Anyone who knows me well understands that I am not a fan of doctors. One of them told my mom that her chronic auto-immune disease was her body's way of aging and she should just buy a hot tub and forget about the pain. I've been exhausted since I was 17; and according to the doctors I've visited, I've just been stressed out—for the last nine years.
But last week, I visited a doc who was startled by my medical history. The report for an MRI done in 2006 read this way: "MRI is normal except for a small cyst on the pituitary." She looked confused and said, "If there is a cyst on your pituitary, the MRI is not normal." No kidding. I wanted to hug her.
She listened, explained tests we'd run, and gave options to help me not feel like sludge every morning. Come to find out, she studied in Lithuania before coming to the US. That's right: the best doctor I've ever had got her degree in the former Soviet bloc. I'm finally a fan.