love-hate

I am beginning to develop a love-hate relationship with the doctors at Kaiser. On the one hand, I was delighted the first time I saw my doctor about the persistent ear aches I've been having since October that she immediately recommended I get evaluated for TMJ—a jaw problem that could well be causing the pain. This seemed proactive and appropriate, and I was further delighted when a physical therapist confirmed the diagnosis and gave me three easy exercises that take about six minutes a day and make a big difference in how my entire upper body feels. The second time I saw the doctor, she gave me antibiotic-plus-cortisone-laced ear drops for the distinct infection that had developed in my ear, and I again thought I was in good hands. But the THIRD time.... . Need I say more?

I feel ridiculous admitting it, but tonight was the fourth time I saw a doctor there about something related to my ear. My face is swollen right next to my ear, and it's tender to the touch and my entire head aches, so I called this morning, and my doctor said I needed to come in—today. The only opening was in the evening and with someone else, but I took it.

When the doctor walked in, I just stared at her. Kaiser is not the kind of place you expect to see a doctor who is all legs, with high-heeled, patent-leather mary janes, thin black stockings, and diamonds all over—in her ears, at her neck, on her fingers. She stared at me too. She looked from my cozy gray turtleneck sweater down to my pink Converse and then crossed her arms as though in irritation. Comfort clothes, I wanted to say, defending myself; I don't feel good and am in comfort clothes! But she moved on, asking what the problem was.

I explained the swelling. She pressed on it, pushed on it, tugged at it. "You have a pimple there." I held my tongue but then let it go. "I've had plenty of pimples; they don't cause this." She turned and looked at me from another angle—not up close, but from a few feet away, with her arms crossed more firmly now. "Your face is lopsided." It was a good thing I'd just taken 800 mg of iboprofin or I might have lept out of my skin. Calmly, I assured her, "No, it's not." "Well, it looks lopsided. Maybe your cheek is swollen too." I got up to face the mirror. But before I could agree that it did in fact look swollen, she commented dryly, "Or maybe your face is just lopsided." I had to get out my driver's license to deter her from pursuing this track further; viewing it, she conceded I seemed symmetrical there. "But it's such a small picture," she had to add.

Needless to say, I came home this time with no new cures and no new love of health care. My lymph nodes are swollen or my TMJ is acting up or any number of benign things are causing my discomfort. That's good, and I'm glad, but would it have killed her to tell me she hopes I feel better? All she left me with was her lack of concern. "This is nothing I'm going to jump up and down about," she stated flatly. Fine, I thought. Good, I thought. You'd probably break your ankle in those heels of you did.

I hate ending on a negative note, but she left me with one!