I never know when it is time to call the doctor or which doctor to ring when I notice something is wrong or a little off. The response I get, since being diagnosed with a chronic condition, falls into two categories:
"Mrs. Milton, of course you are losing your hair. Of course food is getting stuck in your esophagus. Of course you are in pain. Of course...should we just go over the diagnosis again?" I whimper 'no, I get it'. I need adjust my expectations and look into wigs. Gotcha.
"Mrs. Milton, in the event that you put your head through a windshield again, rest assured that it is not your Sjogren's acting up. Don't delay, go straight to the hospital, okay dear?" This response is usually delivered in the tone you take with the brain damaged, which in this scenario, would be me. Sometimes I would rather suffer at home, without someone with advanced degrees and bad manners scoffing at me. It's a downer.
Then my arms starting itching Saturday, like I have mosquito bites compounded with chicken pox that have combined forces with hives running through poison ivy and have been sprinkled with the itching powder I borrowed from Our Gang. It's annoying, better than pain, and yet I think I need an elizabethan collar or sturdy mittens to combat the scratchingIreallywanttodorightnow. I have tried all the common sense home remedies: hydrocortisone, Benadryl and Benadryl cream and nothing has provided relief. I see a bathtub full of oatmeal followed by calamine lotion this afternoon, all in an effort to remedy a rash I can't even see. Yes, this itch is clearly invisible, which will be loads of fun to explain to the doctor, if I make the call.
Ah, another copay, another chance to prove so much of my life is all in my head.