I’ve recently been forced by my own body to sort of grow up. Mysterious symptoms and aggravation have led me (Husband would say, “Finally!!”) to going to see doctors to try and figure out why I’ve been feeling almost sick but not quite for a while now. This isn’t just the therapy thing but regular old doctors, too. I’m the kind of person for whom that creates a lot of cognitive dissonance; there’s a whole lot of discomfort in telling virtual strangers about my most embarrassing asset, my body. Still, there’s a certain amount of pride I have at the moment, too. It’s the first time in my grown up life when I wasn’t extremely sick, e.g., with strep or bronchitis or something, but I’ve still acknowledged that I should get help from an expert.
When I was a classroom teacher one of my biggest complaints was that some parents assumed they knew just as much as I did because they all went to school. How hard could my job be, really? Right? I think some of us are like that with doctors, too. We recognize the need for specialists or the need to see the doctor when we know we’re really sick. Don’t we treat them sort of like middlemen, though? “Hey, Dr. I have strep. Can I get the z-pack, please?” We self diagnose and Internet diagnose and get parkinglot diagnoses from our coworkers. I’ve decided that’s not ok for me anymore.
So, I’m taking care. Taking care of myself when I’m not so sick that I can’t walk is a new concept for me. I’m glad I’m grown up enough to recognize what I need.