I really hate when people tell me what my disease is doing when I live in this rotten body and know how it feels -- I didn't get my information from a textbook to tell me how I feel. I listen to my body, I can feel the pain and new problems, I can even recognize that "feeling" I get when I am attack-y. It really irritates me when people tell me that what I am feeling could not possibly be an attack because ______. When my neurologist told me that because I'm on Tysabri I couldn't possibly be having an attack, I told her, in no uncertain terms, that my fellow MSer friends on the web, who are also on Tysabri, are going through attacks of their own. I didn't think her eyebrows could get much higher, but they did. They joined her hair line for a few seconds before she could back peddle and tell me that it is possible to have attacks on Tysabri. I gave her all the information I could about how my body is feeling, I even told her the most pertinent piece of information: I've had to switch from crunchy to smooth peanut butter. But that failed to impress her, not realizing that I am a die hard crunchy peanut butter girl. They drew my blood again (to see if I had developed antibodies to Tysabri), they made me pee in a little cup again, and they checked all my body parts (and some I didn't even know I had) to make sure I didn't have an infection somewhere unbeknownst to me. They have a new director of the MS clinic I go to, so she came in to give me some unwanted and unneeded information. She told me that they couldn't possibly give me Percocet or Vicodin for the pain. I never take that kind of stuff and thought she must be talking to someone behind me; I even turned around to see who she was talking to only to find out she knew nothing about me because I try to take the least amount of medicine and never want addiction-risking drugs. If she had even glanced at my file she would have known that. My neurologist knows that I won't take too many pills or take any thing that might make me more tired or risk getting dependent on. But not the new god of the MS clinic. She sailed in, made me repeat all the things my neurologist just had me do, then sat down to tell me what my MS is and is not. When she went on and on about what I am feeling, I closed my ears. I know what I am feeling. I don't need someone to try and talk me out of it or minimize the pain and new symptoms I'm having -- go back to your textbooks, Cat Box Breath Doctor Of Redundancy, and dig a little deeper. I may not be a doctor but I know my body. It made me miss my old neurologist that moved to Florida a year ago. He respected my knowledge of my own body and knew that we are the experts of our bodies and know what is wrong and what has changed. He never tried to tell me what I am feeling. I wanted to tell her majesty that she didn't need a push up bra because it only made her look like an overloaded ship plowing through the waters and when your cleavage starts half a millimeter below your neck, maybe you should use a little less padding in your brassiere. Or wear a shirt that isn't so low cut the lacy edges of your bra show over it. And you don't need 5 rings on every finger. It doesn't make you look classy or rich, just tacky. She had obviously never heard the "less is more" rule of thumb about cleavage or jewelry. Everybody was awed by her and bowed to her knowledge of MS, I even saw my neurologist nodding along with the things she was saying -- expect the pain meds part, she knows me better than that. I wanted to like her and find that she could give me new information that would help me, but when she tried to tell me what I'm feeling that all went away and I decided I couldn't possibly like her. But I may still give her some mouthwash and a toothbrush for Christmas. I'm nice like that.
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