There's Nothing More We Can Do

Reckon how many thousands of people have been told by their doctor, "There's nothing more we can do."?

I was told that yesterday. Not that I'm dying (well, anymore than usual). But that I am "stuck" where I am with the disability I have unless some new breakthrough comes down the pike. And he didn't seem too hopeful of that.

He'd had a bad day anyway, he said. He said I'd better be glad all the windows in the building were the kind that couldn't be opened, and I told him to go no further because I was a mental health professional and I knew there were other doctors in the building and we could take care of that. Then he laughed and said he'd always been misunderstood.

He's that kind of guy, I really like him. He's funny, down to earth. He made fun of my shoes. (Don't worry, everyone who sees my shoes makes fun of them).

He's also touted as one of the best in the field, and when one has something wrong with them, that's who you want to be treating you, of course.

And I'm grateful that "There's nothing more we can do" said to me isn't referring to a terminal illness. It's referring to a chronic condition.

I don't often get all weepy about it, I try not to dwell on the shape my shape is in because self-pity is very destructive. But I did, a little bit, with him.

And he was truly sad. He was truly sorry.

So am I, doc. So am I.