Unfortunately this week is shaping up to be a week of extremes. Today is proof of that. This morning I was quite pleased because I had an appointment to see a plastic surgeon. You see, my body has issues – fat issues. A few weeks ago I mentioned that I’d have to have a kind of gross surgery. Well, I’ll tell you. *I* think it’s gross, but that’s just cause it has to do with fat. Which is icky.

But anyway. Here’s what’s going down. My body is exhausted after years of fighting off that bone infection. That means that some of my body’s systems aren’t functioning properly, i.e. my body isn’t processing fat properly. Despite all of my exercise, it seems no matter how much weight I lose, I never seem to slim down in certain areas. Namely, my upper arms and my thighs. For the longest time I thought it was my fault, that I wasn’t eating properly or I wasn’t getting enough exercise. Until one day my doctor pointed out that because I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome, I *have* to eat properly, otherwise I’d crumble from horrendous stomach aches. She also pointed out that even when I was down to my lowest weight – 120 pounds – my thighs and my upper arms never changed shape.

Okay, this is where it gets even grosser. The fat and protein cells are turning into tumors. They’re benign now, but apparently, they can turn cancerous if my body has a propensity to do funny things. And we all know it does. So the tumors have to be removed. That’s a very invasive, painful, and scarring operation. So, why not remove the fat before it has the chance to fully change into a tumor?

That’s why I was going to see a plastic surgeon today. My insurance approved the visit because this is obviously medically necessary and nowhere near cosmetic. It’s important to get rid of this stuff before it gets dangerous, because apart from just turning into tumors, it could restrict circulation and it’s just getting painful and frustrating. Makes sense, right?

Not according to the plastic surgeon I saw today. I was really early, so he took me back into his office without me checking in with the receptionist, who had gone out to lunch. I’m used to being around doctors, so I didn’t think about no one else being in the office besides him and I. First mistake.

I started to explain all of this to the plastic surgeon, who was some man with a thick eastern European accent. I still don’t know the doctor’s name, but anyway. Before I could finish explaining everything, he interrupted me and started in on this rant about how I had “no chance in hell” of getting my insurance to pay for the liposuction, because he didn’t think it was “medically necessary” because obviously I was “making everything up.” Somehow he concluded that I’d never been diagnosed with lipomas (the tumors), despite the fact I had my medical records with me to prove it and I had three that could be felt on my back.

After I contradicted him on that, instead he started to rant about how messed up military doctors are, about how they’ll “sign off on anything,” and that I had just somehow coerced them into writing the consult, and thus cheated my insurance company out of a lot of money. I tried to explain that I couldn’t possibly have coerced two general surgeons *and* my primary care physician. Besides that, I didn’t even come up with this theory, I’m not a doctor! And yet all three of those doctors came up with the same diagnosis completely independantly of each other. Hmm, yeah, that sounds like I’ve never been diagnosed with a lipoma before…

I tried to explain all this to him. I thought I was rather calm about it, considering. I’d gone into Cold Mode. But, he interrupted me before I could finish, and instead started repeating, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, or what the hell your doctors are thinking.” Well excuse me, Mr. Smarty-Pants, but you haven’t even seen my MRIs, you haven’t even felt the lipomas on my back, so what the crap are *you* talking about?

Of course, I didn’t say that to him. There I was, the supposed child in the room, and I was being more professional than he was.

Even after all of his ranting on about how I couldn’t possibly have any lipomas anywhere because of how thin I am elsewhere, he immediately grabbed my left arm and spotted the very lump that the doctors and I were so worried about. I mean, come on, it’s hardly easy to miss it. He started mashing on my arm so hard that even now, 12 hours later, it *still* hurts. The pain’s radiating down through my elbow and it really, *really* hurts. I don’t know how he could possibly think I don’t have any lipomas when with his own naked eye, with just a simple glance, he found the most worrying tumor of all. Funny, isn’t it?

After he was done hurting me, he went on another rant about how dangerous lipomas are, how they can turn into cancer, and how they should be taken care of. But *then*, even after feeling the lump in my arm, he went off about how my only problem is how I “perceive” my body, and there’s nothing he can do about that. There we were, after all of that, and we were back to accusing me of being a vain, lying, manipulative witch. I felt great.

But he wasn’t finished. Oooh no. To top all of that off, what does he say? After looking me over, and focusing his eyes on what I thought were my arms, he says, “You don’t need liposuction. If you need anything, you need a breast reduction. Clearly you must be having back problems.”

Excuse me!? Where did *that* come from?! For the record, I don’t need a breast reduction, and furthermore, his eyes didn’t move! He was just focused straight on my chest. I wanted to scream, I wanted to hit him, and I wanted to get out of that office before I started crying. So I stood up, I told him that if he dared contact my insurance company for anything, he’d have a lot to answer for. I told him point blank that I did not want him touching me, operating on me, or seeing me ever again. I walked right out of the office, straight down the hallway, and saw the receptionist at the desk. I turned to her and asked if I needed to sign anything at all before I left. She started scurrying around and said that I had a fee to pay. I was, obviously, already really upset. I told her I hadn’t been told about a fee at all. That’s when she said I owed $120.

I think she could tell I was angry. I told her I had no intention to pay anything because I was told there would be nothing to pay. I told her that with Tricare I’ve never had to pay a single thing before, except for the occasional $12 co-pay. She excused herself, talked to the doctor, and returned to tell me that I didn’t have to do anything. I thanked her as coldly as I could, marched out of the office, and put my sunglasses on to hide the tears that were welling up in my eyes.

As I got in the elevator, another man joined me and asked if I’d had lasik surgery, looking at my sunglasses. I managed to squeak, “no,” then thankfully we made it to the ground floor and I practically ran out to my car.

I cried all the way home. All thirty minutes that it took, over highways and bypasses. I felt humiliated, accosted, insulted, vulnerable, and frightened. I hated that doctor, I hated what he’d said, and I wished that I could have mustered the nerve to slap him.

When I got home, I couldn’t bear to repeat what he’d said to me. But my Mother needed to know because I knew we had to lodge a complaint against the doctor. Everything he did was beyond just being unprofessional, that was ghastly. So I wrote out what happened and I gave it to my Mom. She called our friend Mindy immediately, who works at one of the offices of the military insurance company. She’s the lady who worked for nearly a year to get my prosthetic toe paid for. She knows me really well, she even gave me a nickname – “Pookie BoBo.” I knew she’d do anything for me, if she could.

So Mom called her. She was so angry and so upset for me that she promised she’d take the complaint straight to the Congressional office – the headquarters of the military’s insurance program. Mindy said she’d get the doctor removed from the insurance’s network, she’d see what my legal rights are, and she’d get me approved to go some place else to have the liposuction taken care of. We’re hoping for Johns Hopkins – even though it’s an hour away, I know I can trust them. I had my toe amputated there, and it’s the best hospital in the world for a reason.

I’m just so frustrated and angry. I didn’t need that today. Well, no one really needs to be treated that way ever, but especially not today. Thankfully I was able to salvage the day at least a little bit – I ran away to the movie theatre and watched ‘Mean Girls.’ It was better than I was expecting, and it cheered me up enough to stop from crying when I repeat what the doctor said to me.

After that, when I got home, I found an email from Greg the Brewer, offering some more happy news – looks like I’ll get to make some root beer on Thursday. Hallelujah! I’m going to need that, because tomorrow’s going to be another rough, emotional day, but this time hopefully it’ll be worth it – I’m talking to an attorney tomorrow about my toe case. I’ll have to rehash a bunch of unhappy memories, but I need to do it. Hopefully with root beer to look forward to, I’ll be able to salvage tomorrow too. Wish me luck.