If you don't mind

I made a trip to the doctor this morning, in an effort to find out why I'm getting exhausted just from walking up the stairs from my bedroom to the kitchen lately. I know I'm unfit, but it's reached the point of ridiculous. So off I trotted, only to discover that there are certain thoughts a doctor should hide behind a better mask than the one my GP was sporting this morning.

When I walked in, sat down, and waited for him to go over my case notes (surely something he should have done before calling me in? Just for form sake?), I tried not to think about how many visits I have had there for seemingly meaningless things in the past six months. There was the bit where I was getting dizzy all the time - no result, but it seemed to pass. The eczema that was driving me crazy - prescription, steroids; cure, moisturiser. The constant headaches and migraines that are the bane of my existence - no cure offered, just told not to take too many paracetamol, which I already knew. So I was fairly certain that I wasn't going to get a result this morning either. But you can't blame me for trying.

After answering all the questions a male doctor seems to feel the need to race through at the start of any consultation in the UK (How's your period? When was your last smear test? Are you on the pill?) like they're the source of all illness in women, he took my blood pressure and, when that came out normal, lined me up for a blood test. He's testing me for everything, you see, but it was obvious that he thought he knew what was causing my exhaustion.

"We've got to eliminate all the serious things, and then we can look at the mental causes." Yes, that's right, my doctor thinks I'm a hypochondriac. He also seems to think that I'm obese. Alright, I'm overweight, no denials there, that's why I've been dieting. But the word obese conjures images of John Candy, of Mimi from The Drew Carey Show, of my year 12 maths teacher who we christened Barney (as in the dinosaur...she had an unfortunate liking for purple in a woman her size and shape. What can I say? Teenage girls are cruel). I explained the diet situation, and suddenly, he was my best friend, offering me all sorts of help in my quest to lose weight. The help was of the pill variety, the ones that are advertised everywhere at the moment as the dieter's best friend - provided the dieter in question sticks to a carefully controlled diet and doesn't mind being what I'd call a bit of a guinea pig for new technology. Thanks, but no.

So basically, what my doctor revealed to me this morning is that he thinks I have two problems causing my exhaustion. The reason why standing over the stove cooking my dinner tonight left me a quivering, jelly-like mess feeling like I had just done a marathon is because I'm a fat arsed nut job. I'm so glad I went to consult a health care professional for that particular carefully unconcealed opinion. If I go back to him, I'll no doubt need therapy. God only knows what they'd say to me.