Yes, I feel your frustration, which is pretty much why I hate going to the doctor.
‘‘Hi, I’m having this super painful problem that interferes constantly with my daily life. It causes me to miss work at least one or two days a month, and half the time I must cancel my weekend plans because I feel so awful.’’
‘‘Oh my goodness, that is super serious! Something must be wrong! Let’s run tests on you.’’
(time passes)
‘‘Well, these blood tests came back abnormal, but they don’t really tell us anything. We’re not sure what might be going on. Let’s run more tests! More invasive this time!’’
(time passes)
‘‘Well, we don’t know. Maybe if we ran this test or referred you…’’
I start to get the impression my implied duty as a patient is to bow out and let them work on problems they can fix. So I do. Until it gets bad again. Then I start the process anew.
In the rare cases where they actually figure out what’s wrong, it’s always something completely weird that most normal people never have to deal with. When I was three, I had Scarlett Fever. In 1986. When I was 14 I had an esophageal hernia. When I was 16 I had a severe allergic reaction to UVA rays that required me to be inside for the entire summer. I couldn’t even walk near windows without intense pain and nausea.
I am like the most bizarrely sickly person I know, and even now, running and eating properly on a regular basis, I still am.
sigh