I loathe my Doctor’s appointments. More specifically, I hate the foreplay prior to my Doctor’s appointments.

More often than not, the deed itself is not that bad, unless it is a Bad News Wednesday and somebody is telling me that my pain is chronic and I am not responding, or, if I have an apparently meaningless appointment to be told that my paraprotein is not behaving and I am in the middle of a setback of all setbacks. Sometimes, the deed then, can be horrible. It can sting.

The worst part about my Doctor’s appointments is what I do to myself beforehand. The foreplay. I work myself up. I always work myself up. I have an appointment in two hours time and I am worked up. I do not anticipate that I will receive any bad news today, the only results they have to give me are my bone marrow biopsy and I figure if the results were really bad, they would have told me already. I work myself up, because I have never anticipated or predicted bad news on the days I have received bad news. The Doctor’s appointment marks the only time in a cycle I see a doctor, so really, it is the only time I can receive bad news. Whether I expect it or not, today is the day when things can go wrong.

What are they going to say? Am I due another setback? Is this it? Blah, blah, blah, blah.

I do not want to go. I do not want to have to wait for two hours with the other sick people for my 15 minute appointment, I do not want to have to do a pregnancy test, I do not want to regurgitate how the last four weeks have been and explain how I am coping, I do not want to have my blood taken and I do not want to step foot in the Macmillan Centre. I do not want to go. I want to stay in bed.

I bloody hate my Doctor’s appointments.

Needs must, however. Damn it.