Doctor phobia

Not a real phobia about Doctors but I hate going to see one.

My best Doctor had a surgery in his own house. The wide Victorian boarded hallway offered a few  Edwardian oak dining room chairs and on the walls were framed pictures of farming in times gone by if you wanted something to look at instead of reading old copies of "Farmer's Weekly". One day as I walked up to the surgery I could hear a sheep baaaing. On closer inspection of a small trailer parked outside the surgery it contained a plump ewe with a neatly stitched ear. I mentioned the woolly patient to him, "ah," he said in his easy, friendly manner "my brother's, he's a farmer". He knew all his patients because he saw all of then himself. We had rapport, there was shared common ground.

Now when I go to the Doctor's, it is a modern building, devoid of human personal touches, and key my name into a wall mounted machine. The waiting room is filled with people on bland, mass produced chairs whilst a large plasma screen burbles away under a tickertape that flashes the name of the next patient and the room to go to. I rarely need to visit a Doctor so I have to look at the plates on the doors as I wander down the equally uninspiring corridor.

I made an ass of myself last time thanks to being transgendered, The heating system had packed up in my new home just before Christmas in freezing weather so I was hauling coal and wood to feed an open fire. Not a problem normally but my back was killing me and on top of joint pain I was having trouble walking. I wasn't managing to get up and downstairs even. The choice was to shovel coal or freeze and the strongest painkillers I could buy were not working.

Although I didn't know the word trans applied to me then I wasn't happy unless I was active. My main way to dispel dysphoria (which I didn't know it was) has always been to be very fit, toned and healthy, so not being able to exercise or walk was a monumental concern for me. I got called to see a Lady Doctor. There I am utterly hacked off by my body failing me in this way, at my age, and I can't tell her why I feel so gutted. I don't why I'm so gutted. Literally I was fighting back tears of pain, my own frustration and the humiliation of admitting my weakness to myself, and to her, before she even began prodding and feeling my naked, white legs. She went to write a prescription in the other room while I was dressing. The professional stuff done she opened conversation by asking me if I have done all my Christmas shopping yet. WHAT? She wants to talk about walking round packed shops SHOPPING! I remember then, well, of course she does, yes, she is a Doctor but she is a woman. Girl's like to talk about shopping don't they, you idiot! I managed to say "three, that's all" I think. I felt awful for being less than polite but put my reaction down to being in pain. 

I will have to go to the Doctor's about getting diagnosed and something sorted out. I keep putting it off and ignoring it because I'm not looking forward to that visit. It will be nerve-wracking to tell a complete stranger something so personal.