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I don't like doctors.

Not the people, per se. In fact, the medical experts with whom I have carried conversations not dependent on doctor/patient confidentiality have been pretty cool at times. And I love "Grey's Anatomy."

I don't like doctors when they're within the constraints of that confidentiality. With me. Which is why I don't consult with them as often as perhaps I should.

And then there's today.

TWO appointments. One very, very necessary, as I'm about ready to start reading Braille (who needs new contacts? I'd say me, but I'd have to squint to see the right keys on the keyboard. No, not really. But close). The other a little scarier prior, much less annoying after the fact.

(N directed me to a post on Dooce while she was visiting me this weekend, where Heather describes an episode involving a bump on the arm named Ed. It turned out to be basal cell carcinoma - as she put it, "The Most Common of All Cancers." I have a similar bump on my arm. I proceded to channel the darkest of my dark sense of humor to laugh it off as I frantically scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist to find out what I'm dealing with here.)

I'm getting ready to hopefully see the light of day once again (again, I'm being overly dramatic, but what can you do?), and I'm thrilled to report that I was able to text N today with "I will live to rock out another day."

The doctor didn't seem to get it when I explained the good of the Internet, prompting me to check out something that I'd read about. Just to be informed and on the safe side.

I might as well have told him that I read online that Martians had landed in Helsinki. That old, familiar "ah, she's an Internet hypochonrdiac" eye glaze over.

Harumph.

So yes. I'm well aware of all the good they can do for me and the relief they can provide?

I still don't like doctors.