cute.

It’s a term that gets thrown around loosely, as if there’s a boogey man out there that is menacingly lurking in the corner of your doctor’s office, sneakily dipping his fingers into your medical treatment, like a Svengali, made of money. While I’m not naïve, and there is a business to medicine, the small-fry patient-doctor relationship is not as adversely affected as I think people want to believe.

When we are truly sick, or chronically sick, we want to blame someone, anyone, or anything for why it’s so. We are angry that no one’s listening to us, or that no one has listened to us for so long. We believe that there are cures out there that are being kept from us, being held back for more profitable ones, or medications being sold to us, instead of being prescribed. This is especially easy to believe when we are sick with something chronic, or with something incurable. It’s easy to feel betrayed by a system that hasn’t felt like it was on our side, when tests weren’t ordered, or results not delivered. That’s why it’s so easy to believe that cancer can be cured by baking soda, or that not your doctor, but some doctor has the key to a cure locked away somewhere, but won’t reveal it, for lack of profits to “big pharma.”

But, when we backup a second and realize that, at the core of a doctor-patient relationship are two people, the idea of an amorphous, threatening indistinguishable and intangible force is difficult to believe. I have a hard time believing that, when I look into the eyes of my doctor, who’s watched me cry, that he doesn’t want what’s best for me. Last weekend, he put his newborn daughter down, when we called him after-hours for help. This is the same newborn daughter for whom he dropped all pretense of “doctor,” during our last appointment, showing me dozens of pictures on his phone. I have a difficult time believing that he’s being secretly manipulated by a cloaked figure called “big pharma.” All of these same doctors that you may want to believe are being manipulated have real daughters (sons, wives, parents) and are real people too; I just can’t personalize them like my doctor because I don’t know them.

I read, all the time, especially on message boards, every time someone gets prescribed a new medication, how it’s probably because a doctor was most likely getting a kickback from that pharmaceutical company, not because he was motivated by patient care. I’d rather not believe that there is a large portion of doctors (or humans!) out there, that would put the health of their patients beneath a free cruise, or a second home. That’s not so simple as insulting someone; it’s cruelty at its basest form. It’d be like telling you that you’d rather collect grocery bonus points on peanut butter, putting your name in the hat for a chance at a sweepstakes trip to the Bahamas, than worry about the fact that your kid is allergic to nuts. “Let them eat cake!” Right? ***

There’s a really amazing website, called Open Payments Data, which allows you to put in your doctor’s name to look up, down to the penny, exactly what pharmaceutical companies have given them money, and for what purposes. I’ve yet to come across any doctor, personally, in any specialty, that has had more than $2,500 of pharmaceutical “influence” per year. Phew. They are practically shills, right? Of course, here's the rub, you have to trust the "government," if you want to trust this site, because it's a .gov site. Don't get me started on you guys, who refuse to trust that.

Although, one of my surgeons made a pretty penny last year from a company called Medtronic, and by “pretty penny,” I mean around $50K. So, I looked up what it means to make money under the heading “licensing.” It turns out that his expertise lead to a breakthrough in his field, and they are paying him for use of his new procedure and equipment, similar to a trademark, or patent. And, they have him lecturing on its potential application in spinal injury and paralysis patients. Having this data lets you ask the right questions, not assume that doctors are automatically been given money from a conglomerate. We want our doctors on the cutting edge, researching, and staying current, but we want them to do it for free? That seems unfair.

In 2013, the article, “The $1M Mistake” was published. It tried to shake our preconceived idea that doctors are the financial elite. In fact, it shed light on the fact that doctors are, mostly, underpaid and their time undervalued. The notion that they start med school wide-eyed and driven to help their fellow-man, but somewhere along the way, take a class about Bentleys and McMansions and fall prey to double-booking patients and the allure of “big pharma” shilling, in order to satisfy their greed is insanity. It turns out that while a doctor might make more than, say, a line-worker, they don’t make the money we think they make, especially considering the education, training, and long hours they work. A patient’s perception of us versus them, rich versus poor, elite versus working, is just another barrier between people helping people, and between people being people, together.

Okay, stepping down from my soapbox now. I have an exciting and weird story to tell you guys tomorrow about Collin's visit to the "therapist," we finally found for him. If I can get my ducks together to type about it today and tomorrow morning. Ducks are so hard to line up. They are always getting feathers and poop everywhere. Plus, the quacking. Dear God, the quacking!

I had this beautiful idea of reversing this image to stepping OFF the soapbox. I couldn't figure it out. So, do it in your head. I'm a beautiful, damn unicorn. And, I'm stepping off my soap box!

I had this beautiful idea of reversing this image to stepping OFF the soapbox. I couldn't figure it out. So, do it in your head. I'm a beautiful, damn unicorn. And, I'm stepping off my soap box!

***The Marie Antoinette story about her saying “Qu’ils mangent de la brioche,” which translates to “let them eat cake,” is likely fabricated. According to historians, that line has been attributed to several other women, including Marie Therese. The fact that Marie Antoinette was soft-hearted, and donated often to the poor, and to charity, seems to have been forgotten, and her legacy has lived on in a misquote (probably because she was still aristocracy!).

P.S. I knew I minored in French for a reason. I could translate that French sentence! Don’t let anyone tell you that a French degree is useless! I was also able to order croissants and crepes in Paris, with minimal trouble. And, asking for bathrooms? Forget it! Pas de problem!