Mood: Drama Soaked (yes, I know, not exactly a mood, but it's the best I can do at a description of my current state of mind).
What I'm watching: Mythbusters (Seriously, who doesn't want to see something blow up...or in this case, someone throw up?!? All in the name of science and research, of course)
I don't care who you are or how tough you think you are, we are all afraid of something. Those of you who say that you aren't? Are lying. I bet even the Incredible Hulk was afraid of spiders or something.
Me? I'm afraid of a LOT of things. Flying? Check. Bugs? Check. Sailing in any boat smaller than a cruise ship? Check. Heights? Lightning? Bridges? Check, check, and check. You get the idea, no?
I know that the popular school of thought is that we should face our fears and overcome them. I think that's a complete load of bull. I don't need to fly...I can drive. I don't need to deal with bugs...that's why I have my loving, bug killing husband (my job is to generally squeal, scream and dance around yelling "KILL IT!" while he removes the offending insect). I can also avoid heights, small boats, stay indoors during lightning storms and force my husband to drive over bridges (while closing my eyes and going to my happy, non-bridged, place).
I'm okay with my fears. I embrace my fears and accept them as a part of who I am. All except for one. I'm terrified of doctors. I admit it. I turn into a shaking, quivering pile of goo at the mere thought of having to see someone in the medical field.
I would like to go on record as saying this has nothing to do with my current physician who is, in fact, an amazingly patient, kind and caring individual. Nope. This is all me.
I hate everything about the doctor's office experience from the smells to the never ending forms that I can never seem to fill out just right. Also? Waiting in a room crammed with sick, sniffly folks is NOT my idea of a good time.
Of course, then they call you back to the examining room where you're surrounded by millions of scary pictures, medical devices and pamphlets explaining everything from dealing with a diagnosis of breast cancer to prostate cancer to diabetes. Five minutes alone with those pamphlets in a quiet room and I'm a trembling mess convinced I'm going to get everything listed.
Then, in an effort to distract myself, I start looking around the room, taking note of the medical devices. The needle holders, the probey looking thingies, the tubes, etc. and I start wondering what each one of these Medieval looking torture devices is used for. That's when I really head into the final stages of full on paranoia induced neurosis. By the time the doctor gets into the room, I've managed to work my way into a very respectable panic attack. My blood pressure is up, my heart is racing and I'm ready to bolt out the door.
But. I'm an adult. I have to be brave. I have to smile and pretend I'm not three years old and that I don't want to start screaming "I want my mommy!". This is one instance where I can't avoid facing my fears.
So, today I faced the belly of the beast once again. I stepped on the scale. Had my blood pressure taken (very good, thankyouverymuch) and all the superficial basics covered like: breathing (I was), heart rate (very fast due to anxiety attack), and my eyes (no idea what he was checking for) and my neck glands (again, no idea, since I'm not technically sick).
That was it. 10 minutes, a slight change in medications (due to...are you ready for this?...anxiety), and I was out the door feeling very brave and very proud that I had faced my fear and lived to tell the tale.
I probably would have felt better if I'd been given a piece of chocolate or a big sparkly star that said "I went to the doctor and didn't cry/faint/run screaming from the exam room". But. I'll take the appointment card that says I don't have to go back for another FOUR whole months.