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After a few months working at the big supermarket, my knees &
knuckles started to hurt and my fingers would become cold and never
want to warm up. As I worked in the dairy and frozen food
departments, it was easy to explain away these problems as my fingers
were often being exposed to the cold food packages and my knees
perhaps needing to get used to pulling carts full of boxes, again.
The only problem with this, though, was that unlike my original years
working at the family owned grocery store where I did all these
things without pain or cold finger problems, this new grocery store
had powered jacks to move boxes of food around and store-paid-for
gloves. If anything this job should have had less of an
impact on me, physically.
As I had insurance this year through my mother's job at the local
hospital, I decided to go ahead and use it... The question is how?
Pick a name out of a phone book? Talking to my mother about
this, she recommended I start with her primary care doctor and with
little other guidance it seemed like a good enough choice. Calling
his office, I made an appointment with my mother's primary doctor and
soon saw him about it. A younger man with a well trimmed beard and
glasses, he was nice, polite, and examined my hands briefly then
recommended I see a joint specialist and gave me a name. I was soon
off to see the joint doctor. Being more in demand, I had to wait a
month before I could get in.
Mother decided to join me on this trip and stayed in the waiting
room. I'm unsure why she chose to come, at the time I didn't see any
harm to it. Filling out the initial paperwork was a chore given its
many pages of handwritten forms and my problems with writing by hand.
I had come in the half hour early, as requested, but realized in the
future I needed to make sure I had more time than that. Fortunately
the specialist was running behind, giving me more time to complete
the paperwork before I was taken to an examination room. Unlike the
primary doctor who had quickly looked at my hands, the joint doctor's
first step was to have me dress into a gown so he could examine all
my limbs. This made me nervous given my A.C.E. bandaged area, but as
I was told he was going to look over my limbs, I decided just to put
on the gown and make sure the opening flaps overlapped so none of the
bandage around my chest would show.
A somewhat shorter, but more energetic man, he swooped in, introduced
himself, briefly asked me of the history of my symptoms and then
examined my hands, arms, knees and legs. I had full motion of them
all, just the pain residing in my knuckles and knees. Then I was
caught off guard when he noticed circular red rashes on my legs.
Once he pointed them out, they were obvious and that seemed to be the
final clue for him and he left saying I could get dressed. Once
dressed, I was ushered into the waiting room where I touched base
with my mother about the doctor, and then we were called to his
office. He explained to me that I had Lyme Disease, I had
gotten it when driving through Connecticut on my way to Colorado from
New England. I felt the need to point out that I hadn't driven
through Connecticut on my way here, and he very firmly assured me
I had. The circular rashes on my legs were from
the recent Deer Tick bites I had gotten going through Connecticut and
a blood test would prove his diagnosis and he gave me a prescription
for my ''first course of antibiotics'' that would start to cure the
disease. As I had driven to Colorado nearly two years earlier, it
was hard for me to imagine how any Deer Tick bites I might have
gotten during the trip could have been labeled ''recent''. But he
was very sure of himself & convincing and since there'd be a
blood test to prove it objectively, I didn't see any reason to argue.
Mother and I left his office with her beaming about how great the
doctors were in town and we went straight to the hospital to get the
blood drawn before I could start the antibiotics. The only previous
blood draws that I could remember were in childhood when the doctor
would prick my finger with a lance, then take that drop of blood and
put it on a slide. This was the first time when they found the vein
in my arm and took a whole vial full, or two. Off to the drug store
to get the prescription, it wouldn't be ready until the next day.
Sure enough, one week into the two week ''initial'' course of
antibiotics, the joint pains went away and I was now sold on the
doctor having known what he had been talking about. When I went to
see him the following week for a follow-up and get the script for my
next course of antibiotics, he was angry. The blood tests had not
confirmed his diagnosis and he 'knew'
I had started the antibiotics before I had the blood test and didn't
I remember him telling me I couldn't start the antibiotics before I
got the blood drawn?!? I assured him I had, he called
me a liar. Stunned for a moment by this accusation, I
realized I had the prescription bottle in my pocket and pulled it out
for him, showing the date on the bottle. He took it from me and
compared it to the date on the blood test paperwork, then smacked it
down on the edge of his desk as his way of handing it back to me. I
caught it as it rolled off toward me.
He told me he couldn't have gotten the diagnosis wrong given I'd
driven through Connecticut on my way to Colorado. I again mentioned
that I hadn't, but instead gone west through New York state,
then south. Why hadn't I mentioned that before? he demanded.
I fought to retain my cool and not reflect his mood as I responded in
an even tone, ''I had.'' He paced his office and I decided I'd try
to make him feel better by mentioning that the antibiotics had
actually helped and I'd like to continue with them. He told me there
was no reason for me to take them and he'd have to think about my
case some more. I could leave.
A couple weeks off of the antibiotics, the joint pains returned.
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