10. Consultation v.2

I sat down in front of the doctor and reverted to my 'script'. Full disclosure it was. I took her through every little symptom that I could tie in to this sequence of events, and threw in my theory about my car poisoning me. She blew that one out of the water with a single waft of my blood test results. The doctor took a different tact this time. Having heard my tale in full, and with a better sense of chronology and crescendo, she set about carrying out co-ordination tests. I like to think I covered just about every square centimetre of the consultation room floor as I walked, balanced, tip-toed, and extended. I turned after my final test, and saw a slightly confused look on the doctor's face. She could see nothing wrong. To be fair, I could feel nothing physically wrong, and hadn't been convinced that she would find anything. I sat down again, and the conversation turned in a manner that suggested that the doctor had lost faith in her assertion that there may be a problem greater than stress. It was my last chance. I needed to support her theory, so with a sense of 'Last Chance Saloon', I reminded her of my symptoms. Olga appeared to be having an internal battle as to what to do next. After a couple of moments of quiet contemplation, it came out. "I'm going to refer you to a Neurologist, but I don't think they'll find anything." I felt a sense of relief. I felt validated - the doctor had taken me seriously, and I knew what an uphill struggle that could've potentially been. I had passed the exam. My grades were good, and I was no longer fighting the budgetary constraints, or the ten-minute time slots of a GPs surgery. For me, Olga had shed the old GP stereotype of 'Generally Poor', and I was no longer fighting the regular Joe stereotype of over dramatic, hypochondriac, worry-wort. It was a small victory, and I waited to hear of my Neurology appointment.