It turns out that my visit to my new shrink -- actually, he wasn't a shrink, but a psychologist -- was quite productive. He agreed that I need to be on a pain management protocol.
Pills, people. Stronger than Vicodin.
He agrees I need to enter the land of as-pain-free-as-possible.
And I love him.
The coolest moment was this:
I came off a rant, describing my pain, the red-hot pokers jabbed halfway through my torso from the back, six on each side of my spine, the constant marathoner's lactic acid burn in my legs, the aching in my arms that makes them feel swelled like spinached Popeye, the always-on migraine (and its friends nausea, phono- and photophobia), and he said
"Don't take this the wrong way, and don't get mad... but I really wouldn't want to be you.
"To the extent I can imagine what it must be like to be you, I wouldn't trade places with you for anything. You have to go to U of M, to Detroit, to Chicago... You have to get on a program that Dr 9 can stick to..."
I thanked him because he was the only one who hadn't condescended to me after my pain-description tirade. "Oh my god I'm so sorry. Try to stay positive." Christ. Let me douse you with gasoline, light a match and you try to fucking stay positive.
The good doctor is going to stay (very) late to dictate a message to Dr 9 to tell him that I need to get on an extremely aggressive pain management protocol. And he's going to follow up.
Caring is creepy for a doctor to do in this purgatory of a town.
05 February, 2008