It's Medication. Maybe. Or It Could Kill You.

So yesterday Husband drove me to Chapel Hill to see the liver specialist. Both of us were sort of looking at this visit as a formality. After all, I was told just this past Friday that the biopsy showed that my condition was medication related. My appointment was at 2:00 - in the Transplant Clinic. That was a little off-putting, but I was confident that it was going to go well.

Be there 20 minutes before your appointment time, the letter says. And I was there 20 minutes before my appointment time (30 minutes, actually but I had to stop at registration). And then I wasn't seen until 20 minutes after my appointment time. So, the nurse does her thing and then the doctor comes flying into the room. Or maybe it just seemed like he was moving really fast because he was short. No hello, how are you, introductions...nothing. He just sits down and starts looking at all of my labs. And he talks to me in a way that makes me think he really doesn't like having to talk to or see people on a daily basis. He tells me that by looking assume it was medication related. I love it when doctor's tap dance around a simple "I don't know". But he also told me that there was a "marker" that was positive in my biopsy that could indicate autoimmune hepatitis. And if that's what it is then it needs to be treated - it's apparently not curable but is treatable - because "It'll kill you if I don't treat it". Fantastic. I walk in thinking I'm getting better...I leave thinking I possibly have a disease that will kill me if they don't figure out what the hell is going on. And then, before sending me down to the lab to have more blood drawn, he tells me not to worry. And I really wasn't that worried. I was a little, of course, but I was also kind of angry. But not nearly as much as my Hubby who was ready to call the doctor from last week to ask why he gave me a diagnosis that this new guy isn't sure about yet.

So we get home and go about our nightly routine. After I get Grant to bed, I did some dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. Then I crawled into bed for some good reading. It was 10:15 when I was just about to turn off my Kindle. And guess what? Our house phone rang. A phone call that late is never a good sign. I figured someone was sick or hurt. We didn't get to it in time and Nate says "That was your doctor on the answering machine. I think you need to get up and call him." I. Was. Pissed. 10:15?? What's so urgent? Then my cell rings. It's him. "I want to talk to you about your labs from today" he says. No apology for the time. No mention of Gee, I hope I didn't wake up your baby since your house is probably the size of the garage where I park my Mercedes and every phone you own is ringing. Nope, just started talking about my labs. And what was so urgent, you ask? NOTHING. He called to tell me that my labs look good are even more improved from last week. That it looks like I'm getting better and it's probably not autoimmune hepatitis. He calls at 10:15 p.m. for that. That and I won't have to have more blood drawn until the week after next "so I was hoping to talk to you about setting that up". What? This couldn't wait until, say, 8:00 a.m.? Ugh. This is why I try to avoid doctors.