I love him.
Don’t get me wrong, I think he’ll be just as useless as the rest of them, but he listens. He thinks before he speaks. He even *gasp* believes my stories without having to double-check them against every doctor I’ve ever seen (although this may have to do with my BS meeting with him before my appointment – I imagine she gave him a healthy dose of “don’t fuck with her” before she bid him adieu).
He gave me back my valium, told me that my previous doctors were assholes (a fact of which I’m well aware, but it’s always nice to have angry allies), and then lo and behold: my boobs gave a performance!
Right there in the room, my chest spasm-ed in a most excellent demonstration of the hell that I’ve been through (see video below for an older recording, but a similar performance), and his eyes almost bugged out of his head. He called doctors and nurses alike in to see them do their evil little dance, and damn it if I didn’t walk out of there with tons of drugs, but more importantly: sympathy. I really feel as though I deserve some sympathy.
Jason waited in the car while I was in my appointment, and when I climbed back in, I burst into tears. He looked sad, asking “another one?” (assuming, of course, that it was a bad appointment), but I just shrugged and sniffled while he hugged me. Sometimes I think hope is the worst thing a doctor can give to a patient like me, but maybe this time it will get me through…