"So Doc, what is causing my chest pain?"
"I have no idea."
"Any idea who might?"
"Maybe you could try a GI specialist."
"I've been to one, it's not GI."
"Then I'm not sure what I can tell you..."
This is where, in my mind, I grab the dude by his oxford shirt collar, pull him to within inches of my now-crazed eyes.
"Then who can? WHO?!? 'Cause it's not like I can ignore heart attack symptoms. I'd try, except that every piece of medical advice says that you shouldn't ignore heart attack symptoms. So tell me Doc... Tell me who I can see. Tell me who will clear up this medical mystery. TELL ME WHO WILL GIVE ME ANSWERS!!!"
Out loud I say, "Who would you recommend I go to then?" I am calm. I am not frothing at the mouth.
"Maybe a physiatrist?"
"A... phy... whatnow??"
"A physiatrist - deals with musculoskeletal issues and chronic pain."
Excellent, I shall see another "ist." "So could you give me a referral to a physiatrist?"
"You'd have to get that from your GP."
I leave the office, determined not to cry. This is good news. I have just heard good news. It's good news. Right? I still have NO FREAKING CLUE what's wrong with me, but this is good news. I get in the car. U2's Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For plays on the radio. I start laughing hysterically. Driving home, I sing along at the top of my lungs... laughing... crying... While stopped at a light, some of the singing morphs into primal screaming with accompanying rhythmic pounding on the steering wheel. By the time the light is green I have my shit together and logic has re-entered my cranium. I square off my shoulders and take a deep breath. Alright. What's next?