When I was first diagnosed, I accepted the status quo of just about everything, and, ironically, this included my choice of doctors. Part of this was my own fault, partly because I had to operate within the confines of an HMO. For most people this is not a problem, and I thought I fell in the overwhelming majority. Unfortunately, as I mentioned before, I actually was part of a small minority (a concept that had heretofore been okay, but now sucked). The doctors that I had prior to my diagnosis weren't bad, just ill-equipped, in their respective specialties. Now, though, I can access the finest in neurology, etc., without having to worry if they're "in-network" or not.
My neurologist is Dr. Roumen Balabanov, an Eastern European transplant (pardon the pun) with an accent oddly close to Dr. Charles Nichols of The Fugitive. He even mildly looks like Jeroen Krabbe, although the accent might make me think that. After all, he doesn't have the opportunistic guile of that character. Both, though (the character and my doctor), work in Chicago, so that too can account for my tone-deaf alignment of a Dutch accent and one from Bulgaria, where I think Balabanov is from (I could do a Google search, but I don't feel like it).
In conjunction with the aforementioned Dr. Richard Burt, the two guide my treatment scheme with regard to my involvement with the stem cell whathaveyou. I hesitantly keep everyone at arm's length as it is, so I'm especially wary of doctors. I have a strange relationship with them, though, in that I get along with them preternaturally well. Appointments are not nearly as uncomfortable as they could be, and I delude myself by thinking that this has to do with my nice rapport with them, born of my above-normal intelligence. Really, I think it has to do more with the supercilious attitude I exhibit with them.
I always shook my head at the rampant stupidity of guests/dumb performance artists on various talk shows when they scoffed at marriage as a bureaucratic institution. Mostly, this happened because I knew that they couldn't conceive of two words, back-to-back, that each had four syllables. At a certain point, though, I too espoused their poses and misgivings--not just for marriage, but for advanced degrees. I still remain suspicious of many master's degrees or doctorates. Every so often, however, an example of a truly useful one comes along, mostly with regard to medicine. Without an MD, a "doctor" looks crazy or felonious, or both, with a prescription pad.
Improbably, I have two capable doctors that work on the vanguard of my neurological issue. For non-math majors like me, I'm pretty sure that's 100% more than one. Even one is more than most people get. Like I said, this is not an indictment of the abilities or knowledge of previous doctors I've had. My old neurologist's practice seemed to focus more on issues related to Alzheimer's. Therefore, I wasn't personally offended by what I perceived to be a deficiency in his expertise. However, his aversion to steroids did piss me off. I assume he had a bad experience with another patient, so he empirically disregarded them as treatment, which I thought, and still think, is foolish and an idiotic way to practice medicine, but I digress...
I chalk this up to inevitable multiple stabs at finding the right doctors. Like the song by Smokey Robinson & the Miracles advises, "you'd better shop around." Loyalty should not enter one's mind when picking a doctor. I understand the impulse to stick with a doctor, but the odds are that the first one will not be the best one. One needs to make an informed decision, rather than one made impulsively. For most people, I don't think it's as big of an issue as it is for me. When something as momentous as MS comes up and throws a wrench into your life, decorum becomes irrelevant. This is not to say that I'm rude about it, just cutthroat about who does and doesn't make the cut.
It's almost like I'm just doing my job. Hurt feelings mean less and less to me, and they were already pretty low on my list of considerations as it is. As Deputy Marshal Sam Gerard (Tommy Lee Jones) whispers after he risks the life of one of his subordinates when he shoots the guy holding him hostage, "I...don't...bargain."
R
