A Doctor I’ve never met walks through the exam room door and declares, “I’m Doctor G you’re not going to like me very much.” He was right but for the wrong reason. The mental illness I have often means that I struggle for emotional stability. The stress of Doctors appointments leave me fractured and unstable.

I was expecting a female Physician whom I’d been seeing for the past year. I was receiving my medical care from the San Diego County Health Clinics and this was the second time I’d lost my female Physician without warning.

I’d come in to get my cholesterol numbers and refill my medications. I didn’t expect to be seeing a new Doctor.

When I was eight years old my Mother picked me up after school one day and took me straight to the Doctors office. I’d been ambushed. She made good her threat to have the Doctor burn two large warts off my right hand.

I remember wailing and cowering in the corner of the exam room. My Mother snatched me by the arm, slapped me across the face, looked into my eyes, and muttered under her breath, “Shut up, shut up or I’ll give you something to cry about. “

I knew that look. My mother and I had been engaged in a fierce battle of wills over my refusal to wear dresses. By the age of eight I had already encountered the first two sex offenders who were to pass through my young life. Somehow my undeveloped mind reasoned that the only way to protect myself was to wear long pants.

I refused to wear the frilly dresses, patent leather shoes and lacy socks my Mother demanded that I wear. I was her living doll and I wasn’t fun anymore. Now I was making her look bad.

The Doctor stayed silent. He was waiting for Mother to get me under control. She wrapped her arms around me, I was dragged backward until I was in front of the Doctor and his tray table.

“Hold out your hand,” she menaced.” I tried once again to get away. She grabbed my right wrist and pulled my arm toward the Doctor. The Doctor was holding a syringe with a large needle he was seated upon a rolling stool. He plunged the needle into and under the meaty heel of my right hand where the first large wart was located.

He repeated his needlework until he was satisfied that my hand was numb. Then he held my ring finger firmly, inserting the needle at least twice under the wart and pumped the anesthetic into my throbbing digit.

The Doctor placed the syringe on the tray and picked up a smoking soldering iron. I’d played with one in my Dad’s garage using it to burn my name into a piece of wood.

Mother’s grip tightened. My flesh sizzled.

I screamed.

When Doctor G, introduced himself, I could barely hear him through the roaring sound in my ears. I immediately wondered if he was a sports metaphor guy. That’s a Doctor who uses the team approach to patient compliance. “WE” - meaning the Doctor and me, are on the same team. “WE” - must work together. I had surmised by now that “working together” meant that the Doctor prescribes the pills and I take the pills.

I have refused to take cholesterol medication. I wonder, is that why I am being tag teamed? The Doctors' refer to my Mother, now 74 years old who has heart disease. I point out that she smoked two packs a day and took birth control pills her entire adult life. Today it is well known that smoking while taking the pill is a prescription for heart disease.

The last three Doctors have hounded me to take statins. I was cleverly manipulated into taking Zetia for a while. A previous Doctor, sports metaphor guy, wrote the new prescription saying, “patient is intolerant to statins.” I was charmed by his cleverness and took Zetia for about three months.

A decade ago someone with my numbers would have been instructed to rely on diet and exercise first.

I told Doctor G how I’ve worked very hard at eating for maximum health; whole grains, nuts, seeds, fruits, vegetables, low fat, low salt and low sugar. I lost thirty pounds. Isn’t the vegetarian diet the new fountain of youth?

He said that I could be one of those people who naturally have high cholesterol. I was crushed when he said that. I’m doing all I can to help myself. I come to the Doctor and I’m a failure.

Doctor G said he’d, “give me another six months, but, I have to take a cholesterol medication if my numbers don’t change. “

I bristled when he said that. It sounded like all his faith was contained in the pills he prescribes. His faith left me feeling empty.

Doctor G finally sits down opposite me upon a rolling stool and begins to state his agenda. I look him in the eye and try to hear what he is saying. I think I heard him say that,” the numbers implicate vicodin as a major factor in the rising suicide rate.” Then he said,” vicodin is not an indicated treatment in cases of fibromyalgia. “

I wanted to tell him that of my seven serious suicide attempts, two included the use of alcohol, and none were under the influence of anything except mental illness compounded by despair over the relentless pain from fibromyalgia, degenerative disc disease, heel spurs and plantar fasciitis in both feet.

But, I restrained myself. An emergency room Doctor once held me hostage for three days because I yelled at him. I’ve learned not to be provocative with a Doctor.

Instead, I prattled on about the studies I’d read about Gulf War Veterans who developed fibromyalgia after taking fluoridated drugs, like Cipro. Through my research, I found that the mineral called boron will detoxify the body from fluoride accumulation. I’d begun taking boron two months ago and I felt a small improvement in my recovery time from the work outs I performed; stair climbing, hanging abdominal leg lifts, and pull ups.

I told Doctor G I was convinced that Zetia exacerbated my depression and the fibromyalgia. Zetia is a fluoridated drug.

I forgot to tell him about the brain research studies I’d found. These studies illustrated how a fibromyalgia brain responds differently from a non-fibro brain. I was blown away. All these years I’ve been marginalized by my fibromyalgia diagnosis and it appears as if my brain is really sick. According to the studies, I’m losing brain mass at this very moment.

I also forgot to tell Doctor G about a website I found which has been helping me improve my brain function. The site provides programs which produce biurnal beats. Biurnal beats change brain wave patterns when you listen to them. Fibromyalgia sufferers have low delta wave production. If I increase delta wave production, maybe I can get better.

I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia June of the year 2000. I was hospitalized for mental illness then as well. I’ve taken no fewer than eight different anti-depressant medications. Paxil continues to be the worse of the lot. Paxil has left me with what I can only describe as electric jolts in my brain.

Vicodin was prescribed to me immediately after I had an MRI scan on my back. Vicodin makes me projectile vomit at inconvenient times. There is no cure for what is happening in my spine. The best I can hope for is pain management.

Doctor G had a solution for me though; a donut pillow.

“I’ve reviewed your file," he said. "You signed an agreement stating that you would not take any illegal drugs. You tested positive for cannabis.”

I sat stunned. I’ve been betrayed by my own blood. This is why he thinks I’m not going to like him.

He said, “The clinic receives Federal funding and that as long as you are taking medical marijuana I will not prescribe any narcotics.”

“But, I have had a medical marijuana prescription for two years; I wasn’t trying to get away with anything.” I said.

He said, “You’ve done nothing wrong. But you have to make a choice, vicodin or medical marijuana. Medical marijuana means fewer pills.”

Fewer pills, that sounds familiar. I wrote that in the Blog for April when the Co-op closed. I also wrote that “politics has nothing to do with reality.” Now reality is biting me in the ass. Is this where my hard fought for stability is threatened by forces unknown to me? Am I resilient enough to enter this fight?

“I’ll keep the medical marijuana.” I said, realizing that I was not fully comprehending exactly, what just happened?

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Doctor G nodded his head as if everything was right on track.

Then the visit ended. Doctor G abruptly stood up and left the exam room, saying, “They’ll have your prescriptions up front.”

I wait for a short while up front and I am handed my prescriptions, along with a stool sample bag with instructions to return it to the lab in a week. That’s when my legs threatened to collapse. I felt confused. I tried to focus on what just happened.

I reviewed the prescriptions. Looks like I am going cold turkey. I must withdraw from vicodin without the Doctors help.

Doctor G never mentioned a blood stool test. I take ibuprofen everyday and of course there is a good chance of finding blood. I’m being set up for a colonoscopy. I’ve taken a lot of ibuprofen in my life and I recently found out that ibuprofen could be a factor in the rise of my blood pressure.

After having my blood used against me, I wasn’t too keen on allowing anyone access to my body.

By the time I got home, an imaging clinic had left me a message; they want to schedule a mammogram. I felt coerced, hounded, and tricked.

I have never been healed by a Doctor. I’ve endured sports metaphors, creepy touch, indifference, patronization, but never healing. I’ve often felt like a guinea pig.

When I was hospitalized in June of 2000 I thought that I’d finally be fixed. Lord knows I’d made a mess out of my life so far. I quickly realized that no one could or would rescue me. Even with mental health support services, I had to do the work.

Ten years later not much has changed. I’m stable now but for how long I couldn’t say. I think I’ll become my own guinea pig.

Let’s see what I’ve got to work with: donut pillow-check, ganja oatmeal bread-check, brain wave training programs-check.

I may be deluding myself but my homegrown treatments offer me some hope of improvement.

In my experience hope can be a powerful medicine.