Being Your Own Doctor, Or, Yet Another Reason Why Adulthood Sucks

So I went to a physical therapist today, as a follow up to my visit to the neurologist a couple weeks ago (precipitated by the experience of the Worst Migraine Ever). It was an interesting experience, I suppose, although a massage would have been more pleasant overall. I got examined, poked and pressure-pointed, heated and iced, and I left with orthotics recommendations as well as a program of daily stretches I'm supposed to do. Then I'm supposed to go back in a couple of weeks and check in.

I know this will all ultimately be good for me (especially if I actually DO the stretches and try the orthotics), and help me feel better in the long run. And I know I said I was going to be good about this, that I was ready to do whatever preventative maintenance it takes to get healthier (and one might assume, putatively happier). And I am. But can I complain for just one teensy moment here? Call it healthy venting, that sounds better than "complaining". Ok? Ok.

So not only is it a bummer to suddenly find a whole new category of things that are physically "wrong" with me (which makes me feel both older and more broken than I already felt), but I also am feeling a bit overwhelmed with all this new information, with all these new things I have to take care of and incorporate into my already limited personal space/time continuum. God, I get sick (ha ha) of having to be my own doctor--hell, my own health care system. I get tired of having to hold my entire medical history (as well as the history of my current symptoms, along with theories as to their possible cause) in my head, of having to do my own research and pre-office visit diagnostics in order to ensure the correct number and spacing of appointments with the appropriate team of medical professionals, and of rigorously enforcing my own regimen of treatment(s) and follow-up(s).

I wish that I had the luxury of someone else (a parent, a spouse, an old-fashioned family doctor) to hold and deal with all these details, to tell me what's wrong and what to do about it, to oversee all these treatments and follow ups. I wish I could just passively show up when my physical body was needed, and not have to trouble myself with the rest of it. But there's no one else as motivated or knowledgeable about my personal health as I am. I have to do all this. No one else will, or wants to, (or, and I know this, should) no matter how much they might love me. This is one of those unsavory parts of adulthood that I don't recall anyone ever explaining to me or warning me about (not that I would have understood it or even listened until I went through it, just like most things in life, including the Suck-It-Up Olympics, and the Space-Shuttle-Launch theory of friendship, not to mention motherhood), and yet there it is.