Doctor's offices.
They, for real, terrify me. They send me into a mad panic; my blood vessels shrink, my heart beats faster, my hands sweat, and I have an overwhelming urge to vomit my lungs up.
What is it about them?
Sickness? Possible encounter with debilitating germs? White gloves? Weird interior design choices? The beds? The chairs? The sterility? The focused meeting of the eyes? Perhaps a fear of stethoscopes, needles, and popsicle gag sticks?
The receptionists always seem confrontational, money-grubbing, and unapproachable. The nurses seem cold. And the doctors, creepy, old, graying men. Okay. So that's a little 20th century - I mean, these days you can hook yourself up with a female gynecologist and it is okay.
And I guess it's reasonable for the receptionist to seem confrontational - they have to be the ones that force money and organization upon health care. That's a heavy task.
Today I walked away with six vials less of blood, an appointment for an MRI, a referal to a neurologist, some loss of self-dignity (hurk!), and three new holes in my body: meningitis shot, gardisil shot, and blood letting hole.
I shouldn't be surprised that such things make me quiver in my boots - I am generally anxious about most things.
But while I may tremble and be scared and knot my stomach into tiny anxiety-caused knots and have insecurity-induced fears, I am not afraid.
Watch out world, I ain't stayin' in that self-pity closet any longer!
Fogelberg out.
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