Even though I have MS, I haven't seen a neurologist for years. First, even with insurance, it's expensive, and second, I hate how they make me feel. I show up for my appointment 15 minutes early like they ask and, maybe, an hour later I see the doc, who generally only gives me 15 minutes. Once in the doc's office I tend to feel like a child who's been hurt doing something naughty. I mustn't complain about the well-deserved pokes and prods.
 
It goes something like this - "Wiggle your fingers. Good! Good! Now, the other hand ... oh ... well. ..." At that moment I feel ashamed.
 
OK, I have a guilt complex to begin with - I blame my Catholic roots - so maybe some of it comes from deep inside. Even so, there's something in the doc's tone of voice that seems to imply I somehow called MS down into my body and now I won't say or do what's necessary to kick it back out.
 
It doesn't help that I'm noncompliant. I won't take my medicine, I make it clear I don't appreciate spending a lot of money just to sit around in a waiting room, and I don't think having a medical degree confers "god" status. Strong words indeed. But still the voice in my head cautions me to  just listen to the doctor ... take your medicine ... do what you're told ... even if it doesn't help. 

Even if it doesn't change a damn thing.
 
I'd love to say how I feel in that office is all the neuro's fault, but much of my reaction reflects my own life story. I was a clumsy kid. I've had stitches all over my body. Down at the Polish Falcons my cousins would fly through the air on the parallel bars, while it was all I could do not to trip when walking up to the equipment. And I was sick a whole lot, hospitalized three times for UTIs. In high school, I'd fall for no reason and one of my knees often hurt very badly, so it was off to the Children's Hospital for tests, which always involved twisting my leg until it hurt the correct amount to check my "progress." I remember crying because they suggested I use Canadian crutches. I wanted to pretend my knee was just sprained and begged for the harder-to-use ones handed out with broken legs. And I always thought they thought - whoever they are - I was faking it. For sure, some did. Is it possible I had MS way back then? 

Sometimes, when a body part blinks out, I still wonder if somehow I have control over it, but have convinced myself I don't. Because if I do have control, then I can make it all go away whenever I want.
Sitting in the neuro's office, I can't really be sure how much of what I hear is what the doctor is saying, and how much of what I hear is from that little girl who just can't "feel better" no matter how hard she really, truly tries.  

Doctors, the medical establishment ... they don't "get" us. But sometimes it takes us a while to get ourselves.