You’re so angry. You’re stomping the ground. You’re slamming down phones. You’re crying from frustration. But one thing is missing…
You can’t scream.
Here’s the irony: the very doctors who tell you not to prescribe the silent treatment seem hellbent on making you scream louder and longer than was ever necessary before they entered your life.
Why so angry, Katy?
Last week the sweetest tiny Filipino woman named May kept my anxiety at bay while shoving ounces of numbing fluid and cords up my nose in order to install a PH monitor. My gastroenterologist (whom I affectionately refer to as Dr. D-Bag) ordered the outpatient procedure to determine whether I have acid reflux, and if so, how we can help control it better so it stops stealing my voice.
I won’t go into the details of having a cord shoved down your throat and remaining there for 24 hours while you eat, sleep, change clothes and have a meeting with all of the school officials in your department (the first time most of them are meeting you!). What I will say is don’t wish this device on anyone. Oh, and it ain’t cheap either.
Today Dr. D called me with the results. It didn’t occur to him before today to explain to me that this test wouldn’t actually tell him whether I have acid reflux (which I thought was the sole purpose of the test. Since, you know, it’s a PH monitor…). Why wouldn’t the test determine what it’s created to determine? My genius doctor told me to stay on my medication during the test.
“Well”, he starts, “If you have acid reflux, the medicine is working great!”
…
And if I don’t? I’m just pumping this shit into my body for absolutely NO REASON. Unfortunately, I don’t have another $500 lying around, nor the desire to relive the procedure anytime soon, so I will not be redoing the test and the proton pump inhibitors will continue to go straight down the hatch.
He did explain that I still have reflux, just non-acid reflux. As you can imagine, we had a very “Who’s on first?”-esque exchange until he explained that non-acid reflux is still reflux, it’s just not acid that’s coming up my throat. Well then who’s the culprit? Who knows.
(If only Who was on first so I could ask him.)
My caring, didn’t stop there. He suggested I check back in with him in 6 months. I asked what the difference would be and what we’d be looking for. He replied, “You’re very analytical. You obviously care about your health, and I respect that, but we’ll just have to see when we see.”
Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?
That’s why I want to scream.
Seriously if I could I would. But, don’t worry, Nataly Dawn. I won’t.
I don’t want to waste what voice I have left lamenting the compassion of an overpaid jerk-off who probably has a mirror surgically affixed to his left hand so he has something to admire while constantly jacking off all over his patients.
Screaming Substitute?
Since there’s not currently a safe diet scream on the market, exercise is my outlet. I may or may not have gone for a run and pretended his face was the pavement while jamming this little gem. Judge all you want.
Until I figure out what else I can do to fix this, I’ll continue taking 40 mg of Omeprazole and taking speech therapy. So far my puny voice has come back a little since the latter.
The Silent Treatment 